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littleperilstories · 11 months

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The Prince of Thieves: Are You the Invention of a Delirious Dream?

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Warnings: mention of getting shot, severely doubting reality, angst

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Have fun being inside Will's brain! It's a super organized, lucid, and coherent place.

Word count: 3342 || Approx reading time: 14 mins

Are You the Invention of a Delirious Dream?

Teaser: I was so alone in there until Bree got tossed in the cell next door. Then she was gone. Now I’m alone again.

Will

Something—everything—about the bed, the house, the warmth, the food, and the lack of people threatening to kill me is unsettling. What’s-Her-Name—Colette’s sister, Colette’s goddamn sister in her enormous goddamn house that to me feels like it could be a royal goddamn palace—leads me around like I’m a lost puppy, and I let her. I think everything Hatchett said about me being a dumb fucking brainless fool is true because the thought of trying to make a single decision right now is too much. So I just let her make them all.

How much time passes, I’m not sure. I think I fell asleep, but I don’t know exactly when that happened. When I wake, I look down at my hands and they’re clean. There are bruises on my wrists, too visible now that they’re not half-hidden by dirt and blood. Too visible against soft sheets that are maybe the softest things I’ve ever felt in my life. Anyone will look at those bruises and know what made them.

I lift my gaze to the ceiling. I’m relieved to find that it’s just a ceiling, no ornate designs or carvings or whatever. If there were, if it was fancy enough to look like some sort of fucking palace I maybe saw in a painting once, I don’t know, I’m not even sure where these ideas are coming from, then I’d know none of this was fucking real and maybe I was still in jail or maybe I got shot and am actually bleeding out on the ground. Which would make sense, actually, because there’s no way this is Colette’s house and this is her family and there’s no way they’re helping us, that they’re actually being kind, and then Colette’s name isn’t her name, and then there’s Colette’s fucking sister, her sister who calls her Lettie and fuck, now that I’m thinking about it, there’s no way any of this can be real, because none of this makes any sense, so I must be dead or dying or maybe I’m still in the cell and this is all in my head. Maybe there was never a trade at all. Maybe that medic got sick of my shit after I shoved him one too many times, and all this is a bizarre hallucination from something he gave me so I’d stop fighting him. I’m still there, and none of this is real, and I’ll be there until I die, and I’ll never see Jamie again. Why isn’t Jamie here? Why would my dumb fucking brain give me a fever dream without my brother in it? I don’t get it, I don’t understand, I don’t—

“Hey, Will?”

I look away from the ceiling and the room comes back. Colette’s sister is in the doorway, inching closer.

“You look upset,” she says. “Are you hurting? Tell me what you need. I’ll get it for you.”

What I need? I don’t even know how to begin to answer.

“I forgot your name,” I say instead. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I know this is rude, but I don’t have the energy to care. “I’m sorry.”

“That’s all right.” She steps a little closer. “It’s Verity.”

I glance around. The room is nice but pretty empty other than a desk, an old wardrobe, and the bed. It sinks in that Geoff isn’t in here. I mean, I knew I was alone, but I didn’t really think about it until this moment. “Geoff?”

“He went out,” she says, her voice quiet. “He’s with Lettie. And my father. They went to get…” Her voice trails off.

None of that makes any sense either. The back of my neck prickles. Is this a dream?

I was so alone in there until Bree got tossed in the cell next door. Then she was gone. Now I’m alone again with nothing but a weird goddamn hallucination to keep me company.

I stare at the window and pretend I’m on the other side of it. The whole day has passed, it seems. Night is falling.

“Um. Will?”

This strange girl is still there. For some reason.

“I’m going to bring you some food, all right? I don’t think… I don’t think we’re doing a proper meal tonight. But you must eat. Is there anything you’d like? I can see if we have it or if our cook can make some.”

If she leaves the room, she’ll disappear into the mists of this dream just like the others, just like Jamie and Bree and Colette and Geoff, there and then gone. And I’ll be completely alone again. “I’m not hungry. It’s all right.”

They say they’re sisters, but they look nothing alike. Colette is slim and tall and all sharp angles, thick dark curls that graze her back that she loves to keep free if she’s not running a job or wearing some sort of disguise. Verity is soft and tiny and round and pale, with silky yellow hair that’s pinned back away from her face. Her dress is pink and covered in roses. I’m sure it would look nice on Colette but I don’t think she’d go anywhere near it.

“Are you really sisters?” I don’t want her to disappear into the dream-graveyard. I don’t want to be alone.

She giggles. “Of course we are! Stepsisters are sisters, after all.”

Stepsisters. That makes more sense.

“Why didn’t she ever mention you?” Please tell me something real. Please be real.

Her face falls a little, but she doesn’t balk. “It’s a… Well, families aren’t always easy or peaceful, are they? Perhaps you’d better ask her.”

My heart sinks. No details, nothing specific. Not a genuine answer.

Nodding, I sigh and wonder why my dying brain has conjured her. I’ve never thought much about Colette’s life before IA. I know it used to drive Jamie mad that she didn’t talk about it, but I never really cared much. So why would I make up some random sister of hers to keep me company instead of my own family?

I must be staring at her, because there’s a bright red flush creeping up her neck into her cheeks. She takes a step back. “I think I’m going to find you some food, anyway. Are you sure there’s nothing you want?”

I shake my head. Well. Guess she wants to leave. No point in keeping her here, then. If she’s not real, she’s not real. Not much I can do about it. Can’t blame her, really. I don’t want to be stuck in my head, either.

So I let her disappear. Lie back in the pillows.

Maybe I doze off. I try not to for as long as I can manage. It’s not like I want to wake up back in jail. But I can’t help it. Eventually sleep pulls me under again.

When I open my eyes, she’s back. And I’m still in bed. Still half under a blanket, slumped but mostly upright. That ever-present ache still throbbing away in my chest.

Maybe—maybe this might be real after all?

“Why don’t you come downstairs?” she says, holding out her hand. “There’s something you should see.”

I shake my head. I don’t want to move. What if moving is what will wake me up? What if the floor crumbles and falls away beneath my feet? If the polished wood turns to grimy stone?

“Come down.” She holds out her hand, pursing her lip stubbornly when I don’t take it. After a moment, she reaches down and presses her fingers against mine. “I promise it’s worth it. Just come with me.”

You’re bossy, you know that?

I prefer persistent.

“Let’s go,” Verity says, and gently, she tugs at my arm until I get to my feet.

“Verie! Where’d you go?” Colette is back, from the sound of it, calling to her sister quietly. “Make sure when you get him, you warn him—”

I step into the room where her voice is coming from, and what I see punches me in the fucking gut.

That goddamn medic.

The pain leaching through my body—all but forgotten. I hurl myself at him, I’ll fucking tear him apart, because what, what is he doing here—

“No.” Geoff catches me by the arm. I’d struggle to get away from him on my best day; there’s no way I’m escaping his hold now. “Wait.”

“Wait for what?” He’s here, he’s one of them and he’s here, and that means—that means that I was fucking right, that this is nothing but a dream and reality is leaking in, and I don’t want it, I don’t want it to—

“Get out,” I say to Allan Armstrong Dale. “Get out of this house. Get out of my head. Whichever one it is, I don’t know, I don’t fucking care, get out, get out—”

“Shit,” I hear Colette whisper. Geoff’s grip tightens.

“Will, listen—” Armstrong and Colette speak the same words at the same time. It’s Colette who gets an extra few out. “—we brought him with us because—”

“No, you listen!” I’m not ready, I’m not, I was just lying upstairs and close to comfortable for the first time in weeks, I knew all of this might not be real, but now that I know it’s not, it hurts, it hurts so fucking much, and I’m not ready to face the cell again, and seeing him here means I have… How long? Before the dream cracks open and I’m back there? “What the fuck are you doing here? How did you even get here? And why? What did you do to me? What did you give me?”

His face contorts—he has the gall to look genuinely confused. “What are you—”

“I’ll kill you—”

Verity touches my arm, and I can’t stop myself from flinching away from her. She stares at me sadly for a moment, then pulls her hand away, nodding her head toward the door across the room. “Look.”

I follow her gaze even though I’m afraid of what I’ll see. If I walk through that door, will I wake up?

“Come on,” she says, and I hate her for being so fucking calm, although I guess that’s easy for her since she isn’t real. “Just look.”

She tucks her arm into mine, and the only reason I don’t shove her away is that I know even fake-hallucination-Colette will kick my ass if I hurt her fake-hallucination-sister. No matter how much I want to rip Armstrong’s limbs from his body. No matter how much he deserves it for being one of them.

“What was he talking about?” I can hear Geoff murmuring to the others. “Not making sense…”

“No idea, but..”

Their words don’t reach me when I realize what—no, who—Verity is leading me to see.

“Jamie?” I can barely get his name last my lips.

No. This—I was so sure—This can’t be—

“Lettie found him,” Verity says, beaming up at me. “That’s your brother, right?”

I stumble forward like a fucking newborn deer, unable to stand, hardly able to breathe. “Alive?”

“Yes, of course he’s—”

“Jamie!” He doesn’t respond, and as I spin wildly to look at Verity again, I see that Colette and Geoff have slipped into the room, too. “What’s wrong with him?”

“He’ll be fine,” Colette says, hurrying over, grabbing my hands. “Listen, all right? Look at me. Are you lis—Will. Will.”

How am I supposed to—

She squeezes my fingers just a little tighter. “Look at me. Listen. It’s all right. He’s all right.”

“He didn’t answer me,” I say. My voice cracks.

“I know. That’s because Allan gave him something for his pain and it put him to sleep, all right? He got shot after the trade, but he’s fine. He’s going to live.”

“Allan…” Even though I know Allan is Armstrong and Armstrong is that fucking medic, it still takes me a moment to realize who she means. “Shot…”

“Say it,” Colette says. “Say it with me. He’s all right. He’s going to live.”

I’m not a child, I want to say. What comes out is, “This is real?”

Colette blinks. “What?”

“This is real? You’re real?”

“Will—of course—”

“This isn’t a dream?”

“No…”

“It’s really real?”

I’ve never seen Colette burst into tears, but she does now.

“Oh, Lettie,” Verity whispers, crossing the room to throw her arms around her sister. To me, she says gently, “It’s real. I promise.”

It’s real.

This is all real.

When I look up, Allan Armstrong Dale has come in, too, and he’s inching his way across the room. Toward Jamie. Toward me.

I feel more than hear or see Geoff shift a little closer, obviously ready to grab me again if I decide to go for Armstrong’s throat. Which I still might do.

“I understand that you don’t trust me and might never trust me,” Armstrong says, raising his hands. “I promise. I’m only here to help.”

Barely audible, Geoff says to me, “Jamie’d be dead if it weren’t for him.”

The only thing I can think of to say is, “I’m not leaving this room.”

Armstrong nods, apparently unsurprised and unbothered, and Verity and Colette pull away from each other, the former mumbling something about bringing chairs. Not that it matters to me. If I have to sit up on the floor day and night, I’ll do it. My brother is here and he’s alive.

I end up falling asleep again at some point, upright with my back pressed against the couch where they laid Jamie once they brought him in. When I wake, my neck and back in as much pain as my ribs, Armstrong tries to get me to let him look me over. I tell him if he touches me, I’ll rip his whole fucking hand off, and he doesn’t waste any time scurrying out of the room.

“Will?”

Relief so fierce it hurts rushes through me.

“You’re…alive…”

Never has such an obvious fucking statement ever made me so happy in my entire life.

Jamie grunts as he turns his head toward me. God, he’s pale.

But alive. He’s alive, too.

I don’t know how to answer his question, so I say, “Why are you lying around in bed? Get your lazy ass up and do some work like the rest of us.”

He laughs for a split second before the movement makes him groan in pain again.

“You don’t know how happy I am to see your annoying, stupid face,” I say.

“The feeling is mutual.” He doesn’t say more, but takes a few long minutes to breathe.

“Is everyone here?” He takes his gaze off the ceiling and looks at me. I wish his skin didn’t look so grey, or his voice sound so strained.

“Geoff,” I start, knowing whose name he’ll want first, “Colette, Allan, me, Colette’s sister—did you fucking know she had a sister? A whole goddamn family in a nice mansion?”

“Not till yesterday, or today, or whenever the hell it was,” he mumbles. “I can’t believe she never said anything.”

“Me neither.”

“I can hear you two jackasses in there,” Colette says, poking her head through the doorway. “Did I ever pester you about your life before? Do you want me to know everything about your damn childhood? Hmm? No? Then shut the fuck up.”

From somewhere in the other room, a timid voice says, “Lettie, your language!”

Laughing at that makes my ribs ache even more, but I don’t care, because Jamie is here next to me and Colette is in front of me getting chastised by her sister who calls her—

“Yeah, Lettie,” I say, watching a deep flush rise in her cheeks, “watch your mouth.”

“Will Wardrew, I swear to god—”

Someone, either Verity or Geoff, probably, tugs her away and out of sight.

“You’re still an asshole, then,” Jamie says, his eyes closed again. He’s sweating now. “Will, I was so…”

I do not know enough words to describe everything that rises inside me when I look at my brother who is lying immobile before me, who I thought had to be dead or a figment of my imagination, who nearly died to get me back my freedom, who never gave up on me when I was sure he had and who could’ve skipped town and never come back but chose not to.

“I’m sorry,” I say. Again—not the words I meant to say. They slip out anyway.

Jamie’s eyes fly open. “For what?”

“For getting arrested. For ruining everything.”

IA is dead now; it has to be. How can it go on? Our runners are gone. Our home is gone. Hatchett knows all our names.

Hatchett. And suddenly that’s the only thing I can think of. Where is Hatchett? Is he alive? Dead? Looking for us as we speak? What if he…

“Will, don’t you dare try to apol—”

“Hatchett.” The new thought spills out before he can finish his, burning my tongue like live flames. “Is he…”

Jamie’s protestations and reassurances—as if there’s anything he can say to convince me it isn’t my fault IA is over now—die. “Alive, last I saw.”

Fuck.

“He’s never getting close to you ever again,” Jamie says. “I let—I let him go. I had to. But.” God. He sounds so pained. “But if. If I have to. I will kill him myself.”

No. If anyone is going to kill Baden Hatchett, it’s going to be me.

“She told me.” His voice is tight. “What he did. How he tricked you—”

She.

“Fuck! Bree!”

It strikes me only right fucking now that she didn’t come back with Jamie and the medic. “Where is she?”

Jamie blinks, and something cold slithers through me. He doesn’t know, either.

“Shit,” Colette says from the other room.

Her quiet cursing is immediately followed by, “I better make some tea.” Geoff’s footsteps grow distant.

“Colette, what the hell happened to her?” I’d run out of this room if I could. If it wouldn’t hurt so bad, I’d hurl myself into the other room to see the look in Colette’s eyes and hear her tell me…

God, god, what is wrong with me? I didn’t even realize until this moment that one of us was missing.

Slowly, Colette reappears. She comes into Jamie’s room fully this time instead of hovering in the doorway, and the look on her face makes the hairs stand up on my neck. No. No, if something terrible had happened to Bree, if she was recaptured, if she was dead, they’d say, they would tell me.

“When we went to bring everyone back here, no one could find her. She was gone.” From her pocket, Colette pulls out a folded piece of paper. “I don’t know where she went. She left this. It’s for you.”

She’s gone.

“Yeah. Left that and made off with my old pocket watch and a bag of coins,” Armstrong says, invisible on the other side of the wall.

I’d be laughing about how she pulled the old IA treatment on him if Colette’s words weren’t bouncing around the inside of my skull. She’s gone. She left. She’s gone. She left.

“I’m sorry,” Colette says gently, holding out the note.

I take the paper but drop it on the floor next to me. Suddenly my chest is hurting extra bad, worse than it was a few minutes ago, and my jaw aches. Feels tight. “All right. Thanks.”

She’s gone.

What do I care if she left? I don’t. I don’t care. It’s probably fucking better this way. What would I even say to her, if I were looking at her now?

Thanks for coming back for me. Thanks for finding Jamie. Thanks for not letting me die.

I really wish we could have gotten to know each other under better circumstances.

I hope you get to see the ocean.

I wish we had…

No. There’s nothing I’d say to her, actually. It’s better she ran away without saying goodbye. I’m glad.

Both Jamie and Colette are staring at me. “Will?”

“What?”

“You all right?”

“I’m fine,” I say. I’m out of jail. Jamie’s alive. Hatchett can’t find me here. I’m fine.

Everything’s fine.

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Tagging: @starlit-hopes-and-dreams, @gala1981, @kixngiggles, @whither-wander-whump 💕

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kaiowut99 · 2 months

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"Yuma... When people grow up, they usually end up throwing away something that matters to them... But... don't you go and throw away... that power to believe in people, and that heart that never gives up... Don't you dare throw 'em away."

"Sh-Shark..."

"See, I would've liked to see the future you guys get going myself... but it doesn't look like I'll get to."

"Hey!"

"Kotori... Don't take your eyes off this idiot. Thanks, Yuma... Astral... My friends for life... I'm glad I got to have one last great duel with you two. Later..."

#IMA KAKO MIRAI MO #Lance watches ZEXAL #ZEXAL #Nasch #Ryouga Kamishiro #Yuma Tsukumo #Kotori Mizuki #Astral #yugioh #ygo #ygo zexal #yugioh zexal #[retranslated this since GX_ST's subs were off]#that was such a good send-off for him #i liked that he saw Double-Up Chance coming and used his Chaos Draw to get Glorious Seven #even though its effect would end up making him lose #but also the clash of yuma's idealistic no-one-left-behind hope for the future against nasch's fight for the future of his fallen Barians #also the dub decided to write out most of this 'future' talk and yuma's resolve to believe in others to be who he is for some reason #most of this part was rewritten too--into more of 'believe in others but most importantly believe in yourself'--but comes back by the end #also why did they add back the LP counter SFX when it was intentionally silent for the dramatic finish lol #and didn't keep Nasch's slow/audibly regretful tone as he explains how Glorious Seven makes him lose #the original OST playing as Nasch loses is really good #have got to pull up my random thoughts from the NAC discord while casually watching to post but #it's been a fun time going through ZEXAL and now it's three episodes left woo

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mighty-ant · 2 months

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enough is enough

shoutout to @soy-s4uce for commissioning me!

ao3

It started with a little tickle in Launchpad’s throat.

He didn’t think anything of it. A cold swept through the kids just last week, a little thing that cooped them up in the mansion. Beakley kept them well supplied with tissues so they (Dewey) didn’t use their sleeves to wipe their noses and Donald commandeered the kitchen to make enough of Grandma Duck’s “famous chicken soup” to feed an army.

Without any adventures for a week, Mr. McDee begrudgingly attended to the growing demands of his company—after the kids begged, cajoled, and threatened him into not going anywhere exciting without them while Donald and Della glared daggers at him over their heads.

Mr. McDee had his typical Richest Duck in the World-type business meetings, plus he was still interviewing candidates for a new board of directors since his last one didn’t work out so great.

The meetings lasted hours, and took Mr. McDee not just out of the city but all over the state and across the country. These bigwigs were scattered everywhere, and he not only wanted to meet with them, but everyone who worked with them. Better safe than sorry and all that.

All of which meant that for a whole week, Launchpad was really only around the family as Mr. McDee’s driver, just like old times.

Oh, he was flying Mr. McDee too, but only because Della hadn’t wanted to do it. Since it was a business trip, Launchpad was expected to do a lot of sitting around and waiting to drive Mr. McDee to the next appointment, to which Della had immediately declared, “Bor-ing!” before running off to set up Legends of Legendquest for her and Huey to play.

But Launchpad didn’t mind, as much as he would’ve liked to join Drake on his current case: tracking down a runaway theater troupe turned theatrical bank robbers. At least he was being useful here. And besides, he planned to spend his free time while away rewatching some of the Darkwing Duck episodes he’d saved on his phone and trying to decipher the memes Gosalyn was always sending him.

Drake tended to worry about Launchpad when he went anywhere with Mr. McDee and the family, convinced they invited craziness just by breathing, and he wasn’t exactly wrong. So Launchpad planned to text Drake, too, to let him know he was okay. Maybe Launchpad would even call him when breaks in his patrol allowed, so that he could close his eyes and listen to the lilt of Drake’s voice and pretend they were side by side, so close their arms were pressed together. He wasn’t quite brave enough to hold Drake’s hand in real life, but Launchpad would bet anything that they were warm and lined with calluses.

Launchpad had almost been looking forward to the business trip. Time apart from Drake and Gosalyn just meant reunions were always that much sweeter, making him feel fit to bursting with a kind of joy he’d never known before, like he’d swallowed the sun.

Gosalyn usually threw herself at him the second he stepped through the door, from the higher up the better, and would hang off his back while he swept Drake into a bearhug that was eagerly returned. There was nothing quite like the feeling of Drake’s arms wrapped snug around his middle, or how his head fit perfectly under Launchpad’s chin.

But after Della bolted, Mr. McDee pat Launchpad on the arm with a fond, absentminded sort of smile. “Ach, that girl. Well, you’ll be enough for a quick flight, eh, McQuack?”

It was a rude wakeup call; a punch to the gut that left him breathless, impossible to brace against because he never saw it coming. But maybe he should’ve. That was just the story of his life, wasn’t it? Good Enough McQuack.

In the moment, Launchpad had smiled blithely. What else could he do?

“You got it, boss!”

Though as he packed an overnight bag, as he gassed up the plane, as they took-off and through all the long lonely hours of flight, he burned inside. It wasn’t an unfamiliar feeling: shame and embarrassment and a deep, deep sadness going down like a bad burrito, emotional heartburn without a cure.

He was eighteen when he left home, Loopy having taken his spot in the Flying McQuacks.

Launchpad remembered squinting against the glare of the sun, watching her pull off loops and dives he never could without crashing first, when his dad clapped an arm around his shoulders.

“You were A-OK, son, but now we’ve got a real pilot on our hands!”

He’d traveled a little over ten years before settling in Duckburg, bouncing between undersea palaces and werewolf communes and even a ninja clan or two before eventually wearing out his welcome and being encouraged to move on. He thought he’d found a home with the Ducks, but even though they cared about him, it was clear that he was just a placeholder for someone better.

He was thirty-five when Della came home and took back the plane that was rightfully hers. Thirty-five when he met Drake, and it felt like a dream come true. But all dreams had to end, right?

He’d never said anything to Launchpad about moving on, not yet, but maybe it was only a matter of time. Even he didn’t have to be a genius to know that it had to bother Drake, Launchpad’s…Launchpadness. It was a rotating list of screw-ups: clumsy, slow, bad driver, bad pilot, take your pick. He was a pretty poor excuse for a sidekick, not that Drake had much of a choice in the matter.

But maybe he did now, with Gosalyn’s presence in their lives his life becoming more permanent. She already had a mask and a hood to wear when she joined them on patrol (lovingly stitched together by Drake), and she was trying out the codename Quiverwing, which was as good a superhero title as Launchpad had ever heard.

Drake deserved everything, more than Launchpad could give. And Launchpad wasn’t a jealous man, not really, but sometimes when the Justice Ducks got together and he saw Drake—Darkwing—standing beside great heroes like Penumbra or Gizmoduck, each of them confident, larger than life, he saw how much Drake belonged next to them, and how much Launchpad…didn’t.

He wasn’t a superhero. He didn’t even have a costume, and he wouldn’t be able to think one up if he tried. As a kid, he tied a towel around his neck for a cape (after getting in trouble for tearing up his bed sheets) and pretended his Nana’s old church hat was a cowl. But Launchpad wasn’t a kid anymore, and he knew better than to think he would ever be good enough for Darkwing.

It was a lot of things that added up to one big problem, and the problem was him. Everything he wasn’t, everything he lacked. Even when Drake smiled at him, next to him on the couch or beside him on patrol, something caught in his chest and he couldn’t stop looking for the slightest wrinkle in his forehead, the barely perceptible narrowing of his eyes, any sign of the disappointment he had to feel. Disappointment that Launchpad couldn’t do anything about.

Unless he stepped back, removed himself from the equation, and let Drake and Gos flourish into a happy family without him. Just like he had with the Ducks. Just like he had with his own family.

They’d call him when they needed him, and Launchpad would always come running.

These thoughts didn’t go away by the time Launchpad finally made his way back to St. Canard. He barely slept that long week, sitting alone in the various plane hangars or alone in various parking lots while Mr. McDee’s went to meeting after meeting.

Drake had checked in on him, because he was amazing like that, and they hadn’t seen each other in a while (sixteen days, but who was counting?). Though Launchpad bulldozed through any questions about his well-being to ask about joining Drake on patrol once he was back.

“Oh, uh, sure! Yeah, I was going to scope out the harbor next, see if I could find another one of Tuskernini’s stashes. Are you sure, though? You don’t wanna get some rest after flying all day?”

The answer would always be yes, even when his exhaustion weighed down his limbs and he shivered with fever. Launchpad couldn’t risk it; any call might be the last one.

Launchpad couldn’t risk it. There was a ticking clock in his head that he couldn’t see, but he knew the timer was winding down. Everything felt precious and finite now that he was aware of it, reminding him that no good thing could last forever, especially for someone who was never good enough to begin with.

“Pfft, who needs sleep? I can fly a plane with my eyes closed and both hands tied behind my back.”

“I believe you, but please don’t. Gos and I want you back in one piece.”

—

When Launchpad pried his eyes open, the world around him was dark and hazy at the edges. His entire body pulsed with a bone-deep ache and his mind was foggy, thoughts harder to latch onto than loose balloon strings. But he’d been buried in an avalanche once, so he couldn’t be doing that bad, right? Comparatively?

Although, this time he didn’t know where he was and he was too bleary-eyed to recognize anything around him.

Had he crashed? Launchpad vaguely recalled being in the air, the grip of a familiar yoke in his hands, but that could’ve been any time in the last twenty years.

Wherever he was now, he was warm, and whatever he was laying on was soft. A bed?

Then, above him, a light. And casting a shadow over him was a silhouette he’d recognize anywhere.

Though Launchpad’s vision was still poor, he’d have to be blind not to admire the way the light shone pink through Drake’s feathers, always inviting Launchpad to touch. He obviously knew better but the temptation was always there.

He smiled up at Drake instinctively—there’d never be a time that he wasn’t thrilled by the sight of him—before ever noticing his expression. But then, notice he did.

Drake’s hat was missing, leaving his hair in disarray, his maskless face revealed eyes dark and narrowed with worry. The corner of his beak, where his answering smile would normally be, was pinched in a frown.

Launchpad knew what this expression meant: danger.

Someone was in trouble. Who? Not Drake, he didn’t look hurt other than the usual bruise here and there, and a tear in the shoulder of the suit. Definitely not Launchpad. Gosalyn? Where was Gosalyn?

Launchpad didn’t realize he’d started sitting up until Drake was pushing him back down with a hand on his shoulder, gentle but unyielding as steel. He was so much stronger than he looked, and Launchpad already thought he was the strongest man he’d ever known.

“No one’s in trouble,” Drake soothed, and Launchpad slumped immediately in relief. Had he been talking outloud? Or did Drake just know him that well?

“Well, except you.”

If Launchpad had the wherewithal, he would’ve blanched at the sudden chill in the room. There was an edge to Drake’s voice he normally reserved for supervillains and people who didn’t tip. He’d never heard it directed at himself.

Drake came closer, like he knew Launchpad’s eyesight wasn’t working too good right now. His eyes were red, as if he’d been crying. He looked so tired.

“Wha-what happened?” Launchpad stammered in a rush. How long had he been asleep?

He knew, instinctively, that he was the one to put that expression on Drake’s face. Even barely conscious, shame and embarrassment burned through Launchpad, a deep, deep sadness going down like a bad burrito. He was always making things worse for the people he cared about.

“You don’t remember?” Drake snapped, more desperate than angry. “You almost got yourself killed, Launchpad!”

His tired eyes were wild, and he looked like he wanted to get up and pace, throw his hands around like he did when he was frustrated, but he just gripped a fistful of Launchpad’s blankets tighter. Blankets. Bed. Launchpad was lying in Drake’s bed in the Tower.

Launchpad almost got himself killed walking out his front door sometimes, that was no big deal. But even achy and groggy, waking up in Drake’s bed had a blush flooded up Launchpad’s neck and pooled in his cheeks. He cleared his throat to distract (himself) from it.

Launchpad struggled to sit up again. This time Drake let him.

“I’m fine!” he insisted, voice hoarse and sleep rough. It felt as if he’d gargled with rocks. “I once fought off armed goons after getting bitten by a big pile of poisonous snakes! Or, wait, is it venomous? What is it when they bite you?”

“Venomous,” Drake confirmed weakly, hands hovering uselessly in front of him. “You really don’t remember what happened, do you?”

“I, uh…” Launchpad looked down, noticing for the first time that he was wearing pajamas. But not his. And definitely not Drake’s. “We…went on patrol?”

Drake closed his eyes, like he was in pain. That was definitely the wrong answer.

“We went on patrol,” he confirmed, and Launchpad almost perked up. But Drake clearly wasn’t finished. “We went on patrol to the docks, where we thought Tuskernini might be stashing some of the money from his recent string of bank robberies. And on this patrol, you conveniently forgot to mention that you had a 102 degree fever!”

Now Launchpad was the one holding onto the blankets, his palms sweating. “S-sure. But-but we caught Tuskernini!” he recalled.

Drake threw his hands in the air. “Yeah, at first! But he got away when you passed out and fell in the bay!”

“W-wait, what? No I didn’t.” Forget sweating, Launchpad had never been colder in his life. He didn’t remember falling in the water, but he wondered if he’d felt like he did now: sinking into pinprick darkness so frigid and so deep it stole the breath from his lungs.

“You almost drowned,” Drake pressed, eyes overly shiny (just from reflecting the bright desk lamp, Launchpad was sure). He let out a breath, scrubbing a hand over his eyes and through his hair, pushing it out of his face. “I had to let Tuskernini go when I jumped in after you. Then I radioed SHUSH for an evac and one of their doctors said you could rest here. That was about…how many hours ago now, W.A.N.D.A?”

“6.28 hours, Darkwing.”

Drake was still in costume. Had he…waited for Launchpad to wake up? That felt like wishful thinking.

Launchpad wasn’t the guy people worried about. Sure he got knocked around on adventures sometimes, but he always got back up, bruised and battered or otherwise. It’s what everyone expected of him. To be just good enough, until someone better came along.

Drake sat down heavily on the side of the bed. His fire had been snuffed out, and he looked tired and lost again as he stared down at his hands.

Launchpad watched him in profile, the ache of helpless love in his chest more painful than any tumble into icy waters.

“I just don’t get it,” Drake sighed. “Why would you take a risk like that? And why wouldn’t you tell me you were feeling that bad? Just…what were you thinking?”

If Launchpad’s ribs weren’t throbbing like they’d been used as a marimba, he might’ve laughed.

Drake had to know. Didn’t he? That for him, Launchpad would get beat down again by every supervillain in Calisota? Give up flying, borrow a time machine and save Jim for him, all without Drake ever needing to ask.

“DW, l…I did it for you,” Launchpad said helplessly.

Drake stiffened, like he sometimes did when he got hurt doing something dumb and didn’t want Launchpad to know. But when he lifted his head, there was a small, anguished crease between his eyebrows Launchpad hadn’t seen since Drake fell to his knees before the fire and ruin that was Jim’s last stand.

“For me?” he repeated slowly, as if wishing he’d heard wrong.

Launchpad nodded a little nervously. “Y-yeah. It was my idea for you to be Darkwing, y’know? I should be able to watch your back and I didn’t wanna let you down.” Not the full truth, but good enough. Drake didn’t need to know about the countdown in his head, or how his latest stunt might’ve cut down on the time they had left together.

Drake still looked ill at ease. He wrapped one hand around the clasp of his cape, glancing down at his costume with a furrowed brow. “I don’t want you feeling obligated to come to St. Canard,” he said stiffly and extremely un-Drakelike. “You-you don’t owe me anything, LP. I made the choice, not you.”

He and Drake had learned to speak paragraphs in only a glance, and Launchpad instantly recognized Drake’s poorly hidden (to him) anxiety for what it was. It was a fear Drake had expressed at the start, too. That Launchpad’s hero worship of Jim might extend to Drake, impair his judgment and make him blind to his flaws.

But Launchpad loved Drake for his flaws (and all the good stuff too, of course), because unlike Jim, Drake knew he had them and worked to be better.

Launchpad’s own anxieties fell away under the strength of his certainty, his faith in his best friend. “I know. I promise, I know. I’m here for Drake, not Darkwing.” His voice still rasped, sore from his illness and impromptu dip in the bay, but his conviction was undamaged.

And for a moment, Drake smiled, tired but relieved, and it lifted the strain from his features like taking off a veil.

It didn’t last long, and Launchpad’s heart dropped when Drake looked away, his silence pensive. He took a breath, hands trembling in his lap.

When Drake pinned Launchpad with his stare, he was sure his heart stopped entirely.

“I don’t want you to push yourself like that. Not for me, or anyone else. I knew it was a bad idea to let you go back and forth from here to Duckburg, but I didn’t think it would almost get you killed!”

Launchpad flinched. There it was then.

Six months wasn’t a bad run, right?

He dropped his gaze as he fiddled with his pajama sleeve, feeling awkward and out of place in Drake’s bed, Drake’s tower. He managed a wavering smile, clenching his jaw against the pesky burn of tears in the corners of his eyes.

“Sorry, DW. I know I messed up. Just a matter of time, right? I know I’m not good enough to keep around long term, but it was fun while it lasted.”

Dead silence greeted him, like the kind before a bomb went off. He wasn’t even sure he could hear Drake’s breathing, but then Launchpad’s own heartbeat pounding in his ears was kinda distracting.

When he glanced up, Drake was already staring at him, but he didn’t look relieved or guilty or anything like what Launchpad imagined he’d look like when Launchpad let him off the hook. He mostly looked…stunned. Like in the split second after you got hit over the head with a comically large mallet (there’d been a startling number of Quackerjack copycats since the Fearsome Four invaded their reality).

“LP,” he managed, as confusion flooded his expression. “What are you talking about?”

Uncertainty replaced Launchpad’s earlier feeling of resignation, and he looked everywhere but at Drake. This really wasn’t how he thought things would go. “I, uh…same thing you’re talking about?”

A warm hand wrapped about Launchpad’s knuckles and his eyes shot up to Drake at once. “I was going to ask if you’d be willing to move to St. Canard,” Drake said quietly. “W-with me. No more driving back and forth.”

“Oh. That’s…I was…” Launchpad stumbled over himself like an idiot, unable to tear his eyes away from Drake’s. A sickening sort of hope was building in the back of his throat but he didn’t dare voice it. Wishful thinking, he told himself. Wishful thinking.

But Drake’s voice was low, and so soft in its sincerity. “Launchpad. What have I done to make you think you’re not enough?” His grip around Launchpad’s hand tightened, as if someone was trying to snatch him away.

Launchpad quailed. “Nothing! It wasn’t—it wasn’t you—”

That just seemed to upset Drake even more. Unstoppable as an incoming train, he barreled over Launchpad and left him speechless in his wake. “And what if I want to keep you around forever, huh? What if I’m always going to need you?”

And Launchpad just…stopped. Because he couldn’t even begin to imagine what that looked like.

He knew what to look for when people wanted him gone, whether they were subtle about it or just told him to his face to get lost. He’d receive every sort of brush-off under the sun and accepted them all with a smile. But being asked to stay? That he had no frame of reference for.

“Why would you want that?” he asked without thinking.

At some point, Drake had stood back up in his agitation. But he never let go of Launchpad’s hand, and though Launchpad hadn’t intended it that way, he used it to guide Drake back onto the bed beside him.

Drake sank onto the edge with a huff, searching Launchpad’s face imploringly.

“Because I love you,” he said, so, so easily. Like it was a well known fact that Launchpad had simply forgotten.

This time, it was Launchpad’s grip that went tight, possibly to the point of pain, but he couldn’t even think straight enough to apologize. Or let go.

He used to date a lot more after leaving home, looking for someone to share his life with. He’d wanted a family of his own eventually, one he could devote himself to completely, and have that love returned, for once. But while he and his old partners had plenty of fun together, none of them were the right fit. It had hurt him to leave them, and vice versa, but he’d been able to do it, and move on. But Drake?

I dunno, this whole thing sounds like it could get…

Dangerous?

He’d known ever since he watched Drake look up, the spark of realization in his eyes catching and turning into a blaze of determination as he put Darkwing’s hat back where it belonged—he’d known that there would be no coming back from Drake. No moving on. Drake was it for him.

Launchpad had found the one person he’d been looking for almost his entire life, and he hadn’t even been searching at the time.

And Drake was in front of him now, getting twitchy, because Launchpad had been quiet for too long.

He exhaled in a rush, almost feeling lightheaded by the end of it. “Drake, I…I love you too. Of course I love you. How couldn’t I?” Setting the long-trapped words free, quiet and sincere, straight from his heart to Drake’s face…it had him feeling about ready to float away.

Drake barked that short, sharp laugh of his, one of Launchpad’s favorite sounds. “Do you want the list alphabetically or numerically?” he joked, smiling a true brilliant, relieved smile that Launchpad wanted to kiss off his face. Like a shock to the system, he wondered if Drake would let him.

He muffled a cough against his arm.

Maybe when he wasn’t contagious anymore.

But that seemed to be enough to remind Drake of what got them here in the first place, and he sobered a bit.

“I’m serious about you moving to St. Canard. You can’t keep doing this to yourself, LP. Burning the candle at both ends like this…what if something happens to you and I’m not there? You shouldn’t have to deal with killer robots or venomous snakes or-or supervillains all on your own! When we’re together we can watch each other's backs, and I think we make a pretty good team.” Drake grinned wryly, but his smile soon slipped a bit, voice turning hesitant. “I don’t want to make you chose between us and your family—”

“You’re my family,” Launchpad interrupted without thinking. He immediately flushed with mortification. But a glance at Drake revealed that he was blushing just as hotly, his face pretty and pink, and failing spectacularly to hide a pleased little smile. Launchpad decided to be brave and smiled back. “You and Gos,” he said, more firmly.

It was his turn to hesitate now.

“But… Darkwing Duck doesn’t need a sidekick. He never did.”

Drake leaned forward. And kept leaning forward.

Launchpad froze up when Drake pressed his temple against Launchpad’s own clammy forehead. Drake’s free hand settled on Launchpad’s chest, over his heart, and it thumped madly under his palm.

Launchpad had just started to settle into this new embrace, one hand coming up to press tentatively against Drake’s lower back, when Drake spoke again into the short, warm distance between them.

“Darkwing Duck isn’t real. Or, wasn’t. Not until you came along. And yeah, maybe I don’t need a sidekick. But I do want a partner.”

“And you want…me?” Launchpad hated how small his voice sounded but everything in him was still screaming that this was all too good to be true. That he was still asleep with Drake watching over him, but no more.

Drake’s hand on his chest tightened, gripping a fistful of fabric. “Of course, you,” he said, gentle but unwavering. “Why would I want anyone else?”

Launchpad shrugged, flustered but unable to help himself. “You don’t want someone, I dunno…better?”

“What’s ‘better’ than the man I love?”

“I…I didn’t…when…wow. That was a really good line,” Launchpad breathed, and he laughed for the first time that night. But it felt like his first breath of fresh air in years.

“You think so? I practiced a little, y’know, cuz I wanted to get it right, but I hoped for a more romantic setting. Some candlelight maybe, a nice sunset behind us.” Drake pushed Launchpad back onto the bed, following him down to kiss his forehead. “Now get some rest, partner, so we can work on that first date.”

#ant writes #drakepad #ducktales 2017 #poor lp is still in the angsty pining phase while drake's ready to pick out curtains #ducktales #darkwing duck #launchpad mcquack #gosalyn's staying at honker's dont worry

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greensaplinggrace · 7 months

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"You can say 'all are welcome' but if wolves and sheep are both welcome you're only going to get wolves" is a quote that I think maybe end of season two alina needs to hear at some point tbh

#shadow and bone #grishaverse #sab salt #sab critical #there is so much wrong with this story in both the books and the show #but the fact that alina herself (by virtue of the authors not understanding) lacks such a fundamental understanding of oppression #and basic power structures #is uhhhh disorienting and more than a little disconcerting #'i want the lp to be a safe haven for everyone!'#girl...#it all sounds so perfect on the surface level the way centrist politics sounds pretty and perfect #but it's ridiculous lmfao #alina starkov critical #not really #i mean ill blame the writing till the cows come home #myramblings

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qalrey · 5 months

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just two teenage girls who are crushing on each other fighting over some guy

it's been years since i've drawn furries with human-like features

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cilekixxes · 3 months

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LPS Popular - UnPopular AU - Brook’s redemption

My lps popular AU!!!! Yippee! Read more below 👇

The AU starts after brook’s party. She takes a 3 week break and decides that the stress of being popular is not worth it.

She tries a new diet and gains healthy weight but wears baggy clothes as she’s not used to it yet. She’ll get there tho

She doesn’t hang out with anyone but Alicia as she’s brook’s realest friend ever (other than savanna)

She’s still into the latest trends and still pretty popular (to impress her mom) but not the most popular in the school. That’s savannah’s new thing

Don’t get me wrong, I love savanna. She’s only turning into a mean girl because of the popularity. RN she’s not treating one of her friends right and that’s Angelina.

Angelina is at fault for making sav popular but quickly realised how wrong it was. She mostly feels felt out now a days and doesn’t even bother hanging out with her friends anymore

Angelina finds brook in the school closet area at lunch and actually starts talking to her. They’re not not friends yet and still don’t really like each other but they talk to each other sometimes

Anyway that’s all I have rn, thanks for reading my headcanons 💕💕😁😁😁

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daily-lps-posts · 8 months

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today's littlest pet shop of the day is ... shorthair cat #410! i love their color combo

[Image ID: An image featuring a Littlest Pet Shop figure. It's a white shorthair cat with dark blue eyes. It has a pink nose and inner ears. It's in a standing position, with the side of its body facing the viewer. Its head is facing the viewer as well. There is blue text near the bottom left of the screen that states what the figure's ID is and what playset it's from, it reads "Cat #410 #116 / Round Pet Town TRU Bonus." Near the top left of the screen is the Littlest Pet Shop logo. The logo is a blue oval with a pink border. It has a big-eyed, smiling turtle on it and text that reads "Littlest Pet Shop." End ID.]

#IM LATE AGAIN IM SORRY #maybe i should start writing image ids for daily pets a day before i post them #📆.daily lps #🐈.cat #shorthair #lps #littlest pet shop #2000s #2000s toys #nostalgia #kidcore #toycore #early 2000s #toys #age regression #agere #age dreaming #agedre

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lunapwrites · 7 months

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Monday Morning Snippets

(since I'm on vacation and getting a bit of writing done while I feel up to it)

Teenage boy discusses feelings with parental figure, hundreds dead, thousands more missing.

#Harry you poor long suffering idiot #are we getting payoff on the bet plotline finally?#we might be #who wins?#no really who wins i actually don't remember LMAO #LTL #chapter 20 #it's coming along slowly #but should be done quicker than the previous ones i hope #lp writes #(slowly)#hp

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little-peril-stories · 2 months

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The Queen of Lies: Trust and Treachery

Story Intro | Content Warnings | Mood Board | Vibey Song Lyrics | Ao3

Contents: police, lady whump (sort of, ish, not exactly but ????), guy whump, guns (drawn but not fired)

Previous | Masterlist | Next

Word count: 4100 || Approx reading time: 17 mins

Trust and Treachery

Teaser: “I’m serious. They’re still looking for her. Isn’t anyone going to talk about that? Or am I the only one who’s worried?”

The tales were told over endless cups of tea, as night fell and deepened to the blues and purples of midnight: Will’s time in prison, including details Bree herself had not heard and which made her eyes fill with tears; Bree’s side of the story, and how she had run away from Baden and taken Will with her; Colette’s summary of her time spent in a “safe place” about which she gave no further information; and Jamie Wardrew’s account of shutting down all Iustitia aecum operations and hiding out with the mostly silent other man, who was called Geoff. They had reunited with Colette once word got out that a thief had mysteriously escaped from prison—and posters with Will’s face on them appeared all over the city.

“You idiots should have skipped town fucking weeks ago,” Will said more than once, but there was no vehemence in his words. In fact, he was almost glowing. For most of the conversation, he twitched, bounced, and shifted in his seat, incapable of sitting still—except for his hand, which, despite how often he pulled it away to talk animatedly, always came back to rest upon Bree’s.

Now, his thumb stroked the back of her hand in a gentle, comforting rhythm. “You doing all right?” he murmured in her ear when the others were distracted.

Bree hummed a confirmation that she was, but exhaustion settled over her, brought on by the hours of talking and digging up of painful memories.

Oh—and the residual worries, of course, about when the inner circle of Iustitia aecum would come to their senses and throw her out. After all, what kind of woman would marry a man like Baden Hatchett? And how could she ever be trusted?

“You sure you’re okay?” Will asked.

“I’m just tired,” she told him, and he squeezed her hand.

“Don’t look so worried,” he said. “Everything’s okay.”

But alongside the joy of the reunion, a heaviness clung to the air, and when she glanced at the others, she found that they would not meet her gaze.

***

The next morning, waking in a bed that seemed emptier and colder than it should have, Bree found that Will was not beside her. She could hear him, though—one of several voices that drifted in from the kitchen, hushed and serious.

Frowning, she sat up, trying to catch what was being whispered into the stillness of the early morning.

“Gotta decide what to…”

“If we start up again…”

Bree slipped out of the bed, stifling a gasp at the bite of the cold floor against her bare feet. At the door, which Will had left ajar—had he snuck out, trying not to wake her?—she paused, nudging it slightly to let in more sound.

“I’m serious. They’re still looking for her. Isn’t anyone going to talk about that? Or am I the only one who’s worried?”

Dread, barbed and brutal, tore through Bree’s chest. They weren’t merely talking about IA business. They were talking about her.

“Colette,” Will’s voice said stiffly, his earlier elation gone, “she doesn’t want to go b—”

“Stop twisting my words. I didn’t say she wants to go back. But if they find her, they find us. You can’t tell me it didn’t cross your mind, too.”

“Okay, fine, it did, but—”

Bree closed her eyes. Was that the reason he’d held out so long before giving his name? Fear that her very presence would lead Baden right to him—and that she would buckle under pressure and reveal his name to the entire constabulary? Destroy everything he’d suffered so keenly to conceal with a single witless utterance?

“I mean,” Colette went on, “does anyone else really believe that mad constable’s just going to give up? He’s insane.”

Silence met her words.

“I didn’t think so.” How could she sound so fearless? How could her words be so calm, so steeped in cool, unshakeable logic? “I think you’d all better listen to me about this. Because I get it, we all want to get back to normal, get back to business, but as long as she’s around—”

The sound of a chair scraping against the floor made Bree jump. Furiously, Will snapped, “Don’t you even fucking think about saying what you’re about to say.”

“God, will you let me finish? I’m not arguing that we ditch her somewhere. She’s lovely. God knows how someone like her ended up with someone like him. And—just wait, for heaven’s sake! I’m not a monster. But we need a plan, and we need to make it now, because Hatchett wants you and her and as long as that’s true, we’re all in trouble.”

“She wouldn’t fuck us over like th—”

“Are you even listening? That’s not what I—”

Jamie’s quiet voice cut in. “Okay. Both of you. Shut up for a second.”

“Alpha, you know I’m right.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Will said, his voice acidic. Something warm flickered in Bree’s chest. Even with his brother speaking now, he was standing up for her. “We know. You’re always right. You’re so fucking smart—”

“Will!” Jamie snapped. “Shut the fuck up. Listen, for once.”

“You’re taking her side?”

“I’m not taking sides,” Jamie said tightly. “She—”

Too loudly—enough that if Bree hadn’t already been awake, she would have been jolted out of a dead sleep—Will said, “If you say she has to go, we’re about to have a big problem.”

“Just—”

“She has nowhere else to go,” he said. “Her parents are dead, too. And she can’t go back to Hatchett. She can’t. I’ll fucking die before I let that happen.”

Barely audible, some of the coldness faded from her voice, Colette said, “Oh, Will.”

Bree pressed her hands to her mouth, her heart trying to tear itself free of her very chest.

“And I—I—”

Neither his brother nor his friend interrupted, yet Will’s voice trailed off, the thought unfinished.

Geoff grunted, “You what?”

“I just can’t do that to her, all right?”

Did he mean it? Every word? He did, didn’t he? He wouldn’t let her go back to Baden, even if it meant going against the family he’d only just found again.

“Okay,” Jamie said. A mere breath after him, Colette said the same. “Okay. It’s not going to come to that. But let’s make a contingency plan, all right?”

Will mumbled, “The fuck is a contingency?”

“A just-in-case plan,” Colette said quietly.

“Just in case of what?”

Bree’s throat tightened again as Colette responded, “Just in case things go sideways. In case he catches up with her.” She paused. “With us.”

Jamie, from the sound of it, continued, but Bree silently pushed the door closed again and backed away on trembling legs. Her heart pounded as she went over the conversation—the argument—the inner circle of Iustitia aecum had just had about her.

For a few painful seconds, tears prickled behind her eyes. No matter where she went, she was never good enough. Breanna certainly hadn’t been. Now, it seemed that Bree was not, either—not for her own failings, but for the peril she brought in her wake.

No.

She swallowed her tears and took a breath. So Colette and Jamie were wary. Weren’t they right to be? But Colette had said it herself—it wasn’t Bree she didn’t trust. It was Baden.

But Will trusted her. Even if the others were reserving their confidence for now, he had faith in her. And he was willing to go against the others to prove it.

So, there was only one thing to do. She was going to have to prove it, too. That she belonged here. The she was one of them. That she deserved every ounce of that hard-won faith.

***

Of course, proving herself to IA was easier said than done. Bree opted not to mention what she had overheard, and Will didn’t bring it up, either. In this, she was almost relieved; he was spared the unenviable task of admitting that he’d been talking about her when he thought she couldn’t hear, and she was spared the indignity of facing everyone else’s mistrust head-on. No, she decided, it was much better to carry on as if she were none the wiser, and do what she could to weave herself into the delicate IA web.

Evenings, she determined promptly, provided ripe opportunity to find common ground with the others—particularly Colette and Jamie, who seemed to be the ones who had filled the bookshelves until they bowed in the middle. It was when the fire burned hottest and brightest; when everyone gathered without speaking of gangs or thievery; when she could read amid the soothing sound of crackling embers. The threadbare chairs did not provide nearly enough room for everyone to fit, but sitting on the floor with her book made Bree feel like a child again. Will, pressed against her side, didn’t seem to mind, either, and that made it all the sweeter.

Tonight, in a move that made everyone else’s jaws drop, Will was thumbing through Romeo and Juliet, which Bree had finished reading. He wasn’t reading it in earnest, however.

“The hell does this all mean?” he asked, cackling to himself. “You trying to tell me any of this makes sense to you?”

Bree blinked herself out of her current book and looked up to meet his amused gaze and unimpressed smirk. “It’s an old story. Once you know what to expect, it makes sense.”

But Will just shook his head, dictating lines he found perplexing or droll. “‘Such comfort as do lusty young men feel…’” He burst into a laugh and, reading on, found another that had him howling. “‘An open-arse, thou a poperin pear…’ What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“You would find all the rude bits,” said Colette with a roll of her eyes.

“‘Some consequence,’” he went on, ignoring her save for a grin, “‘yet hanging in the stars, shall bitterly begin…’ Well, he sure sounds happy, doesn’t he? ‘Give me my Romeo, and when I shall die, take him and cut him out in little stars…’ No one else thinks that’s a weird thing to want? No? Just me? All right. ‘I have an ill-divining soul…’” He scoffed and pushed it away. “Why can’t he just write like a normal person?”

Shaking her head, Colette asked wryly, “That’s your expert literary opinion, is it?”

“Pretty sure you’d find most reasonable people would agree with me.”

“I rather think you’d find,” she shot back, “that most intelligent people would not.”

Will snatched a cushion right out from behind Jamie’s back, eliciting a surprised yelp, and threw it at her head, howling with laughter when it struck its target squarely.

And grunting a loud, “Ow!” when she hurled it back at him.

“Leave her alone,” Bree said, laughing, laying a hand on his arm to prevent him from launching another attack. “Maybe you should try reading it. Who knows? You might end up liking it.” She paused. “Though it is very sad.”

“Right. It’d take me a month just to get through the first chapter.”

“It has acts and scenes,” Bree said, pointing to the heading on the page. “Not chapters.”

“See? I’m already hopeless.” But he didn’t look hopeless or even terribly annoyed as he closed the book and peeked over at Bree’s. “Can’t believe you finished it in a few days. What are you reading now?”

Bree showed him the cover, and Colette, peering at it, too, piped up again. “Oh, you found my Ovid.” She heaved a long, dramatic sigh. “It’s nice to have another intellectual around for once.”

Biting her lip, Bree tried not to look too satisfied with this remark.

Will brandished the cushion again, prompting his brother to take it out of his hands and return it to its previous place, supporting his back. With his physical ammunition confiscated, Will merely said, “You’re fucking hilarious, Colette.”

“I just finished the story of Orpheus and Eurydice,” Bree said to her, talking over him.

Geoff and Jamie had been watching in silence, the former quite apathetic toward the topic of fine literature and the latter baffled that Will was engaging with it at all. Now, his long-suffering-elder-brother expression changed from faint amusement to outright hilarity when Will demanded with a groan, “What the hell kind of names are those, now?”

Rubbing his face, Jamie answered, “It’s a myth, Will. Ancient Greek.” He looked over at Bree almost apologetically. “I really tried, you know. He used to sneak away instead of going to school. You think this guy ever did anything he was told?”

Throwing his brother an obscene gesture, Will just asked, “What’s it about?”

Bree was about to answer, but Colette said, utterly straight-faced, “It’s about an idiot who can’t follow simple instructions.”

The group burst into gleeful laughter, celebrating how Will had set himself up for the joke. Bree took his hand.

“No, it isn’t,” she told him. “It’s about how love is sometimes stronger than reason.”

With another vulgar gesture at the others, Will leaned toward her and laid a kiss right on her lips. Bree blushed, but there were no huffs of disapproval, suspicious glares, or scandalized gasps. Instead, teasing whoops spread through the room.

“You give her one of those bite marks in front of me, and I’ll smother you in your sleep,” Colette said primly as the titters faded, and Jamie choked on his tea.

“Oh, shut up,” Will said, and even though even his face flooded as red as Bree’s, he nearly fell to the floor with laughter.

Maybe, Bree thought with a smile, winning over Iustitia aecum wouldn’t be as difficult as she thought.

***

“You know, I’ve never seen him care about any of Colette’s books before.”

Bree jumped and stifled a squeak at the sudden voice behind her. She’d offered to fetch some water from the well, and she’d been quietly humming to herself—certainly not expecting anyone to overhear her less-than-impressive musical talents—so the appearance of Will’s brother was not one she was prepared for.

“Sorry,” Jamie said, smiling a little ruefully upon seeing that she was startled. “I didn’t mean to sneak up on you.”

“It’s all right.” She resisted the urge to press a hand against her pounding heart, figuring she already seemed jumpy enough to his eyes—jumpy, silly, and in over her head. “I didn’t hear you walking up.”

Jamie’s laugh, to her ears, was sardonic and abrupt—almost uncomfortable. “Well. We’ve had some practice in being stealthy over the years.” He nodded at her arm, free of bandages now but still marred by an unsightly scab she suspected might leave a scar. “You need some help?”

“Did Will send you?” she asked charily.

“No, actually.” He took the full bucket from her hand and replaced it with the empty one he had brought with him. “We can share the job. I’ll carry two back, you carry one.”

“Thank you,” she said, uncertain of where to go from there as she filled the last bucket. Was he going to be the one to confront her? Bring up Colette’s fears? Demand proof of her loyalty to the Iustitia aecum creed?

“Will didn’t send me after you,” Jamie said. “I wanted to say…” A strange look crossed his face—a happy one, but mixed with sadness, too, and perhaps even a touch of bemusement. “I’ve never heard Will…I don’t know, ask questions like that before. About books, I mean. Like he actually cared.”

A warm glow blossomed in Bree’s chest. “Really?”

“Definitely not.” He leaned against the side of the well, eyes fixed on the cloudy sky. “You know, I was… When we didn’t know what had happened to him, all I could do was hope we’d find him again. And I knew if we did, he might be different.” He laughed. “I didn’t think that this was the kind of different we’d be getting.”

Bree’s eyes burned with uninvited but admittedly gratified—and somewhat triumphant—tears. “Is that…” She swallowed. “That’s a good thing, right?”

He glanced at her now, seeming to notice the shine in her eyes, though he did not mention it. “I think so.”

Bree turned her face away for a moment to blink away the sting.

“You look familiar.”

Almost automatically, she said, “Well, maybe you saw me about town with Baden,” although now that he mentioned it, there was something about his face, hailing from a time long ago—more than just his striking resemblance to Will.

He clenched his jaw. “I can tell you for sure that I have never once been close enough to that fucker at any moment to see your face that well.” The flat hatred in his voice made a shiver run down her spine.

“Um…” Eager to move on from that thought, Bree said, “Perhaps before that? School, maybe?”

But he shook his head—the age difference was a bit too big, they determined, and he had likely already been working by the time she was in the schoolhouse, too poor for a governess.

“My maiden name is Cooper,” she said, thinking back and racking her brain for the answer, and as his expression changed to astonishment, the image struck her, too: a quiet boy with threadbare clothes, wind-chapped cheeks, and tired eyes—a boy she’d never seen again after a fateful winter’s day.

Or so she’d thought.

“James,” she gasped at the same time he said, “Cooper.”

“You worked for us!”

“Your dad’s a huge prick.”

Well, there was no denying that. “He was. He’s dead now.” She gazed at the man in front of her. Was it really him? The boy from that day?

The day her father had turned out all the servants, every single one—and one boy had fought back.

She hadn’t thought of him in years. It was painful to remember, those early days of her father’s broken business, his rage, his humiliation. That day in particular was one she preferred not to recall. All those people, thrown out in the bitter winter, hopeless and weeping and cold...

But a boy called James had tried so hard to stand up for them, shouting and railing, demanding some semblance of justice for the servants who were losing their livelihoods. As he always had, to everything and everyone, Silas Cooper had responded with violence—beat him and hurled him out, right into a snowdrift.

“He was horrible to you,” she whispered. “I’m—I’m so sorry—”

“You ran out,” he said, and she nodded. Bree had raced outside, determined to stay her father’s hand, and wound up with a handprint on her cheek. “I remember that. You…” He paused. “Thanks.”

Reeling at the revelation that her story and Will’s had been threaded together for so much longer than either of them had known, she pushed up her sleeves, close to sweating from exertion and awe. “I…I can’t believe it.”

“No,” Jamie said, equally stunned. “It’s a damn small world.”

They stared at one another a few moments more, Bree fitting his careworn face over the time-misted features of a sixteen-year-old boy with fire in his eyes—the same fire she had seen blazing in Will’s so many times before.

Suddenly, those eyes widened.

“Breanna?”

It took Bree a moment to realize that it was not Jamie calling to her—nor would that be the name he would use even if he was.

Gasping, Bree spun around, letting the bucket slip from her hands and spilling frigid water over her boots.

“Curt,” she whispered. The wonder of the moment, blazing hot and beautiful, vanished; every ounce of it sucked away, leaving nothing behind but cold, scouring dread.

He flew forward, so fast she only managed a panicked step backwards before he reached her. “It’s you.” Hands on her arms, pinching tightly. Eyes wide. Voice rasping. “God, Breanna—” Grip tight. Too tight. “We’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

“Please let go,” she said, half-dizzy. Frantic thoughts spilled through her mind, melting into the noisy, discordant symphony of Curt’s voice, rapid hoofbeats, and distant thunder. No. This can’t be. “I’m…”

But he was talking, clinging tight, talking, talking, talking, gesturing to the officers behind him. “Quick! Go get…” Not happening. This couldn’t be real. But he was holding her hand, lifting it, examining the scab on her arm. “Breanna, what happened to you?”

“Nothing!” He can’t be here. She tried to wrench herself free. She had to get free. Where was he sending that other constable? “Curt, you’re hurting me.”

Where’s Will?

What if—

“Don’t move!”

Bree froze her struggles, but the order was not for her.

“Who are you?” Curt demanded, his eyes on Jamie. “Breanna, is he with—is he with them? Is he keeping you here against your will?”

“No!” Bree tried again to pull away. Still, he wouldn’t let go. Why wouldn’t he let her go? “Curt, leave him. Please. He didn’t—”

“You’re hurt.” Curt’s voice was dark, his gaze flicking between her arm and Jamie’s frozen form. “That miserable bastard hurt you. The one who got out.”

“No,” she said. “Listen, please, Curt, he didn’t. He didn’t. Let me go, and—and—leave him, Curt, please. Please—”

But Curt was only half-listening, it seemed; he was no longer even looking at her, and when he spoke, he merely repeated, “He didn’t let you go and leave.” With his gaze trained on Jamie’s, he stared, slow recognition leaching into his face. Realizing he had seen those features before. Realizing who else that ruddy hair and those strangely hued eyes belonged to.

Forming his own twisted narrative from the face he saw before him and the cry for help he thought he’d heard.

He cursed softly, and Bree cried his name, desperate for him to look anywhere but at Jamie’s face.

“What did they do to you?” he hissed.

“Nothing!”

“You’re lying to me,” said Curt furiously. “Again. After everything. Aren’t you? That bastard is here somewhere. I know he is. Who is that—his bloody twin?” Finally, he looked back at her. “Where is he?”

Don’t look, don’t look, don’t look, don’t…

If she looked back at the townhouse, if she gave away the headquarters of Iustitia aecum, then it was all over—when it had barely even begun.

Don’t look back.

But she did.

She did, just in time to see a figure with red-brown hair fling open the door and start to run before a pair of brawny arms grabbed hold and yanked him out of sight.

Two furiously screamed names escaped before Will’s voice faded into strangled silence.

“Bree! Jamie! N—”

“That way,” Curt said, following her gaze. Following Will’s cry. One of his fellow constables hastened toward the townhouse, boots clicking maddeningly along the street.

And then he jerked his head toward Jamie and said, “Arrest him.”

Something shattered.

Perhaps it was the sound of Will’s voice being cut off. Perhaps it was the sight of that constable bolting toward the townhouse, all because her treacherous eyes could not do as they were told. Perhaps it was the cold fury in Curtis Lenton’s voice. Perhaps it was the way Jamie Wardrew did not move a muscle.

“No!” She thrashed against Curt’s grasp, and in his shock, he let go. “Curt, for the love of god, don’t do this, please!”

She made it three steps away from him before he captured her again.

“Why are you fighting me?” he asked as she pounded her fists against him. “Breanna—please! I’m here to help you! I’m going to get you away from these people!”

Tears, heavier and hotter and more painful than any she had ever shed in her life, blurred her vision. Her limbs trembled and, after a moment, gave out, for Curt did not listen. And he did not let go.

“Hey!”

All the officers froze.

“There’s no one there,” Jamie said. His words were calm. He had not run, and he still did not, even as the third officer approached him with his revolver drawn. But his arms, held in the air, trembled.

For one of them had the sleeve pulled up—baring the Iustitia aecum sigil for the constables to see.

“You’re too late,” Jamie said. “They’re already gone. You won’t find anyone else.”

Lies, Bree thought dizzily. A distraction to confuse them? Slow them down?

“Who are you?” Curt snarled again. “Where is the thief who escaped?” To the one he’d sent to the townhouse, he repeated the order to go, and the man obeyed.

“Forget him. He’s gone.” Jamie looked away from Curt’s glare to stare into the barrel of the other constable’s gun. His gaze met Bree’s for only an instant when the man reached him and wrenched his hands behind his back. “I’m the one who’s in charge of Iustitia aecum. I’m the one you want.”

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