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stusbunker · 3 years

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AGA: Word to the Wise

A Supernatural Fan-fiction Denny AU Series

Featuring: Dean Winchester/Benny Lafitte, past Dean/Jo

Other characters: Sam, Bobby, Cas, Mick, Ash, Jo

Word Count: 3000 (whoa)

A/N: Sam gets on Dean’s nerves and Dean ends up taking a late night detour. Big talks ahead.

Special thanks to my beta @cracksinthewalls who puts up with my whiny ass. Also grateful for @there-must-be-a-lock‘s insight.

The bowling league was in lean attendance due to a surprise snowstorm, but that didn’t keep Singers’ Slingers from mopping the floor with their competition. Dean ended on a spare in the last game, putting him just over his average for the night. State bowling wasn’t until spring, but if they kept up their momentum Dean was sure they could place well. And a weekend away would be a welcome break from his usual exhaustion.

Dean still owed Mick a rematch from last year’s trip. Mick drank him under the table and Dean didn’t want to lose two years running, he had a reputation to uphold afterall. Bartending had cut into his training time, among other things.

Ash was the first one to bow out for the night, knowing his side towing business would be busy with vehicles in ditches for however long the storm lasted. Cas bummed a ride with Mick, since his car had never done well in this weather and he was still dragging his feet on upgrading. Dean knew he had been hinting at shopping around, but Dean wasn’t going to push the topic and get dragged into helping or finagling with the salesman for the guy. Cas could figure it out on his own, and Dean was finally in a place where he felt comfortable letting him. Huh.

Sam had been quiet all night, but Dean hadn’t mentioned it, attributing the sour mood to post-break up blues. They bought Bobby his weekly drink, “team dues” as he called it and settled in along the bar.

Dean kept the conversation going, trying to keep the mood light, but Bobby was too tired to ham it up and Sam was not amused by his brother’s antics. Once Bobby polished off his last beer and headed home to Ellen, Dean was rolling his eyes in exasperation.

“Fine, you know what, I’ll reel it in, don’t want to interrupt your sulking,” Dean muttered after another joke fell flat. Sam winced at Dean’s jab, which Dean instantly regretted. Though it did seem to shake Sam out of his funk, if minutely.

“So, tell me about Benny,” Sam brought up with elephantine grace.

Dean stared at Sam like he proclaimed he was quitting the law firm and joining the circus, coulrophobia and all.

Sam huffed. “What?”

“Nice segue there, counselor,” Dean grumbled. “What about him? Hmm, you want a new bowling bag? Because that was already on my list for you for Christmas.”

“Dude, you don’t have to do that. I mean, that’d be great, but no, I was kind of wondering what your deal was? Like do you hang out a lot?” Sam started fishing.

“Yeah, totally, everynight,” Dean deadpanned. “I mean I only work two jobs when I’m not moving your sorry ass back into Mom and Dad’s.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Sam said, waiting to figure out where he was going with this line of questioning and just shot in the dark.

“What I’m trying to say is, is this, like, a Cas thing?” Sam choked out, unable to put it any more delicately.

Dean burned with shame as his hackles raised in defensiveness. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

Sam cocked his head and pursed his lips, unamused and unimpressed. “You know what I mean, man. Don’t make me spell it out.”

Dean wouldn’t budge, he dropped his beer with a thud. “Well, you’re gonna have to, because I have no fuckin’ idea what you’re talking about.”

“Dude!” Sam shook his head and rolled his eyes.

“The fuck is your problem? You got something to say, just say it, Sam.” Dean fumed, daring him with a murderous glare. Sam inhaled pregnantly, face still inching towards bitch mode. Sam eyed the bartender who was trying not to listen and the late game bowlers who suddenly decided they could catch up lane side instead.

What Dean didn’t realize was that he needed Sam to say it. He yearned for it, for his truth to be spoken, and known without him having to say it himself.

“Look, I know this isn’t something we talk about. But, I just want to make sure you’re okay. Alright? In the beginning with Cas, it was like you were obsessed, man. And since he just always seemed to need something from you. I just want to make sure you’re not getting used, I guess,” Sam unraveled the heart of his concern without saying too much, which Dean was not expecting, at all.

Dumbfounded, Dean retreated, annoyance trumping any chance at relief.

“I think I can handle myself, thanks,” Dean spat. Petulantly, he took a sip from his beer, the cold glass solid in his hand, giving him something to clutch or even throw, if it came down to it.

“I didn’t say---,” Sam broke off. “Fine! You know what? You’re on your own. Just remember that I should have listened to you about Ruby and now I’m paying the price for my own stubbornness.”

Sam stood and reached for his money clip, tossing an extra five on the bar for the dramatics. He gave Dean one last chance to come clean, to own up to what they weren’t saying. Dean stared straight ahead, eyes unfocusing on the liquor labels behind the bar as if Sam had already left. So he did, just as he came: pissed and questioning his brother’s motives.

Dean didn’t go home after that. Instead he absently followed a plow down the main road until he happened upon a familiar turn off. Which he took slow and steady until it ended in a T. The little brick ranch at the end of the lane held a lot of memories. And it was more inviting than ever with its Christmas card perfection in the falling snow. Dean put the Impala in park and let the radio play, wishing he had a joint just for the sake of something to do.

He wasn’t there ten minutes before his phone rang, which he answered without processing the caller ID.

“You gonna come in or you just gonna sit out there feeling sorry for yourself?” Jo’s voice sliced across the line.

“Didn’t know if you were still up,” Dean bullshitted.

“Uh-huh. Whatever you say. Backdoor’s open,” her unimpressed reply. She hung up before Dean could make up an excuse to leave. He slouched out of the car and trudged down the long country driveway. As soon as he had stomped the snow off his boots, Jo welcomed him in with a firm hug and an appraising glint in her eye.

“Thanks, it’s a real mess out there,” Dean explained.

Jo just shook her head at him. “How’d ya bowl?”

“619 series, finished strong in the last few frames,” Dean answered. “Were you at your folks?”

“Nah, just know it’s Wednesday night, which means the boys were at the alley,” Jo smirked as she reached atop her fridge for the good stuff.

She held up the whiskey in offering and Dean nodded, bending out of his coat. He slipped it over the back of a chair and settled in at the vintage kitchen table. She poured him a glass and watched as he inhaled the first round like he had been outside for hours and needed to fight off a much deeper chill.

“Well alright,” Jo resigned herself to playing shrink and poured Dean another drink. “So, what’s got you stuck in your head, hm?”

Dean weighed his head from side to side as he let the whiskey roll over his tongue. He never got far into a pouting session when Jo was around, but he also didn’t know which chamber of his heart he could stand to prop open for her inspection tonight.

“How’ve you been, Jo? You still schooling those truckers on taking care of their own rigs?” Dean sidestepped with ease.

“You know it,” Jo confirmed. “Not a day goes by that I don’t have to put another asshole in his place. Pays good, though.”

Jo had followed in Bobby’s footsteps and became a mechanic, but two Singers were already one too many for the shop and salvage yard. So she took her skills out to the interstate and made a name for herself as the only female diesel technician in four counties. Dean used to hate it when she would fix something faster than him, but it had been more than a decade since her skills had made him feel inferior. Dean knew Jo’d be his boss someday, but he wasn’t too worried about those far off futures; Bobby wouldn’t retire unless Ellen made him or killed him first.

“How’s Rufus holding up?” Jo teased, knowing her dad’s old friend was getting worse for the wear, much like John had.

“Stubborn, and as glib as ever. Good thing your dad rehired him, because he’s a bit too mouthy for most customers,” Dean admitted.

Jo hummed with nostalgia. “I gotta swing by and bug you guys sometime, but it just keeps getting busier.”

Dean sighed. “I hear that. What’s it been? Labor day? No. I haven’t even seen you since the Fourth. Christ!”

“Yeah, well, you’ll see me next week for Thanksgiving, don’t get too sentimental about it now,” Jo quipped. She took a short sip off the bottle as Dean swirled the last of his second helping.

“I’m seeing someone,” Dean staggered the words, like he wasn’t sure if their meanings and sounds fit together.

Jo sighed dramatically, “Finally, the truth is revealed! What’s up? She’s not pregnant, is she?”

“No.” Dean had to bite back his guffaw. “Definitely not.”

“Okay, then why the sad face? Not pulling a Ruby on ya, I hope?” Jo tested the waters.

“No, it’s--uh--- it’s been good. Really good. I just, kind of need to make up my mind if I’m in it for the long haul. Ya know?” Dean clarified, relaxing with each little confession.

“Uh-oh it’s getting serious,” Jo mock whispered.

Dean rolled his shoulders. “No, well, it could be. I don’t know.”

Jo giggled. “I can’t believe you! You’re fucking twitterpated, aren’t you?!”

“Jo, if you start making Thumper jokes, I’m shutting up right now,” Dean warned with a pointed finger. “Care to top me off while you’re at it?”

“Okay, okay, gosh.” Jo rolled her eyes dramatically as she poured him another drink before pointedly putting it back on the fridge. “But you’re in deep. You’re all blushy about it.”

“That doesn’t mean I’m ready to go big. It just means they’re willing to put up with me until I say the word,” Dean tried to downplay his feelings and Benny’s confession.

“So do it! Bust out the grand gestures already,” Jo encouraged.

Dean scoffed, “I’m not built for commitment, you know that!”

“Except you kinda are! You’ve changed, Dean,” Jo insisted, head hung to pour her honesty from her eyes. “I don’t know when it happened, but you’re not that reckless boy that I knew. You’ve always been a good guy, but now?---- Maybe it’s been since Sam came home, I don’t know. But somewhere along the way you grew up.---- It’s okay to let yourself want something more, you know.”

Dean grumbled and rolled his neck, breaking the eye contact. She always could do this to him, just like her mother, see straight through his every defense. “I always thought it’d be you, you know?”

Jo smiled without teeth. “Firsts can do that to people. But, we’re not those kids anymore, Dean. So, if you’re asking for my permission or seeking my approval---?”

Dean dropped his head to his hands, thick fingers poorly hiding him from Jo. “It’s a guy, Jo. I’m--- I don’t know--- Bi? I guess?”

“Dean?” Jo waited until he stopped being sheepish and looked at her, even if it was only out of the corner of one eye. “You’ve been head over heels for Cas for years. If you dare tell me this is about him, so help me, I will throw you out right now.”

Dean couldn’t help but laugh ruefully at that and toss back what was left of his whiskey. “You saw that, huh?”

She didn’t answer, waiting for him to work through it on his own.

“It’s not Cas.” Dean smacked his lips and held up his glass for a refill. Jo stood and brought the bottle back to the table. Dean poured himself three fingers worth and pondered the sloshing liquid before he continued. “Your mom know?”

Jo licked her lips, cocked her head, and sighed.

Dean closed his eyes and asked, “Bobby? Fuck!--- my mom?!”

“No one has ever said it out loud, Dean. I don’t know who knows, honestly. But we’re family, that doesn’t change.” Jo grasped his wrist firmly, he held her hand to his and then she slapped her other one on top. Time stopped long enough for Dean to accept that his secret was finally out, but also that it was safe.

“I can’t believe I’m talking about this with you, of all people.” Dean thumbed her knuckles, staring into eyes he knew as well as his own.

“Really? Who else would you be talking to about it? Sam? Ash, maybe?” Jo giggled. “I’m honored, actually. It means you stopped hating me.”

Dean pulled his hands away and took another drink. “I never hated you.”

“Okay, well, maybe it means you stopped hating yourself,” Jo corrected.

Dean’s brows crooked incredulously.

“Too much?” Jo asked apologetically.

Dean shook his head and sighed. “You are your mother’s daughter.”

“Now you’re the one being rude,” Jo muttered before taking a solid drink off the bottle this time.

Dean let himself relax, let the whiskey and conversation work into his muscles and set his worries aside. They talked like the old days and about the old days. Those in between years after high school and before anyone was ready to face responsibility. When half their friends went to college, they had just kept on working. After another hour, Jo leaned back in her chair and started scrutinizing him once again.

“You know how I know you’re happy with what’s his name?” Jo teased.

“Beh--- I didn’t tell you, fuck! Benny, his name is Benny. Goddamnit Joanna Beth,” Dean cursed through a chuckle; more details dragged out of him than he had planned on.

Jo cocked her head and considered the name.“Benny, right. You wanna know how I know?” Jo pushed.

“Fine, how?” Dean held up his hand, beckoning for her to hit him with her response.

“Because this is about the time of night you start giving me the lazy once over. But not tonight,” Jo proclaimed, chin out condescendingly. She had him, every few years they’d find themselves back in each other’s beds, for a night or a weekend and then they’d move on. He always thought of her as his home, his starting point. But maybe they weren’t the same thing at all.

“You still look good, Jo,” Dean replied, trying to save face.

“That’s not what I meant, Dean. Besides, I know!” Jo snarked, straightening her spine and tossing her hair over her shoulder. Dean couldn’t hold in his laughter anymore and it spilled out over a toothy grin, making Jo almost choke on her drink. God, Dean felt like anything was possible. That life was good.

After the hysterics had calmed down, Dean exhaled. “Thanks, Jo. I needed this.”

“You sure did, nobody else was gonna hand you your ass so kindly,” Jo agreed, standing and taking the bottle and Dean’s glass with her to the counter that held the sink. He whined comically, but knew her timing was right. She leaned back and smirked.

Dean grew quiet and Jo waited to see if it was exhaustion, the alcohol or something else. She didn’t have long to prepare.

“How’m I gonna tell my dad?” Dean asked, the pain and panic pulling at his face until she saw the telltale tears well up.

“Fuck ‘im. I mean it, if your dad can’t get his head out of his ass to see how happy you are, he isn’t worth your time,” Jo said adamantly.

Dean let his thoughts roll to the side of his head and licked his lips, biting against the tremor. He quickly wiped away the tears that escaped and inhaled wet and ragged. Jo slipped to his side and ran her hand through his hair, letting his face fall against her chest as he breathed through the onslaught. Dean couldn’t help but think how motherly the affection felt.

She pulled back to look him over at arms’ length.

“So what now? You want the couch? Or should I call you a ride? I’m sure Sam owes you one,” Jo asked, as no nonsense as ever.

“I’ll be fine,” Dean dismissed her concern, rubbing up his face to wipe off his nose.

“Well, you ain't driving.” Jo held up his keys. Dean blanched, feeling his pockets for them, fruitlessly. He stood to snatch them, but she had already skipped across the kitchen, too far to catch. “Nuh-uh, no way I’m letting you risk your baby. Or your thick skull in this weather.”

Dean put his hands on his hips, and blinked through the dizziness. He realized he hadn’t stood in a few hours. “Sam.”

“What’s that?” Jo prodded mischievously, ear leaning in as if she couldn’t hear him.

“Very funny. Call Sam, will ya?” Dean rolled his eyes as she scrolled through her contacts, murmuring the names under her breath. His keys were raised in victory, as if he couldn’t reach them above her head. He could have snagged them in an instant, if he wanted to.

While Jo woke Sam, Dean checked his own phone. Ignoring some texts from his mom and Cas, he selected the conversation with Benny. There were no new messages since that morning. Dean hesitated before relocking his screen.

“Sam’ll be here in twenty. You want something to eat? I’ve got chips.” Jo offered, opening the cupboard.

Tagging: @flamencodiva @dolphincliffs @dontshootmespence @fookinghelljensensthighs @fangirlxwritesx67 @dawnie1988 @mrswhozeewhatsis @cosicas-cuquis @foxyjwls007 @tumbler-tidbits @wingedcatninja @defenderrosetyler @ericaprice2008 @crashdevlin @mylovelydame21 @cajunquandary @itmighthavebeenintentional @thoughtslikeaminefield @there-must-be-a-lock @tatted-trina6 @cracksinthewalls @atc74

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#A Gentlemen's Agreement #Dean Winchester Fanfiction #dean/benny #dean x benny #bi!dean #coming out #aga: word to the wise #dean winchester/benny lafitte #dean/jo #sam's trying he really is #stubborn dean

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slippinmickeys · 4 years

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Release Valve (1/10)

This is the first fic I wrote when I came back to the fandom last year--it had been almost 20 years since I’d written my last X-Files fanfic. I plan to release it here, one chapter per day.

This takes place directly after Fight the Future, and goes AU after that -- meaning S6 and on do not exist in this universe. I do have a sequel planned, but have not yet had the time to sit down and write it.

It had been five months since Antarctica, and he could still feel the sharp cut of cold air in his nose, the crunch of snow under his cheek as Scully held him close, half his clothes gone, half himself protecting her. It was August in DC, the air hot and thick with car exhaust and pollen, the humidity at 100%, and there were still times he thought he might never be warm again. He leaned back in his chair at his seemingly permanent temporary desk in the BCU bullpen and picked up his phone, bored. Muscle memory dialed the number for him and she picked up before the second ring. “Mulder, I have a class starting in less than ten minutes,” she said, without so much as a hello. “You know this.” He sighed into the receiver. “I’m bored,” he said. “Yeah,” she replied, the touch of frustration gone from her voice, replaced with a casual empathy. “Me too.” “Want to get lunch later?” “I can’t,” she said, then added, “Skinner’s assistant called me this morning. I have a meeting with him at 1:30.” “Today?” He asked, incredulity creeping in. “Yes, Mulder. Today. Listen, I’ve got to go, I’ve got students coming in. I’ll call you after class.” She hung up without saying goodbye. He tipped his chair back as he hung up the receiver and looked up to a familiar hulk approaching his desk. “Agent Mulder,” Skinner said, giving him an assessing look. “Sir?” “I’d like you to come by my office at 1:30.” “Today?” Mulder said, once again. Boredom turned him peevish. “You have somewhere else to be?” “No, sir.” At that Skinner nodded and stalked off. So. Both he and Scully had been called in. This was either really good, or really bad.

When he came into the anteroom outside Skinner’s office, Scully was already there waiting and there was a maintenance worker in the process of removing Skinner’s name tag from the door. He and Scully shared a look of raised eyebrows and he plopped down next to her on the couch with a touch of petulance, the wind coming out of his sails. Maybe this wasn’t a good news meeting after all. At that moment a young agent came walking in, nodding at Kimberly.

“I’m supposed to see him at 1:30?” He said to her. He had a short, choppy haircut and thick preppy glasses. He pulled at his tie like he wasn’t used to wearing it as Kimberly directed him to a chair opposite Mulder and Scully. He plopped down and gave the armrests a little drum, clearly not a kid who was used to sitting still. Skinner popped his head out of his door then. “Agents?” He said expectantly. All three stood up and Skinner turned to the third man. “Stone?” “Yessir?” “Give us a minute.” “Yessir.” He plopped back down. Mulder and Scully exchanged another look and followed Skinner into his office. “I have some news,” he said once they were all settled. “The OPR recommendation finally came down.” “Don’t keep us hanging,” Mulder said, trying to keep the glibness out of his voice. “The X-Files are being reopened,” he said. “I’m sensing a ‘but,’” Scully said, leaning forward. “Less of a ‘but,’” Skinner went on, “more of an ‘and.’” “And?” Said Mulder. Skinner looked at them a moment without saying anything. Assessing or deciding, Mulder couldn’t quite figure out. “Your budget has increased,” He finally said. “You’ll have two more full-time agents assigned to the unit.” Scully’s face fell, and Mulder leaned back. “Not to sound ungrateful,” Mulder said, holding up a hand, “but our recent experience working with other agents on cases associated with the X-Files has not gone all that great.” He remembers the five o’clock shadow scrape of Krycek kissing his cheek. Shoving Spender into a wall. The latent smell of cigarette smoke and a basement full of ash. Skinner leaned back. “I’ve been promoted,” he said, looking at each of them in turn. “To Deputy Director. I’ve been given authority to shape and oversee the X-Files unit.” Skinner let that sink in a moment before going on, his tone indicating that this wasn’t a negotiation. “Agent Mulder will be the X-Files SAC. You’ll be giving the orders to the agents under you and will have hiring and firing approval.” Mulder shot a look at Scully. “What about Agent Scully, sir?” “Quantico has requested she stay on there to teach.” Mulder opened his mouth to protest, but Skinner raised a calming hand. “Technically, she would be an instructor in residence at Quantico, but assigned to the X-Files as official consult. Able to take leave from teaching whenever needed in the field or at the Hoover.” He gave Scully a pointed look. “The decision is obviously hers. Quantico wants her, but so do I.” “So do I,” said Mulder quietly. Scully tucked her chin to her chest, her eyes to the floor. Neither of them had been quite expecting this. Skinner leaned back and gave them a moment. “I thought you’d be pleased,” he finally said. Scully looked at Mulder. “I can’t speak for Agent Mulder,” she finally said. “You can,” Mulder said with confidence. Off his look, she continued. “But I’d like nothing more than to continue our work.” “Great,” said Skinner, “It’s done, then.” He rose. Mulder made to get up too, but Scully spoke. “Sir,” she said, “what about the X-Files? The actual files, sir. The ones destroyed in the fire?” Skinner resumed his seat. “Kimberly had begun digitizing them months ago,” he said, off of Mulder’s surprised look. “She was able to save most of them to a secure server. She said the only ones she hadn’t gotten to were those from the last year or two.” Scully looked at Mulder. “I should have those on my computer,” she said to Mulder, “you should too. After the most recent Executive Order, we’ve been required to keep digital copies of all reports since almost that long ago.” “My laptop was in my office when it burned,” Mulder said flatly. “If I’m not mistaken, yours was, too.” Scully gave a pinched look and Skinner once again stood. “About that,” he said, walking to his office door and gesturing outside. The young agent who’d been outside waiting walked in and Skinner pointed him to an empty chair around his conference table. “This is Agent Stone,” he said, “He works in Computer Sciences and Crimes – he’s been working to restore the destroyed computer units from your office.” Off a surprised look from the X-Files agents, Stone shrugged. “Standard procedure. Evidence conservation and protection.” “Were you able to save any of our work?” Mulder asked. Stone looked at him. “I was able to save all of it,” he said. “And I want in.” XxXxXxXxX “I don’t understand,” Scully said at last. Skinner nodded his head at the young agent. “He’s here for a job interview. He’d like to be one of your two new X-Files agents.” Stone sat up, animated. “I’ve obviously read all the files on your computers,” he said, “and when I was done with those, I read all the digitized files.” He looked at them both keenly. “I’ve read every single X-File. It’s fascinating work. I want to do it. I want in.” Scully raised an eyebrow. “You’ve read every file on a secure server?” “I, uh, may have hacked it,” he said, momentarily sheepish. He nodded toward Skinner. “I came to the Assistant Director with my concerns on just how secure it is. I can help you with that. I can help with a lot. I know I’m pretty green, but I’ve read your files back to front and I know I can help you.” Skinner looked to Mulder. “Your discretion,” he said. “Your unit.” Mulder appraised the young agent for a moment and turned to Skinner. “I’ll want a full background check. If there’s so much as a hint of Morley smoke anywhere in this kid’s past, he’s gone. He doesn’t come near the X-Files OR our computers. If he passes that,” he turned to look at Stone, “trial basis. As short or long as I see fit. This isn’t a tenured position.” Stone sat up straight, smiling. “Yes, right. Sweet. Awesome. Yes.” XxXxXxXxX These men. These men who would do anything for a hairsbreadth of power. She’d been kidnapped, micro chipped, infected with a malignancy. They’d taken her ova and her career and the love of her life more than once. She couldn’t watch the news without seeing their malevolent machinations in every third disaster. Don’t even get her started on Colony Collapse. If she could kill every one of them and film it, she’s convinced snuff would become her kink. But maybe… Maybe they had a chance now. To bring down the Syndicate. To bring down the Smoking Man. Cautious optimism was still a pretty generous name to put to it, but she finally felt if not a sense of hope, at least not the Sisyphean doom and gloom from months before. She looked over her glass of wine at Mulder. He’d shown up, energized, practically bouncing up and down at her door, bearing pizza and Chianti. “I’m surprised you didn’t put up more of a fight on Stone,” she said. Mulder shrugged. “Maybe it was the high of getting the X-Files back, but I also don’t want to look a gift Skinner in the mouth, if you know what I mean.” “I know what you mean.” The terms of getting back the X-Files was best case scenario. It was probably too good to be true. “He seems young,” she added. “He IS young,” Mulder said, “I went over his file this afternoon. Graduated at 20 from MIT and recruited straight out of graduation. He’s only been a full agent in the Bureau a little over two years.” “Any field experience?” “None.” “Oh boy.” Scully took another swig. “What he lacks in experience, he makes up for in enthusiasm,” Mulder said. “I’m hoping I can train him up my way.” “The suits are gonna just love that,” she deadpanned, and Mulder smiled. He leaned back on her couch and fished an errant piece of pineapple from his shirt collar. “How you can eat that on pizza, I’ll never understand,” Scully said, standing and bussing their plates back to the kitchen. Instead of taking the bait, Mulder blew out a sigh, his mind elsewhere. “I don’t even know where to start on finding someone for the other position,” he said. “If we’re not careful and don’t do it our way, we’re going to end up with another fucking Krycek.” Scully winced and made her way back to the couch, tucking her feet under her on the other end. She tried not to look at the space by her door where Melissa died. “I may be able to help with that,” she said. “Oh yeah?” Mulder leaned forward. “I have a student,” she started. “Not another baby agent, Scully,” Mulder said, “we don’t have the budget for a nanny.” “She’s new to the Bureau, yes,” Scully went on, “but was a beat cop and made detective extremely fast. Ten years with the LAPD before she went Fed. She’s smart, Mulder. She asks all the right questions.” She waited a beat. “She reminds me of you.” “Devastatingly handsome and hard to love?” Scully tucked her chin to her chest, not meeting his eyes. She made a decision then, hard and fast. “I’ve never found it hard to love you,” she said quietly. XxXxXxXxX There it was. They hadn’t talked at all about what happened in Mulder’s hallway before Antarctica. Mulder wasn’t even sure she remembered it and it had been too awkward to ask. “Scully,” he said. She still hadn’t looked up, so he reached out a finger and swept it gently down her leg. She looked toward him and rested her cheek on her knee. “You deserve to know,” she said, “after everything we’ve been through.” Her voice was husky. His pulse started to race. His finger was still on her leg and he fought the urge to skim it higher. “You know, if you’re officially stationed at Quantico, it’s not fraternization,” he said. He wasn’t sure if he came off glib or flirtatious. He wasn’t sure of anything. Scully reached for her wine and took a measured sip. “Are you coming on to me?” She said. Flirtatious. Jesus. His throat bobbed. “I’m coming over with wine more often, is what I’m doing,” he said, reaching for his own glass to cover for his nerves. “En vino veritas?” Scully said. “The veritas has always been our problem, Scully. Maybe the vino is the solution.” XxXxXxXxX “Mulder,” she said, rising up on her knees. She reached up and ran a hand lightly over his cheek. She’d never just come right out and said how she felt about him. Before the bee thing in his hallway, a surveillance chat about root beer and iced tea was as close as they’d come. Enough, she thought. She wanted to kiss him, but the timing didn’t seem right. This was too profound a moment for them. She knew if she kissed him, she’d be outside herself instantly and right now she didn’t want to miss a thing. He seemed to push into her hand slightly, leaning into her touch. His eyes never left hers. His cheek was sandpapery under her fingers and she remembered that fingertips have more nerve endings that most places on the body. Most. “Let’s get our unit put together,” she said softly. “I’m not going anywhere.” Almost six years of ghost hunting, she thought, and flashed on the industrial smell of hospital sheets, the acrid tang of gunpowder. Mulder loping off on his knight’s quest to find his sister, Scully the squire at his side. He was six feet of rumpled suits and taut muscles and she’d fallen in love with him years ago. Hopelessly, stupidly, embarrassingly in love with him. He cracked bad jokes on stakeouts and mumbled her name in his sleep – of course she wasn’t going anywhere. XxXxXxXxX She leaned forward and gave him a lingering kiss on his cheek. He tried not to let his disappointment show. “Yeah,” he said, his voice husky, too. “Yeah.” He leaned back, banking the fire on the moment. She grabbed the glass out of his hand, which he hadn’t realized was empty, and took the rest of their meal detritus into the kitchen. He rose. “Send me the file on your candidate, would you?” He said, making his way to her door. He took his time putting on his coat and lingered in the doorway. She came over slowly and stood in front of him, close. “Scully?” He said, his hand on the doorknob. He leaned forward so their foreheads were almost touching. He needed to say it before he lost his nerve. “I love you, too.” He practically ran outside then, his blood thrumming. It took everything he had not to crow triumphantly at the moon. XxXxXxXxX Jasmine Isaacs. 36 years old. African American. California native. Highly decorated detective with a great solve rate. Single, no children. The kid thing grabbed Mulder by the collar first thing. It was good to have no kids. Just another thing to use against you. He leaned back in his chair and blew out a sigh, his thoughts turning depressive. What a fucking way to think, he thought. That children -- most people’s high point--were just another tool in the arsenal of the Consortium. The basement office felt different. The smell of paint fumes still permeated the space. It was a different shade of grey than the last one, off by just a touch, which grabbed Mulder’s eye every time it strayed from the file in front of him. He’d gotten a new I Want To Believe poster from the same place on K Street where he’d gotten the first one, a throwback to a simpler time. They’d done a bit of work on the office in the refurbish – got rid of the wall leading to the annex and managed to squeeze three small desktops into the space. He thought Scully’s should be bigger than the other two and considered clearing off a different area to make it more senior looking. She had her own office at Quantico and it was probably twice the size of the entire basement. Good, he thought. She deserved that. He turned back to the candidate’s file in front of him. She looked promising. Had a high solve rate. Nothing in her background suggested an ulterior motive, nor highlighted a weakness the Consortium could exploit. So far, so good. If Scully wanted her, so did he. Stone seemed into the paranormal shit. Isaacs could be the level-headed counterpart. He wanted to get them both into a room and see what happened. Isaacs graduated from Quantico next week. Scully walked in then, the smell of the street still on her clothes. Hot dog vendors and fresh air, the amniotic petrichor of the Potomac. He could hear the elevator doors close as she sloughed off her coat. “How goes it?” She said as a greeting. He flipped the file closed and casually tossed it on his desk. “What a time to be alive,” he said.

#the x files #fanfic #post FTF #MSR #my fic #chapter one #casefile #casefic

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blackemporiums · 4 years

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Perhaps there is only abyss | fenhawke

1.4k of Varric & Fenris dealing with Hawke’s death, set mid-DA: Inquisition | on ao3

Two weeks after the Varric’s world was upended (and how often could that happen to someone, really, before they broke?), he heads out of Skyhold and back home.

He tells the Inquisitor it’s for business, but he knows better than to think he’d fooled her. But he can’t bear to add this additional weight onto her mountain of burdens—she was faced with an impossible choice. And if Varric knew Hawke, well. He likely made the decision for her, anyway.

Still, it’s not like knowing that it was Hawke’s choice to stay in the Fade—no. That’s not right, he’s not just in the Fade, he’s dead, and the thought hits Varric like a punch in the gut that he needs to take a moment to reorient himself.

Hawke is dead. He’s dead. For real, now, not just Varric making things up to keep him safe. No, no keeping him safe anymore.

Varric’s halfway down the steps of the Viscount’s Keep, but he has to move to the side and grasp the balustrade carved into the stone. It grounds him, helps him hold the tears back.

***

He checks the Hawke Estate first. Unsurprisingly empty. Varric stands by the fireplace that hasn’t been lit in months, and in a wild moment of rationality, he thinks that someone should get around to renaming this place.

He sets off and checks the Hanged Man, on the off chance that drowning sorrows in a place that was too noisy to allow for thought was the method of mourning. Or, that Isabela had gotten his letter and come to visit, to commiserate, and grieve in her own way. It’s empty, too, of the usual suspects—at least, the usual suspects that Varric once knew. It hurts, even after all this time, to think of all the nights they’d spent here, together. How insufferable Hawke’s ragtag crew of miscreants were, at the start. And as the battles piled on, eventually, they’d learned to be friends.

Varric doesn’t want to go down that path of nostalgia; not tonight. He has more important things to do.

He makes his way back to Hightown, and he figures that he’s doing this all out of order because he’s trying to delay the inevitable, but now he’s standing outside Fenris’ mansion and it’s time.

“Hey, broody, open up,” Varric says. He tries to keep his voice light, but it cracks at the nickname, and he takes a moment to rest his head against the door, trying to calm himself. “It’s just me.”

The door stays closed, but when Varric tries the knob, it gives.

He scoffs with a quick flash of irritation. Of course.

The house is even more of a mess (and he hadn’t thought that possible) than it was, the last time he was here. He can’t even remember the last time he was here. He feels a chill as he walks across the entrance hall, remembering the shades they had to fight through, after all the assassins. Maker, the shit he’s been through.

The door to Fenris’ bedroom is open, and the heat from the fireplace is enough to let Varric know that despite the sepulchral atmosphere, someone in this godforsaken mansion was alive.

Varric stands at the precipice of the door, but can’t bring himself to say anything when he finally sees Fenris.

Fenris, legs stretched out in front of him, leaning against the bed, two empty bottles of wine lying beside him. His eyes are red-rimmed and glassy. He doesn’t even register that Varric is there.

“Hey,” Varric says.

Fenris’ gaze shifts to him slowly—confirming Varric’s theory on how drunk Fenris was.

“You,” Fenris says, and Varric figures that he means for it to have more bite to it.

“Anything left for me? Or have you drunk it all?”

Fenris looks away, hangs his head, then shrugs.

Varric sits beside Fenris, stretches out his legs and lets his feet get warmed by the fire.

“Don’t,” Fenris says, just as Varric opens his mouth.

“Okay,” Varris says.

It’s strange to see Fenris like this. Not the drunk part—he’d seen that often enough, before—but wearing clothes, not armor. Even stranger to think that Hawke had probably helped him pick out these loose pants, the soft-looking shirt.

They’re silent for what feels like hours. Varric had gotten up in the middle of it to try and scrounge around, and let out a relieved sigh when he found an unopened bottle of Mackay's Epic Single Malt. He’d sent a few bottles to Hawke, back when the Inquisitor had found a stash. Varric doesn’t want to think of how he and Fenris had probably drank together, or how Fenris must’ve gone through the Estate, collecting things that were of use. He doesn’t want to think of how often Fenris must have done that—pick up the pieces of his life, small enough to fit a backpack, and move on, and on, and on, until one day, he didn’t have to be so frugal with his belongings.

Until one day, he had to be, once more.

They drank in silence, Fenris slouching further and further until he’s almost at Varric’s height when seated. Varric’s drunk. Thank the Maker he’s drunk, because after what was probably actual hours of silence, Fenris finally chooses to speak.

“I told him,” Fenris says, and stops to clear his throat. His voice was rough from disuse. “I told him not to go.”

Varric snorts. “I did too.”

“Never did listen,” Fenris slurs. “Bastard.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Varric says, tipping the bottle into his mouth and passing it to Fenris.

Fenris sets the bottle down between them, and it wobbles precariously before Varric holds it upright.

They’re silent again.

“Nothing to live for, now,” Fenris says, and it’s a lot, coming from him, but somehow he sounds glib about it.

Varric turns and stares at him.

“What,” Fenris says, deadpan.

Varric does not want to say, I guess his sarcasm rubbed off on you, because it’s too much, it’s all still too much, it will never stop being too much to believe.

Fenris swears under his breath, then slinks down further onto the floor until he’s lying down.

Varric reaches out and tentatively pats Fenris’ shoulder.

Then, he watches, transfixed, as a single tear rolls down Fenris cheek.

“Should’ve gone with him,” Fenris whispers, and Varric knows, he knows it’s the alcohol loosening Fenris’ jaw, cracking it open to give voice to all his thoughts. All he can do is listen, and he keeps his hand on Fenris’ shoulder. He likes to think it gives him some comfort.

“Your Inquisitor,” Fenris says, and he says Inquisitor like it’s a slur—for a brief moment, Varric has to agree. “Is she worth it?”

Varric sighs.

“Hawke thought so,” he says, because he knows, too, that no matter how close he and Fenris were (which, honestly, wasn’t a lot) his opinion would never hold water.

Fenris scoffs. “Who cares. He’s dead.” Then, “do you think she’s worth it?”

Varric thinks of Haven. Thinks of Redcliffe, of Haven, of the songs sung in the valley amidst the bitter cold, of a woman who’d come back from certain death.

Then he thinks of Kirkwall, the Wounded Coast, the Vinmark Mountains and the being who fashioned himself into a god.

He thinks of the Deep Roads, and of Lowtown on fire. He thinks of the man they’re grieving. He thinks of the woman who caused their grief.

“Yes,” Varric says, voice barely above a whisper. “Yes.”

Fenris frowns, and Varric glances down at Fenris’ fists when the tattoos flash blue. But they fade just as quickly, and Fenris raises his hand to cover his eyes.

“Hawke was worth it,” Fenris says, and Varric bites down on his lip and nods, because he can’t speak. It’s a rare moment, and Fenris seems to recognize this—he lifts his hand away and pushes himself up to rest on his elbows.

“What’s wrong?” He asks, tone urgent, as if something’s going to come out of the walls and attack them. Frankly, that seems more ideal as compared to crying in front of Fenris, but Varric’s life has been nothing but a series of moments that were not ideal.

Varric laughs, high and thready, half-hysterical. “Everything, broody,” he says. “Everything’s fucking wrong.”

Fenris huffs out a breath, a small smile on his lips. “You’re right,” he says, lying back down on the floor.

Varric’s trying very valiantly to pull himself together that he almost doesn’t hear it when Fenris says, “I told Hawke, before he left. I said that I was tired of everything changing.”

Varric looks down at Fenris.

Fenris keeps his gaze on the ceiling. There’s a sad smile on his lips, and if Varric weren’t so completely wrecked, he would’ve said something about how it looked alien on his face.

“He told me that some things would stay the same.”

#fenhawke #fenris #Garrett Hawke #varic tethras #dragon age #dragon age inquisition #fenhawke fic #things i write

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jewishzevran · 4 years

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this is how galaxies collide || alistair x warden (aeducan)

Alistair has grown up without touch. Touch is bad, touch is sinful, touch only leads to corruption. Then, at Ostagar, Duncan returns from Orzammar with a new recruit; a dwarf covered in darkspawn blood with silver hair and a silver tongue to match. As they travel Ferelden together, he finds himself re-evaluating everything he knows about bodily contact. [ao3]

a/n: cw for canon-typical violence and injuries.

chapter one - join us in the shadows

Wind howls round the cold, empty halls of the chantry; a haunting, melancholy rendition of the hymns sung that morning. Outside the rattling window, the storm rages. A crack of lightning throws the room into sharp relief, and Alistair curls up a little tighter under his blanket, fists clenched with fear. There are no warm bodies to keep him safe here, no mabari paws to cling to. No gentle whines or rough tongues licking his cheek as he cries. His chest aches with loneliness.

A rap on the door interrupts his thoughts and he sits bolt upright, wiping the tears from his face with the heel of his hand.

“Up, child. Your presence is required.”

Alistair pulls on a robe over his nightclothes and scurries to the door. One does not refuse the voice of the revered Mother.

Even if it is past bedtime, he thinks.

She barely gives him a second glance before walking off down the corridor. Alistair follows.

A crack of thunder sounds almost directly overhead, loud enough to make Alistair’s ears ring. He jumps, grabbing for the closest source of comfort he can: the revered mother’s hand.

Before the thunder roll has even petered out, she snatches her hand away from him and turns her eyes on him, full of cold disapproval. He cowers under her glare.

“You do not touch a woman,” she spits.

Before Alistair can even open his mouth to reply, she marches off. He bows his head and follows, fresh tears forming in his eyes while shame burns his cheeks.

Touch is sinful. He must face his fear of the storm alone.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Alistair huffed as he stalked across camp to complete his task. Of all the people to play messenger boy to the mages, why did the revered mother pick the ex-templar?

That’s precisely why she picked you, he thought to himself. It’s an insult and you know it.

He was going to refuse, but Duncan had been hovering nearby, watching, and Alistair knew if he had, Duncan would have stepped in and made him take it anyway.

Typical of his mentor, always pushing him to be the better person.

He wanted to just conveniently ‘not find the mage’, apologise profusely to the revered mother and get on with his day. But he’d never been a good liar and Duncan’s disappointed sigh was more than he could cope with, so he slumped off in the direction of the old temple, kicking at loose stones and muttering under his breath. If his armor had pockets, his hands would definitely be inside them.

It didn’t take long for him to find the mage in question; he was stood alone in the centre of the plinth, running through simple combat sequences, moves flowing one into the other as though he was meditating instead of letting off powerful blasts of fire at the crumbling pillar in front of him. He turned, saw Alistair, and sighed heavily, not bothering to hide his disdain. Whether it was at being interrupted or at Alistair specifically, he couldn’t say.

“What is it now? Haven’t the grey wardens asked more than enough of the Circle?”

Alistair bit his tongue. Remember to be civil. Don’t start a fight. Don’t antagonise him. He chose his words very carefully and spoke each one as neutrally as possible.

“I simply came to deliver a message from the revered mother, ser mage. She desires your presence.”

The mage scoffed. “What her reverence desires is of no concern to me. I am busy helping the grey wardens – on the King’s orders, I might add!”

Alistair fought the urge to roll his eyes, and just about succeeded. “Should I have asked her to write a note?”

He could feel the mage practically explode with impudent fury. “Tell her I will not be harassed in this manner!”

I’m not a fucking messenger pigeon, he thought. Sometimes mages can be so fucking stubborn. “Yes, I was harassing you by delivering a message.”

“Your glibness does you no credit, man,” the mage spit back.

To hell with civility.

“Aww, and here I thought we were getting along so well!” Alistair said, each word dripping with sarcasm. “I was even going to name one of my children after you – the grumpy one.”

The mage looked as though he was about to hit him, and Alistair almost wished he would.

“Enough! I will speak to the woman if I must.”

It was not lost on Alistair that he just succeeded in annoying the mage into deciding that between him and the revered mother, she was the lesser of two evils, which was pretty impressive going in the time allowed, even for him. He suppressed a victorious grin.

“Out of my way, fool.”

The mage stalked off, almost bumping into someone on his way, and that’s when Alistair saw her: barefoot, muddy and spattered with darkspawn blood. White hair, dark skin and dark, determined eyes, that looked like they’d seen a lot more of the uglier side of the world than they should have.

Beautiful, said the loud, very unhelpful voice in the back of his head. He ignored it.

“You know,” his mouth said before his brain could stop it. “one good thing about the blight is how it really brings people together.”

Yes, that’s it, Alistair. Take one look at this woman with fire in her eyes who seems like she hasn’t slept in about four days, who is absolutely covered in blood and decide she’s the perfect person to tell a sarcastic joke to. Really stellar work there.

He winced internally, waiting for another outburst like the rapidly disappearing mage, but instead, the stranger just raised a single eyebrow and smiled wryly.

“You are a very strange human.”

Oh. Well then.

“Yes, I get that a lot.” He paused, doubting himself for a moment. “Wait, we haven't met, have we? I don't suppose you happen to be another mage?”

She frowned, then gestured to herself. “I’m… a dwarf? How could I be a mage?”

Maker, Alistair, you are absolutely killing it today.

What he wanted to do was apologise for being such an idiot. Instead, mouth bypassing his brain again, he shrugged and said “I don’t know. Sometimes they creep up on you.”

“Like your imagination, it seems,” she replied, dryly and without hesitation. There was a pause of a couple of seconds, where they stared at each other, both completely deadpan, and then, at the same time, they burst out laughing.

“My name is Janna—” said the dwarf, still smiling as she extended a hand for Alistair to shake. He noted the hesitation at the end of her sentence, as though she was about to give a surname but held back at the last moment. “A pleasure to meet you.”

Family is probably a painful subject, then. He thought. Avoid jokes where possible. Maybe we can bond over our tragic backstories in the future.

“I’m Alistair. Newest grey warden.”

“Oh good, you are who I was looking for.”

Duncan must have sent her.

He nodded. “As the junior member of the order, I’ll be helping you prepare for your joining.”

“Prepare?” She frowned, a tiny furrow appearing between her eyes.

“Unfortunately, I’m not allowed to say much.” He gestured back towards camp, and she fell easily into step by his side. “Sworn to secrecy and all. Duncan will explain to you and the others soon.” He paused. “Have you met the other recruits?”

Janna wrinkled her nose a little. “I’ve met Daveth.” The word unfortunately hung unspoken in the air.

“Yes,” Alistair replied apologetically. “The other is Ser Jory, a knight from Redcliffe.”

Janna nodded. Alistair was a little surprised by how easily he fell into conversation with her.

“So, that mage?”

“Mmmm?”

“Why was he so… uncooperative?”

Alistair barked out a laugh. “How much do you know about mage regulation?”

“Only a little,” Janna admitted. “I read what I could in Orzammar, but being a dwarf, it tends not to be a sought-after topic of study. All I know is that the Chantry controls the Templars and the Templars watch the mages.”

Alistair nodded. “Well, that’s enough to explain this particular situation. I used to be a templar.”

Janna frowned. “You were permitted to leave the order? Even from my limited knowledge, that’s surprising.”

Alistair laughed again. “Yes, well. I was still in training and Duncan had to invoke the right of conscription to get the Revered Mother to let me go. I’ll never forget the look on her face. I thought she was going to have us both arrested.”

Why am I telling her all this?

She laughed. “That I would have liked to see.”

“So, the mage was upset, because the revered mother sent me with the message as an insult. He was smart enough to pick up on that, and well, you saw the rest. I would have refused to take it in the first place but–”

“–Duncan.” Janna finished.

“Yes. Apparently, we should all be doing our best to get along and be civil, but no one else seems to have received that particular lecture.” He sat down on an unoccupied bench, under the shade of a large oak, only partly pretending to sulk.

Janna laughed again, joining him. “Sounds just like Orzammar. Though we tend to settle our grievances with one-on-one combat, and I can’t imagine that would go down as well up here.”

Alistair chuckled. “Definitely not, but I can think of several people who would jump at the chance. Including that mage. I’m going to have to watch my back in case he ‘accidentally’ trips and sets me on fire.”

Janna threw her head back in another laugh, and the swaying branches above her caught her eye. She smiled softly, reaching up to tug a leaf free and hold it, studying it in minute detail.

“I didn’t realise quite how beautiful the colour green is.” She said quietly. “The surface is full of surprises.”

A shadow of sadness flitted across her face, and Alistair wondered just how voluntary her departure from Orzammar had been. He flailed mentally for a way to distract her.

“Oh, Maker, you should see the southern coast in summer,” he started. “You wouldn’t believe the colours. Greens of the trees, bright oranges and reds of the fruit in the market. For a blissful month or two, the sea is a gorgeous teal, rather than, y’know. Dull Ferelden grey.”

“I’ve never seen the ocean.”

“Well, when we’ve dealt with the blight, I’ll bat my incredibly charming eyelashes at Duncan, and persuade him to let us all take a trip. We may even convince him to take his armor off.”

For a while, they simply sat and talked, laughing about some of Alistair’s wilder seaside adventures; he was grateful for the diversion – the mood had been so grim and serious recently, and it was a welcome relief to talk about anything that wasn’t darkspawn fighting tactics or the upcoming battle.

A comfortable silence fell between them for a moment, broken only by the background chatter of the camp, and the barks of the mabari from the kennels.

“What are mabari like?” Janna asked, evidently prompted by the noise.

“You mean you’ve never–”

Janna gestured to herself again. “We don’t have much use for them, you know, underground.”

Alistair flushed. “Right. Yes.” There was a pause, and then, “do you want to go and meet them? I’m sure the Kennel Master would oblige you.”

Janna grinned. “I’d like that.”

“Well it takes us in the right direction, since we’re obliged to go and meet Duncan anyway.”

She almost fell over herself in her excitement, and Alistair bit back another laugh. He’s laughed more times in the past half an hour than in the last six months combined. He followed her to the Kennel Master but pulled up short when he saw the look on the man’s face. He heard a little of the conversation, and pity filled him. He hated what fighting the darkspawn did to the mabari.

His train of thought was cut short when he saw Janna slip inside the gate. Curious, he crossed to the fence and observed.

“Hey there,” she murmured, gently crouching next to the injured creature. He growled warily. “My name is Janna. You probably haven’t seen many dwarves before, have you? I’m here to help you. Will you let me do that?” She paused, giving the dog a moment. When he didn't react, she continued, offering her hand gingerly for him to consider. “I just have to put this muzzle on, so your master over there can make you feel better. Is that okay?”

The mabari whined a little, and sniffed Janna’s outstretched hand, then licked her fingers and rolled onto his side.

“Maker’s breath,” whispered the Kennel Master, talking to himself as much as Alistair. “That poor dog’s been snapping at anyone that so much as looks at him for the past three days.”

“Some people just have a way, I suppose,” replied Alistair, just as stunned.

Janna clambered out the enclosure, looking back miserably at the freshly muzzled mabari. “I hope you can ease his pain a little.”

“Thanks to you, I should have no trouble. But, if you head into the wilds, look for this.” He showed her a rough sketch, and Alistair recognised it as a Wilds flower. “I can make it into a salve that draws out the poison.”

“Got it. I’ll bring back as many as I can carry.”

“Thank you kindly, lass. You’re a good soul.”

“Alistair! Janna!”

Duncan called to them from across the fire, and waved them both over. Jory and Daveth were with him, and Alistair held back a groan. Time to head out into the Wilds.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Alistair grimaced as he wiped darkspawn blood off his blade and sheathed it, along with his shield.

Maker, they don’t get any less disgusting.

Janna made quick work of collecting the blood, storing it in the pouch at her waist with practiced ease. She seemed totally unfazed by the massacre, her indifference made all the more apparent by just how shaken Daveth and Jory seemed to be.

Alistair consulted the map, getting their next heading and directing as appropriate, but within two minutes, Janna darted off the path and crouched next to a rotting log.

“What in Andraste’s name is she doing?” Daveth said, rolling his eyes. “It’s like she wants to be ambushed.”

She returned almost as quickly as she left and held out her hand for Alistair.

“This is the flower the kennel master wanted, right?”

Alistair blinked. He had all but forgotten, but yes, in her hand was a small clump of Wilds flowers, red centres bright against the pure white petals.

“That’s the ones.”

She smiled and stowed them away, before falling into step beside him. Her alertness did not escape his notice; one hand always on the hilt of her sword, whilst her eyes scanned the wilderness with expert perception. It took him a second to realise she was still barefoot, and only just stopped himself wrinkling his nose.

What possesses someone to hunt darkspawn without boots?

“By the stone,” she breathed, faltering beside him, and Alistair followed her gaze to where three soldiers were strung up like cured meat from a tree bridge. Every face was contorted with fear, and his gut wrenched uncomfortably.

Poor bastards. They didn’t deserve that.

“Look there!” Jory called. “There’s movement on the path!”

Janna was gone in a blur, and she had already crouched at the source of the disturbance by the time Alistair realised that it was a wounded soldier.

He sprinted after her, in time to catch the end of the man’s sentence.

“… out of the ground. There were too many. Everyone is dead.”

“You’re safe now, it’s alright. We can get you back to camp. What’s your name, soldier?”

“A-a-aaron,” He stuttered, making any coherent noise clearly an intense effort.

“My name is Janna, I’m a Grey Warden. I’m here to help you.” She was knelt beside the man, cradling his head in her lap. She’d removed his helmet and started stroking his hair, gently wiping the sweat from his pain-creased brow. She looked up at Alistair.

“Do you have any poultices? Any bandages?” Her voice was deathly calm, and her eyes flicked down to his abdomen. He took the hint and chanced a look, and then instantly wished he hadn’t. The soldier’s – Aaron’s – blood-soaked hands were cradling his stomach, and Alistair could see the glistening of his intestines underneath his shredded tunic. Beside him, Daveth gagged.

“Never mind bandages, you’re going to need a fucking funeral pyre.”

Jory glared down at him, and Daveth cowed uncharacteristically under his gaze, mumbling out an apology.

“I have both in my pack,” Alistair said, ignoring them both, delving into the bag and pulling them out. Janna wasn't even looking at him as she held her hand out for the items; her eyes were on Aaron’s face, keeping him distracted and stopping him panicking.

“When I give him the signal, Alistair here is going to put a poultice on your wound and then bandage you up, ok? I’ve got some draught here as well, which should help with the pain. It’s going to hurt to start with, but I need you to just hold on, alright?”

The soldier grimaced and nodded, breathing shakily.

Janna turned to Alistair. “Ready?”

He wasn’t, but he nodded anyway. “Ready.”

She lifted Aaron’s hands and gripped them tightly. “Deep breath in, Aaron,”

As he took in a shaky gasp of air, Alistair pushed the poultice deep into the wound. Aaron went grey and half screamed, half sobbed in agony. His knuckles were white under the blood, clutching Janna’s hands with a death grip. Alistair worked quickly, wrapping bandages around his torso and tying them off neatly.

Janna soothed him all the while, and once Alistair was finished, she propped him up gently and helped him take a swig of the healing draught. When he finished, he took a deep breath and slumped back into Janna’s arms. Fresh sweat was beading on his forehead, but his pallor was far healthier than it had been five minutes ago.

“I’m going to help him back to camp,” Janna said, the tone of her voice brooking no room for argument. “He’s stable for now, but if he encounters any more darkspawn, he’s done for.”

“Andraste’s tits,” Daveth muttered. “As if we didn’t have enough to be worried about. Should have just put the poor guy out of his misery.”

“We’ll come with you,” Alistair said, a little too loudly, deliberately speaking over Daveth and shooting him a warning look.

Janna smiled gratefully. “Thank you.”

It took them about an hour to carry Aaron back to the gate. Janna propped him up the whole time, offering him generous swigs of healing draught and keeping his mind off the pain by chatting with him continuously. She asked him about his home, his family, his sweetheart. With each response, Alistair could see the fear dissipate from his shoulders.

The guards on duty looked stunned when they opened the gates.

“Maker’s breath–Aaron? Aaron, what happened?”

“Squad got jumped.” He replied, grimly. “I would have been off to the Maker with them, if it hadn’t been for the Wardens.”

“Thank you,” said one of the guards, his voice thick with gratitude.

Janna nodded in recognition. “We’d best be getting back to our own mission now. I will come to see you later, Aaron.”

“Andraste watch over you, Janna.” Aaron said, wincing as he leaned against one of the guards.

Janna turned back to the rolling hills of the wilds. “Thank you,” she said to the group, as the gates to camp closed behind them again. “I understand your reluctance to assist him, but I appreciate your help regardless.”

Daveth opened his mouth to retort something, but Jory punched his arm before he could get it out.

“You’re welcome,” he said. “It’s nice to see kindness isn’t completely abandoned in this desolate place.”

Janna turned back to them, and Alistair watched as an emotion he couldn’t quite place crossed her face, and then she smiled.

“Onwards, then?”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Alistair paced back and forth near the fire. The meeting seemed to be taking an age. He’d tried to lie in his tent and settle down for the night, but his heart was too heavy to sleep.

Two more were dead. Jory’s last words echoed through his ears.

There is no glory in this.

“The Light shall lead her safely, Through the paths of this world, and into the next,”

The words came almost subconsciously. Alistair knelt down by the fire and clasped his hands together, closing his eyes. He wasn’t one to pray much, not anymore, but he somehow always found himself reciting Transfigurations when there was cause for mourning.

“For she who trusts in the Maker, fire is her water. As the moth sees light and goes toward flame, She should see fire and go towards Light. The Veil holds no uncertainty for her, And she will know no fear of death, for the Maker Shall be her beacon and her shield, her foundation and her sword.”

Alistair finished the verse, its familiar lines settling over him like a blanket, comforting him, even if only for a moment. He stood, wiping away stray tears, and kicked a smouldering twig. He doubted he would ever get used to watching a joining. He wondered what they would tell Jory’s wife – widow.

He could only be grateful that Janna made it through. He would never, could never, celebrate the deaths of the others, but if there had to be only one survivor, he was glad it was her.

The moment they had got back from the Wilds, she had made a beeline for the Kennel Master and deposited a veritable mountain of flowers at his stunned feet; she had picked every single one she could find on their journey, and by the time they returned her pack was almost overflowing. After that, she marched to the infirmary to check on Aaron. The nurses and healers practically fell over themselves to thank her for her quick action. Alistair had watched her from a distance; once she had had a long talk with Aaron and left him to rest, she went round every other patient and helped the medical staff prepare ointments and poultices with the competence of someone who was definitely not new to the experience.

She is certainly a puzzle; he thought to himself. He had watched her cut down darkspawn with terrifying efficiency, and then find the body of a fallen soldier, recover his last will and testament, and insist on seeking out the hidden cache mentioned so that she could hopefully return it to his widow. Jory had been right. She was kind to her core, and that was very rare. War usually stripped kindness out of people before anything else. Janna seemed to be determined to hang onto hers until her last breath, probably to her own detriment.

And she did all of that with no fucking shoes on.

“Alistair!”

Her voice broke his train of thought, and he looked up to see her walking towards him, the rest of the attendees of the meeting going their separate ways behind her. He found himself smiling at her sudden appearance.

“All finished?”

Janna rolled her eyes. “Mercifully, yes. No thanks to Loghain or Cailan. We could have cut that time in half if they would stop clashing over literally everything. Now, I think I would like to settle down and have something to eat and then I am going to sleep for as long as possible. Tomorrow is going to be a very long day.”

“That can be arranged.” Alistair smiled.

They walked together to the food tent in comfortable silence. Once Janna had wolfed down two and half helpings of stew and a good-sized mug of ale, she looked up at him softly.

“Thank you,” she said. “For earlier. With Aaron. You didn’t have to help, but you did.”

“You don’t have to thank me,” Alistair replied, truthfully. “I’m just glad we could do something before it was too late.”

Janna reached out and took his hand, squeezing it appreciatively. “Still. I am grateful nonetheless. I will sleep a little easier tonight knowing we helped save his life. Especially after…” She tailed off, but Alistair knew she was referring to the joining.

As silence fell over the two of them, he bit his lip, and then seized his opportunity to both change the subject and answer his burning question.

“Look, I’m really sorry. But I can’t not ask. It’s been bothering me all day. And you don’t have to answer if you don’t want to,” he finished hurriedly, as Janna tensed up, probably preparing herself for something tasteless at best and racist at worst. “But… why on earth aren’t you wearing boots?”

Janna blinked at him, like it was taking time to actually process what he said. Then she looked under the bench, looked back up, repeated the action, and then groaned loudly and dropped her head into her arms.

“Sweet Ancestors, I cannot believe -”

“Fuck,” Alistair said, feeling laughter bubbling up from deep in his stomach. “You didn’t realise, did you?”

Janna shook her head, still face down. He could see the tips of her ears flushing deep red and desperately tried to stop the laughter from escaping, but it was no good; when Janna lifted her head with the look of someone who has never been more disappointed in themselves, he lost it.

“How in Andraste’s name can someone forget they’re not wearing shoes?”

“I am beyond humiliated.”

“I mean, I admit that makes me feel a little better,” said Alistair, shoulders still shaking with laughter. “At least I know you weren’t deliberately wading around barefoot in darkspawn blood.”

“When I… left Orzammar,” Janna said carefully, and the particular way she chose her words was not lost on Alistair, “my boots were damaged, and Duncan didn’t have any to hand that would fit a dwarf. When I got to Ostagar, everything happened so quickly, and I never had time to ask the quartermaster for a pair. Please don’t tell anyone. I have to maintain some level of reputation. If I strike fear into people’s hearts because they think it was on purpose, then so be it.”

“Well, your secret is safe with me, now that you’ve put my mind at rest,” replied Alistair, raising an eyebrow but otherwise leaving the explanation well alone for now. “Thank you. I can rest easy knowing our newest initiate is not a total barbarian.”

Janna chuckled into her ale, eyeing him impishly. “You never know. I might just creep up on you.”

#dragon age #dragon age: origins #alistair x warden #alistair x aeducan #alistair theirin #warden aeducan #dwarf warden

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crystalrequiem · 6 years

Text

Collateral [Part 2] [TRC Crime AU]

Hey ya’ll! Lookin for some con crit on this section in particular. also; as Win mentioned, Shuuichirou is awesome, and more people should appreciate Wish. Just sayin

Summary: Kurogane, a competent hitman for Yuuko’s organization has been tasked to eliminate Ashura of the gambling hall Celes. Unfortunately, some blond dealer from the gambling floor keeps getting in his way. He’ll have to find a way around, one way or another.

Tags: Kuro/Fai/Yuui, Non-magic AU, Crime/Mafia AU,

Warnings: moderate, slightly graphic injury, swearing, hitmen, gambling, eventual voyeurism, murder, questionable morality [ Part 1 ] [ Part 2 ] [ Part 3 ]

“Fancy meeting you here," the man teases, motioning for him to sit at a table just a little too short for either of them. The furrow in Kurogane’s brow digs deeper. He could play along, but that’s never been his style.

He takes the offered seat, tilts his “instrument case” forward for easy access.

“You’re the one who invited me, aren’t you?” he deadpans, watching the way pale hands twitch briefly with surprise.

“Ha! I suppose so.” The blond leans back in his chair, bringing his cup to his lips for a long sip. His single, piercing eye never drifts from Kurogane’s unmoving form. “Not going to order anything, then? It’s really no trouble. I could have them bring something over for you.” He sees what his opponent intends and reaches out to halt one pale wrist before the blond can wave to the counter. It’s a signal if he’s ever seen one, and he knows without a doubt now that he’s walked into some kind of trap.

Thank God, he thinks with only the slightest hint of guilt.

“I’m not thirsty.” The glare he earns for himself is brief, but vicious. Kurogane’s heart speeds in his chest, mouth threatening to quirk upwards. He pulls his opponent’s hand forward and down to the table’s surface with gloved fingers. “But I wouldn’t say no to a fight, if that’s what you’re aiming for.”

The blond tears his arm back and away, shoulders shaking with something like a laugh.

“You are absolutely terrible at this,” he announces, and Kurogane shrugs. He’s not wrong. Kurogane doesn’t do this kind of subtle dance—it’s not his forte. He’s a weapon. Yuuko points him in the right direction, and he cuts. Asking him to play spy is just begging for trouble. “Alright then, Mr. Honest, why are you following me?” He punctuates the question with a snap before Kurogane can stop him, and the store’s employees jump into motion. They finish the only order on the bar, start silently lowering the blinds and flicking the store sign to closed. The last customer bustles out with a nervous glance in their direction.

Kurogane figured the Celes had more going on than Yuuko knew, but this kind of coordinated scramble confirms it. He starts to say something glib, body tense and ready to spring into motion at the first hint of a fight. For all he knows, every employee in the room might have a gun at the ready, just waiting for him to make a move.

“You mean you don’t already know?” Kurogane muses, studying his opponent’s face for something—any kind of hint. The blond’s expression remains as cool and placid as a lake, though his fingers twitch once in irritation.

“Well, I know a few things. I know you work for the witch, for one,” hardly a difficult deduction. The butterfly pin on his lapel gives as much away to anyone who’s ever heard of Yuuko. Troublesome if it shows when he wants to go unnoticed, but useful enough to be worth it. Half the people in this town owe Yuuko one way or another. “You’re armed, terrible at information gathering. You’ve been showing up where you shouldn’t, fought me in the offices the other day, and then tried to follow me.”

Kurogane takes a moment to glance warily around the shop, wondering suddenly whether his opponent intends to use this exposition, make a scene and get him arrested. Unlikely. The last of the workers leaves with a tiny, nervous bow in the blond’s direction, shutting the door behind them. With the shutters down, the tiny shop is transformed to a perfect meeting place, hidden away from prying eyes.

“It’s obvious you want me dead. I just can’t figure out what I’ve done to offend the witch herself.” That’s… odd.

“You think I want to kill you?” Kurogane presses, already feeling like he somehow has the upper hand. Blondie might be a prodigy at knife fighting and he might have more allies than anyone had thought, but he doesn’t understand a damn thing. “You figured we wanted you dead, so you isolated yourself here with me; no witnesses, no backup, and no way to call for help,” blondie simply tilts his head in answer, that blue eye bright with challenge. “You are absolutely terrible at this,” he echoes, deeply satisfied by the annoyance he sees flicker briefly over his enemy’s delicate features.

“So, I’m not your target then?” Can’t hurt to tell him that. He’ll know soon enough if he leaves here alive, anyway.

“No,” Kurogane admits, increasingly amused. He watches the blond frown, slouching down to hazard another sip of coffee.

For a man convinced an assassin intended to kill him, he really shows very little concern. Is he suicidal, or just arrogant? Kurogane wonders.

“Thievery then. You wanted our business records? Maybe you’re following me now because you think I can be bribed? Or could it be that you intended to get to…” The blond trails away, his expression closing off in time with his voice. Ah. Perhaps he realizes.

“Who can say?” Kurogane barely has the time to tease. Finally, finally, the asshole makes a move.

Hot coffee flies toward his face in a wave as those pale fingers dart for a slim waist. He hadn’t been fast enough to react last time, but he knows better now. He’s been waiting for this. His blood thunders in his ears as he dodges back and away. He’s moving before he makes the conscious decision to do so, slamming his chair sideways and sending it skidding across the floor. His blade slides free from its hidden compartment with a satisfying, familiar sound, catching the first knife just before it can find a home in his chest.

“I owe you for the other night,” he crows. The healing wound in his arm protests every swing as he deflects blade after blade, but it only spurs him on. Twenty stitches and a new damn shirt. He intends to make the bastard pay.

The blond is good, but not good enough without the benefit of surprise. He runs out of thrown weapons soon enough and eventually resorts to fighting up close with a wicked looking knife. An intimidating weapon, but he won’t stand a chance against Kurogane’s blade.

“Who is it,” his opponent hisses, entirely transformed from the laughing, controlled man who’d been seated languidly before him just moments earlier. “Who does the witch want?”

Kurogane knows better than to answer. Honestly though, he doesn’t know if he could. Shorter blade or no, the dealer fights like a man possessed. He’s entirely different from the joking, carefree thing facing him down in the moonlight of Celes’s offices. Kurogane shouldn’t have any trouble sweeping in and landing a decisive blow, but the blond makes it impossible. He moves like water, flows around Kurogane and his swings, slips under his arms and pulls him in closer so that Kurogane has to keep spinning away. Even if he tries to take advantage of what he knows must be a significant blind spot on the man’s left, he can’t land a hit. It’s frustrating. Fascinating.

But… it can’t last forever. When it comes down to the wire, Kurogane just has more experience.

He moves for an overhead strike, anticipating the easy way the enemy fighter catches his blade on the downswing and steps away from it. When the blond pivots to take advantage of the opening Kurogane leaves, he sweeps out with his ankle and kicks the café table hard, landing a solid hit and knocking his opponent to the ground.

“Cheat!” the man wheezes, sounding for just a second like the playful creature Kurogane had met once before. It doesn’t last. His features harden, and he rolls away from the axe kick Kurogane intends to meet with his chest. Even downed, the dealer is a ferocious thing. He rolls like a fool and strikes out at whatever part of Kurogane he can reach, always searching for an opening to stand. He manages to nick the fronts of Kurogane’s shins and tear his pants to ribbons at the ankles. Goddamnit that’s a whole suit the bastard owes him now.

“Lay the fuck still!” He finds himself growling as he finally, finally manages to press the edge of his steel to his enemy’s gasping throat. He knows better than to let his guard down, even with his opponent seemingly bested, and a good thing too. That eye stares defiantly up, unflinching as he keeps moving, uncaring of the sword biting into his neck. His wrist darts forward, ready to plunge his knife up and into the back of Kurogane’s knee.

A death wish. This asshole has a fucking death wish, Kurogane decides. Acting as quickly as he can, he somehow avoids slicing into the dumbass’s carotid as he shifts all his weight to one leg. Swiveling uncomfortably, he slams his heel down on the man’s wrist with enough force to break it. The blade clatters behind them across the floor as its owner gasps with pain.

Great. He’s finally got the guy at his mercy, but it doesn’t feel like much of a victory. He’d had to fight too hard for it, his shins remind him, smarting and wet with his own blood. Besides, he doesn’t even know what he’s supposed to do now. He’s not supposed to kill the guy.

He bends down, considering. He keeps his left knee firmly on that troublesome right arm, doesn’t let his blade drift too far from his enemy’s sluggishly bleeding neck.

“No way I’m just gonna threaten a guy like you off work, huh?” He thinks out loud to himself, and the dealer laughs. No, probably not. A guy like this, who’d cut his own neck to land a good knife hit? If he wasn’t waiting for death, he was certainly stubborn in the face of it. Well, there’s really only one good way to go from here. He’ll have to try to put the guy out of commission. He can’t threaten him away, but at least he can make the asshole less of a threat in the future. It just… feels kind of cheap.

Well…. The guy’s a card dealer, right? Broke one of his wrists already. Ruining the other hand shouldn’t be too difficult. No reason to make it more painful than it has to be though.

“Next time,” he finds himself chiding, pulling his weapon away and twisting it up towards the ceiling. His quarry starts to struggle as soon as the steel moves more than a few inches from his neck, but Kurogane has all the control here. “don’t underestimate me.” He brings the hilt of his blade down on the man’s temple, hard. However surprising his fighting skills, the blond passes out just like any other person.

Kurogane sighs deeply as he sheathes his sword and pushes himself up and away with a sense of loss. He’d had a lot of fun with that fight, up until the end. How much more interesting could it have been if blondie had seen fit to call for backup, or play it cautious?

He rifles through the enemy’s pockets, all too aware that any of the shop’s workers could very well have called the police by now. He keeps the small wallet he finds, collects the thrown daggers and the impressive knife from around the room, rights as many tables and chairs as he can, and then turns back to his fallen foe. He hates this, but…. Business is business.

The man keeps his daggers sharp, Kurogane muses as he drives one all the way through the muscle and bone of the dealer’s left hand, straight into the floor. He wakes briefly to scream, before the pain pulls him back under. Damn. He’d been hoping the concussion would keep him asleep. (Kurogane is an assassin, not a sadist.) He pulls himself back up, collects his coat… and starts toward the back entrance.

He can do this. He can leave the guy here. It’s not his problem.

Except… wasn’t the whole point of not killing anyone supposed to be to limit police presence? When those shopkeepers come back and find the place like this, they’ll call the authorities for certain. Besides, what if he’d fucked up and given the man brain damage or something? He might die anyway and then all of this would be for nothing.

God damn it, he repeats on a loop in his head like a mantra, hurrying back to pick up his enemy’s broken form. He reaches over and pulls the dagger back out of that hand, wincing as he listens to another pained moan. Nothing he can do for it now—what’s done is done. He makes certain no hidden weapons remain at the man’s waist and tosses him over one shoulder. He steps out the back entrance and into an ally to the tune of police sirens, cursing all the way.

Of course, it’s far too much to hope that any ID in the blond’s wallet might be real. He finds no less than four drivers’ licenses and five credit cards, all under four different names and all registered to various addresses. He could try to set an informant out at each one just in case, but he doesn’t see much of a point.

“Okay, let me get this straight,” Kudou grouches for the third time. “You beat the man badly enough he won’t be able to work, and then you brought him to me because…?”

“Well, I didn’t want him dead.” He tries to protest. He thumbs through the wallet again, annoyed by the lack of consistency. The only element his mysterious opponent keeps among identities is the middle initial “D.” Hardly a name he can investigate. He memorizes all four names though, just in case. “I wound up hitting him pretty hard there at the end, and it’s not like I’m used to trying to keep people alive when I bash them in the skull, so I wasn’t sure. Besides, now that I think of it, I might have broken or at least bruised a rib or two when I threw that table in his chest…”

“Right. Wouldn’t it have been easier for you to drop him off at the hospital?” The doctor protests, but he moves to unbutton the blond’s shirt nonetheless.

You should just cut the thing off, Kurogane thinks vindictively. Bastard owes him a shirt. Unfortunately, Kudou has no trouble removing the button-down, and he catches sight of the swiftly purpling skin painted across the stranger's side. Ouch. Kurogane might feel a little sorrier for it if he didn’t think he might need to come back for stitches in his shins to match his arm later tonight.

"You're kidding, right? Someone like me can't just go to the hospital. The minute I dropped him off, there'd be police looking for me."

"Hasn't stopped you before," Kudou mumbles below his breath. He presses gently at the exposed line of Blondie’s ribs, probably looking for a break. Kurogane watches him move, unwilling to admit to the apprehension he feels when the doctor presses a stethoscope worriedly to the blond’s chest. He shakes his head and carefully maneuvers the unconscious body into a forward-leaning position.

Kurogane loses his breath, just for a moment, when he catches sight of the tattoo patterned down the length of the man’s back. Well if he ever had any doubts that this man worked for Ashura, they evaporate. The bird twists, burning up his spine, spilling forward to wrap around his upper arms. It’s a shame something so beautiful should represent such an ugly tie.

He’s lucky Yuuko just asks them to wear the pin.

"I need another roll of bandages," Kudou asks once they’ve both recovered enough to get their wits back. Kurogane shakes his head and turns away from the sprawling ink, trying to put it out of his mind.

“I’m not your damn nurse,” he grumps, but Kudou's brief glance of annoyed disappointment sends him trudging for the room’s cabinets anyway. "Fine, here." He tosses one roll toward the doctor and keeps a second for himself. Determined to get his mind off Ashura’s man, he sets to rolling up his ragged pant legs, wiping the blood away from his shoes and wrapping white fabric clumsily over the knife wounds there. He’s not sure it does him any good.

Truthfully, he should ask for help, but Kudou doesn’t owe him. He's in Yuuko's debt only. Besides, the doctor would make him sit still long enough to properly treat the thing, and neither of them can afford that. He needs to be out of here before blondie wakes up, or he risks putting Kudou in danger.

In fact… now that he thinks of it, he's already putting Kudou in danger. If anyone from Celes finds out Kudou and Yuuko have a deal....

"Look," Kudou starts, only to pause as he catches sight of Kurogane's poor bandaging attempts. He opens his mouth to comment, thinks better of it, and shakes his head. "I owe Yuuko, so I haven't got much choice, but you can't just drop your mistakes off at my doorstep--"

"I didn't," Kurogane protests blankly, tying his attempted bandages off with a knot just this side of too tight. He pockets the bandage roll without asking.

"Kurogane, you most certainly did--"

"I didn't drop him off. A good Samaritan found him and took him over. You have no idea what happened to him." Kurogane coaches. Kudou takes a deep breath, sighs out through his nose, and rubs at the space between his eyes. "You’ve never met Yuuko. You don't know a thing about him. Here's his wallet, but no, he wasn't found with anything else." He tosses the unhelpful thing on the counter behind himself and stands to leave.

Kudou manages to catch him before he gets the door open,

“I’m not holding him here for you. Whatever you intend, it’s no concern of mine.”

“I’m not asking you to involve yourself!” He’s almost offended at the suggestion. Sure, if the asshole was strapped down to a hospital bed on doctors’ orders, it’d make his job easier, but if he’d wanted that he really would have found a way to get the guy to the hospital. No sense making people think Kudou was acting on his behalf. “Just—make sure he won’t die, and send him off, or whatever.”

Send him off… send him home… Kurogane’s mind lets the thought sit, cycles through it.

Actually… this diversion might prove more useful than he thought. If he can figure out where the guy lives...

“Anyway, I’m out of here before the asshole wakes up. You never saw me, got it?” He doesn’t wait for Kudou’s acknowledgement before he tears out the door and back towards the backdoor of the clinic. He has to duck into the bathroom to avoid being spotted by a nurse, but he’s not completely terrible at his job. He makes it out. Doesn’t even track any blood on the floor, thanks to his admittedly poor bandaging attempt.

Obviously, Kurogane can't wait around outside and follow the mystery man. The guy’s too keyed into Kurogane's presence by now. But maybe if he's nursing those injuries and limping home, he might let his guard down enough for someone else to keep an eye out. And without his knives, anyone he assigns shouldn’t face too much danger...

By the time he turns the corner and makes his way down the block, his phone is already at his ear.

“Hey kid,” he mumbles, “got a task for you. There’s someone I need you to tail…”

#fanfic #kurofaiyuui #tsubasa reservoir chronicle #ot3 #crime AU

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themostrandomfandom · 7 years

Note

Hi, JJ! In the last question you answered, you said that Brittany has "very distinctive speech patterns", could you maybe give me an example or something? I just didn't get that completely.

Hey, @thisisnotourparadise!

So as my good friend @littleoases just talked about in this very illuminating post, when it comes to dialogue and speech patterns,

The way a character speaks can encompass their whole world view, their personality, their power dynamics with other people, etc.

When done right, the way a character speaks tells you a lot about who they are and how they function, to the point where, even with an ensemble cast, you should be able to tell which character said what, even just reading the dialogue sans markers on the page.

While Glee did more things wrong writing-wise than I can count, one thing they were at least fairly consistent about was writing characters in their own distinctive voices, so that Rachel always sounds like Rachel, Puck always sounds like Puck, and Brittany always sounds like Brittany, and they are not easily mistakable for one another.

Consider, for example, how it would sound if each of the three characters mentioned above were to express displeasure with Mr. Schue over his song selection for a competition.

Try to guess which character is which:

“Dude, these songs are all older than my grandpa! I’m sick of singing this lameass weeny-rock crap!”

“Um, Mr. Schue? Is Journey the only band you know?”

“Mr. Schue, while I applaud your dedication to this artist, I remind you that the judges will be looking for variation and range. While I don’t know that my teammates will be up to the challenge, I can perform Ms. Streisand’s ‘Lost in Wonderland’ as a solo—”

If my approximations were good enough, it should be pretty easy to tell, right?

That’s because each character has particular markers which are unique to them—a specific type of vocabulary they tend to use, verbal tics that are unique to them, a cadence to their sentences that is all their own.

Of course, the three characters I chose for this little exercise are three of the most verbally distinctive characters on Glee. No one is going to be as crass as Puck, as deadpan as Brittany, or as sanctimonious as Rachel. There are certainly other characters such as, say, Finn Hudson and Sam Evans, who would be harder to tell apart.

So, all of this said, Brittany has a lot of things that make her speech distinctive.

We’ll hit her markers after the cut.

___________

First, her vocabulary. Brittany is the Queen of the Malaprop, meaning that she is prone to mistakenly using situationally incorrect words in place of the similar sounding, situationally correct ones, often to an amusing effect (e.g. “ouevre” vs. “Louvre,” “duvet” vs. “duet”). Regardless of whether or not one believes she uses malapropisms intentionally, the fact is that this verbal tic is uniquely her, and, nine times out of ten, when someone on Glee is using the wrong word in a way that would be pretty clever if it were right, it’s Brittany.

Second, her use of filler words. In linguistics, a filler is a sound or word that is spoken in conversation to signal to others a pause to think without giving the impression of having finished speaking. Every known language has them, including nonverbal languages like ASL. In English, common fillers include “um,” “uh,” “like,” “you know,” “I mean,” “okay,” “so,” etc. While every character on Glee occasionally uses filler words, Brittany tends to use a lot of them, which can oftentimes give her speech a sort of halting cadence. Her favorite fillers are “um,” “like,” and “so,” and she tends to use them more when she’s nervous.

Third, her use of Valleyspeak. Valleyspeak is essentially a dialect of American English. Though it originated in SoCal during the 70s, it soon became synonymous with the speech patterns of preppy white girls all across the country. Even if you’ve never heard it referred to by name, you know what this kind of talk sounds like because it’s how every cool, bitchy older sister character and ditzy popular girl talked in the kids cartoons and teen movies of the 1990s. Its hallmark is frequent use of the word “like,” plus slang phrases like “grody” and “gag me with a spoon.” Brittany talks like the quintessential Valley Girl, both because the Glee writers were trying to mark her as the stereotypical dumb blonde cheerleader and because, frankly, that’s kind of how Heather Morris—who grew up in the 90s when Valleyspeak was a fad—naturally speaks. One of Brittany’s catchphrases, “Gross,” is Valleyspeak, but perhaps her most interesting and telling Valleyspeak marker is the use of what linguists refer to as “high terminal rising” or an “upswing,” which means that she ends declarative statements with a rising intonation, which makes it sound as if she’s asking a question even when she’s not. Listen for that kind of lilt in Brittany’s speech, that little lift on the end of her sentences, and you’ll hear it. Again, while other characters on Glee occasionally use this speech marker, it is a regular feature in her dialogue, more so than with the rest.

Fourth, the cadence of her speech. Particularly when she’s nervous, Brittany tends to speed up the start of her sentences and jam a lot of words in, then slow down towards the end. As stated above, she sometimes speaks haltingly, with little starts and stops and speeds and slows. Obviously, it is difficult to describe this trait—or even to write it out in fic dialogue—but it’s another thing where, if you listen to Brittany, you’ll catch it.

Fifth, her deadpan. Just like Brittany is the Queen of the Malaprop, she is also the Queen of the Deadpan. When she is not using her upswing, she tends to speak fairly flatly, and that flatness often couples with her making sardonic jokes. One of the reasons that almost no one on the show but Santana understands Brittany’s sense of humor is because she says madcap things completely impassively, with a blank face, serious voice, and no obvious tells that she is trying to be funny. She’s so successful, they think she’s serious, but the truth is that the more straight-faced and monotone Brittany is while saying something zany, the more likely that it is that she is being a troll.

There’s really no one else who sounds like Brittany, which makes her voice both simultaneously easy and difficult to write in fanfiction.

Trying to translate her canonical speech patterns into nineteenth century circus speech for TKTD was challenging at times, let me tell you.

So in reference to the previous question, what I meant when I said that Alma should recognize Brittany based on her distinctive speech patterns if she has ever talked to her before is that even if Alma weren’t to remember what Brittany looked like, the second Brittany started talking, she should have gone, “Wait. It’s that girl who uses the wrong words and who talks like she’s asking questions all the time. I’ve heard this kind of talk before.”

There’s nobody who sounds like Brittany—and especially when Brittany is being her glib, trolly self, as she is when she shows up at Alma’s house.

Hope this response helps! Thanks for the question.

#Crazy Brittanalyst answers #thisisnotourparadise #---and for those of you playing at home:#the first dialogue is Puck; the second is Brittany; and the third is Rachel

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meredoubt · 7 years

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Listen. I don’t have time to feel guilty about this. Life’s too short to feel bad about writing extremely self-indulgent mobile game lesbians on a whim. It hasn’t been edited by anyone so all my worst habits have gone woefully unchallenged. I can put it up on ao3 if that makes it easier for people to read if you, for some reason...want to do that.

Nadia/Kashmir. 2,300 words (shut up). I would say...PG-13? I’m an adult who is very, very bad at self-rating. There’s some Heat and you definitely know stuff happens. Let me know if you feel I should change the rating.

Kashmir knew they were the recipient of unparalleled luck, to have a master as famously strange as Asra.

His reputation for oddity allowed them to ply their craft like nothing else-and an easy majority of magic was how far you were willing to roll your bluff against dangerous winds. So they counted on it, and the universe in her fickle affection usually saw fit to richly reward a fortune-teller’s faith.

But they’d begun to wonder if they were pushing it. Kashmir did not wonder this often, yet it stirred uneasily now, as they flit between rooms. The sound of their boots upon the marble was drowned out by the kitchen staff cleaning up after the evening meal, and they took the opportunity to take the back stairwell two steps at a time.

The court (for the shitheel Consul was only the start) hated their audacity, yet had found it’s ammunition had no barbs and no purchase. How could it, against any apprentice who’d studied under the tutelage of Asra, who everyone knew could be so very, very strange? Magicians were all odd to begin with, even the most mundane ones-and that, Kashmir was not.

It never occurred to anyone that maybe magicians knew public opinion, and clever ones might use it towards dubious purpose.

Hadn’t, Kashmir had now explained repeatedly, Asra simply never taught them what not to do, about a great many things that would have occurred to most? How could they know the order of nobility-tier cutlery? Or how to properly address the primary barrister of the financial branch’s dealings? Or to the point that had drawn the court’s collective ire: how should an upstanding and appropriately modest citizen behave while in the company of a widowed Countess?

Specifically, Kashmir knew with a sharp grin to no one, the concern of all these sycophants was how they definitely should not. Seemed like what anyone should not do was be a fortune teller, or at least not this one.

But still they hesitated now, hand on the doorknob that would let them into Nadia’s wing of the palace. They glanced at the mirror beside the door, tried to rearrange their dark hair to something more attractive.

The memory excuses, the reliance on the ignorance they’d been dealt by inexperience, could only stretch so far. Some days, the magic came to you. But on the days it didn’t, you still needed to buy food, and so you’d get good at judging people’s limits.

Otherwise, Kashmir could never have gotten away with this. They opened the door, and went through.

“This” had started with kissing Nadia on the bridge where she’d first met her husband, those goosebumps on Nadia’s bare skin even as she’d leaned over them. She’d been so daring, until their lips had warmed those shoulders and, in a feeling that Kashmir would never forget, she’d shivered under their mouth.

Now...well, now they’d complicated it. It included all sorts of things.

Nadia’s hair getting in their mouth all the time, for one. With her attentions came Portia’s passes at a threat; and the heart stopping moment as Nadia had stumbled on one of their walks, her face suddenly pained and her eyes distant. It included hands, every moment they could, hands. Kashmir was infatuated with Nadia’s hands, and if the way she leaned into their touch was any indication, Nadia felt the same. They behaved themselves-mostly innocent if always scandalous. But under the right circumstances, Nadia’s fingers lightly scratching and soothing upon their knee had made more than a few meals a test.

It included Nadia’s delighted laughs, her smiles that were not calculated for effect or audience. It included whispers in the afternoon as they lay in shaded rooms with windows open-Kashmir fancifully constructing memories for them as Nadia told them to hush, her voice betraying some emotion Kashmir wasn’t really able to handle. They’d always been a little too glib, Asra’d said, and they suspected whatever had triggered the memory loss hadn’t engendered a propensity for seriousness or self-reflection.

Probably the most scandalous thing of all, Kashmir thought derisively, was that they had the gall to seek out Nadia’s presence for itself. Monsters, all of the courtiers-but ones they had to play with to get to the bottom of what was going on.

Kashmir rounded the corner, ducking into their usual balcony.

They had begun ending their days together here, as dusk turned the Vesuvian ocean from bright turquoise to a deep purple velvet. It had become more difficult to spend every waking moment together, as they’d like to do. Kashmir’s investigations had begun taking them increasingly into the less desirable parts of the city, following the cards and the occasional mishap with Julian, and Nadia was tasked with the weight of governing, after all. Knowing the adult reasons why-and why some distance was probably better for them until things were resolved-didn’t stop the pangs of deep frustration at the frequent separation.

Kashmir didn’t remember, but they were certain they’d never been plagued like this before. It was mind boggling how anyone could get anything done in such a state. They were driven to distraction by Nadia.

Even now, as they came upon her at their table, their stomach flipped over. Her brow was furrowed as she ignored their arrival in favour of focusing on whatever boring trade document sat in front of her. Nadia’s legs were curled up beneath her, a light shawl wrapped around her that glittered even in the waning light. Kashmir paused in the doorway, their warm palm resting on the cool marble pillar. In the rare still moments, they were content to drink in the sight of her.

“You gaze is unusually bold tonight, witch,” Nadia stated, fondness creeping into her voice. She hadn’t raised her eyes from the papers in front of her.

Kashmir startled slightly, eyes catching on Nadia’s fingers, trailing in the condensation her chilled drink had left on the table. Impossibly, they rallied and sauntered over. She did not look up at the perfunctory kiss they placed upon her hair, nor the teasing fingers light at the edge of her shawl. Their mouth twisted wryly as they straightened. Perhaps the documents were not so boring after all. Glancing down, they could glean nothing from them.

“Apologies, milady,” they said pointedly, “I admit-I’m not very well house trained.” The filigreed chair was a relief after a day spent stalking the streets, and they stretched out their legs with a contented sigh.

Nadia glanced up, her gaze serious. “Are you feeling well?” she asked quietly.

Kashmir felt something clench in their chest. They cleared their throat.

“...yes,” they answered shortly, before something in them softened. “And you, darling? No headaches?”

Even in the beginnings of twilight, Nadia’s blush bloomed across her cheeks. Intoxicating. “I am well enough,” she said evenly, shifting.

Kashmir felt the telltale pressure of a leg pressing, sliding against their calf. “I can see that,” they deadpanned. Ignoring the pulse of excitement-barely stirrings, but there nonetheless-that had begun under their skin, they rolled their neck. A satisfying crack was audible enough that Nadia tsk’d. “But that doesn’t quite answer my question, I suspect.”

Nadia paused for the slightest fraction of a moment-but it was enough. Kashmir reached a hand across the table, where it found her’s. “How bad?” they asked in a low voice.

The Countess sighed, leaning on her other hand. “It was...difficult. But it passed, as it always does.”

They smiled at her. “Somehow, I’m not surprised. But...”

She fixed them with a surprisingly sharp look for their hesitation. “Yes, my love?”

Silence hung for a moment, as it so often did when one of them had the world break their perceptions for a second. It wasn’t often, but it was often enough. The strange thing was it would hit randomly-for an instant, they would feel the divide.

They managed.

“You look like it’s been a long day. That’s all,” Kashmir finished too casually. Their eyes caught on movement. Sharply, they called,“Hello…?”

“I’m sure it’s just Portia, dear.”

The Countess was right-the redhead appeared at the pillars they’d entered through.

“Didn’t mean to scare you!” she exclaimed, smiling apologetically. “I’ve always been a quiet one when I’m not thinking about it.”

“Lies,” Nadia accused, laughing behind her free hand. Portia beamed.

They felt a mix of things when she winked at them, and brought the wine forward, chatting with Nadia. She seemed frazzled, but in her usual good cheer. It was almost worth their heart hammering to see how Nadia eased when Portia was around. Almost.

They watched the servant carefully, saying nothing.

It wasn’t that they disliked or particularly distrusted Portia. Quite the opposite, in fact-she was a welcoming, kind soul, and when she was hired meant she was probably one of the safest people in the castle. It certainly made it unlikely the small woman was the Count’s murderer.

The problems were thrice: one, they couldn’t just overlook that she was Julian’s sister. His frequent appearances were a keg waiting to blow, even aside from being a murder suspect. Sure, Kashmir leaned towards him not being the murderer-an outsider and plague doctor who happened to be present when the fire started was a pretty good scapegoat. But that didn’t mean the siblings were in the clear, and Portia constantly being at the side of the woman who wanted her brother dead was, to put it lightly, a concern.

Two? They couldn’t shake the feeling that she was keeping her knowledge of their nighttime fountain excursions to herself for leverage. Whenever Nadia clasped the beautiful necklace around their neck, it felt much heavier than it was, and Kashmir didn’t know if they’d ever forgive Portia for that.

Lastly-and this was perhaps a pet peeve more than anything concrete-she was always damnably lurking.

They were fond of Portia, or Pasha, or whatever she went by-but the most powerful man in Vesuvia was probably burned alive. No one was safe-and Nadia was right here at the top, alone.

To be fair, they thought dourly, eyeing their glass, it wasn’t like Portia was doing anything they weren’t also doing. Kashmir downed their wine.

Their mood must have been noticed-when they glanced up, Nadia’s smile hadn’t slipped but her eyes were on them with a curious glint. Well, they’d have to answer the questions those eyes asked eventually, Kashmir supposed.

“I believe I’m done for the evening, ladies,” they said, putting the glass down and sighing. They winced as they got to their feet and every muscle protested. Damn Julian and his escapades. And Asra’s vague mysteries. Lucio too, if they were going to be an ass.

“Already?” Portia asked in surprise. “The night hasn’t even gotten to me regaling you both with a bawdy song yet.”

Kashmir smirked. “Another night, I think. But this old magician needs to collapse.”

“You’re younger than me,” Nadia interjected archly, though her mouth hid a smile in it’s corner. Underneath the exhaustion, some thrumming part of Kashmir woke back up. That curve upon those lips-that was their chance.

“I’m sure you know yourself best, darling. As for me, I would never dream of telling a beautiful Countess when to retire for the evening,” Kashmir laughed, bowing outrageously. Head still bowed, they offered quietly, “I might ask, though.”

Portia made a sound that was half a gasp, half a strangled laugh. Kashmir bit their lip, and kept their face down.

Nadia made a pleased, considering sound. Her jeweled fingers entered Kashmir’s view, and caressed their jaw. “Very well done. Very pretty,” she hummed approvingly.

Kashmir made an agreeing sound without thought, their eyes fluttering slightly under Nadia’s attention. When she gently pulled them upright with hands on their shoulders, they struggled to blink out of the daze, hoping they didn’t look foolish.

Her expression was warm, and either the wine or the boldness had brought a flush to the Countess’ cheeks. Drawing her hands back to herself, twisting in her shawl, she declared evenly, “I believe we won’t be requiring your services for the remainder of the evening, Portia.”

From...somewhere, Kashmir heard an affirmative, amused answer. They didn’t know if she left-they were absolutely transfixed by Nadia. Her eyes upon them felt like they were blazing a path of fire down their skin-a path they hoped she would follow with more than promise.

“Bet my gaze is very bold now,” they teased, pressing forward until they could feel the heat from her body in the space between them. Just far enough apart that they weren’t technically breaking any rules, but close enough that they would certainly scandalize someone if they saw. Without touch, Kashmir and Nadia could know each other in the middle of court at noon.

Perhaps there was some truth to the courtiers’ incessant gossiping.

Nadia laughed. Her heated breath was close enough to a kiss that it sent Kashmir’s head spinning. “On the verge of treasonous, my love. There’s a certain...hunger in your eyes. It’s very becoming.”

There was a tense pause, before Kashmir couldn’t stand it a second longer. Their hands went to her waist in an instant, pulling her flush with them.

Nadia whimpered when they kissed her, more suddenly then she apparently had anticipated. The heady feeling of surprising her sent a spark of heat through Kashmir that only fueled them further. They were insolent, teasing with tongue, with roving hands, under the open night sky for as long as she let them. It was just how they wanted it, just like them. And for awhile, Nadia let them devour her-she certainly enjoyed it.

But eventually they made their way inside, towards someone’s bed, unto satin and silks, though Kashmir would never be able to tell how. Nadia always got her way in the end.

#the arcana #nadia #snark plays the arcana #i am...so very very sorry for mobile users. i accept all hexes and bad words u feel in your heart towards me.

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missmungoe · 7 years

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Ah, I love this prompt ♡ Here's a bouquet: Daylily, Quince and Sweet pea for Makino/Shanks.

SOWING SMALL SEEDS // Shanks x Makino // daylily; coquetry, quince; temptation, sweet pea; delicate pleasures

It’seasy to believe he’s the most obvious flirt.

Oh,he’s obvious, make no mistake –affections honest to the point of shameless, and he makes no effort to temperhis appreciation. And he knows how to make her blush like he knows how to makeher laugh, and the combination of the two usually leaves him feeling like he’sknocked back a shot that’s gone straight to his head. But then she has that effect.

And she’snot shameless in any sense of the word, but that doesn’t mean she’s any lessobvious, her face too open to be convincingly coy, and her expression lettingslip just about everything. And if there was any doubt left about what she’sthinking, the roses spreading across her throat and cheeks is evidenceenough.

“Shewants me,” he tells Ben, with a dramatic sigh, lifting his glass to his lips. “It’sobvious.”

“She’syour wife,” Ben points out, and Shanks grins.

“Besidethe point.”

Benshakes his head. “You’re an embarrassment.”

“Hey, she’s the one givingme bedroom eyes! And not subtly, either.”

“You would know,” Ben says, cutting him a look. “Nothing about you is subtle.”

“Ihave been told I have something of a presence, yes.”

“Iwas referring to the hair, but sure,” Ben muses. “Let’s go with that.”

“Youwish you had my hair,” Shanks counters.

“Everyday,” Ben deadpans, not missing a beat.

Shankslifts his glass, salute punctuated by a cheeky grin. “Always knew it.”

Tippingit back, his eyes seek hers across the room – finds them dark and inviting, andthe warmth that drops into his gut has little to do with the drink.

He holds her gaze as she makes the rounds, weaving between tables with an easethat doesn’t require her full attention, land legs sure and steady; a captain in her own right, no ship under her feet but her authority a fact. And her attention she reserves for him, and the promise in hereyes makes the air in the room seem heavier, the muted babel pushed to the farcorners, leaving a vacuum where it’s difficult to remember that there’s morethan just the two of them present.

“Well,”Yasopp speaks up, after a lengthy pause, and the vacuum yields – like the roomitself heaves for breath. “I’m calling it a night, before Boss drops his pants.”

Hegets a crude gesture for that, but Shanks doesn’t drop his eyes from Makino,making her way over to the bar now. He tucks his grin behind the rim of his glass.“Don’t tempt me, Curly. I just might.”

“Whosepants are dropping?” Makino asks, stepping up to where they’re sitting. Shetakes one look at his shorts, gaze lingering a beat on the cheerful floralprint, before she’s lifted them back to his. “Is it too much to hope it’syours?”

Shankschokes on his drink, and Yasopp barks a laugh. “For all our sakes, Ma-chan, atleast wait until we’re out the door.”

“Nopromises,” Shanks coughs, the burn of the drink having cinched his throattight, but it’s a feat keeping his grin off, and when she passes him by hertouch remains longer than she does, fingertips sketching, light and meaningfulacross the back of his neck.

Hecatches Yasopp’s mutter about honeymoonought to be over by now, and sticks his tongue out. Ben hides his grin behind his glass.

Thehour creeps beyond Makino’s closing hours, and the room clears, little by little.Shanks retreats to check on the baby – finds him asleep, breaths heavy, andnone of his own worries to wear on that little heart. And it’s almost too easyto lose himself, watching him sleep; easy to forget, all his worries and burdens,under the spell of those soft breaths.

It’seasy – like it’s easy to forget when he’s home, that there’s a sea beyond theport. And it’s impossible to forget, when he’s gone, that he has made a homehere, with all that entails.

Re-enteringthe common room, it’s to find the others having taken their leave, and then it’sjust the two of them, a bottle of scotch on the counter between them, and herlaughter takes on a different quality – that soft, breathless thing that’saccompanied by the curl of her toes where she’s kicked off her shoes, and she’sdragged her stool so close there’s no part of them that’s not touching.

“Thoseglasses are still going to be dirty tomorrow at this rate,” Shanks muses. “Andyou used to be such a stickler for routines. I can remember a time you wouldn’teven kiss me before you’d mopped the floor.”

Thenudge of her leg offers a soft reprimand, and he catches it, running his thumbover the arch of her knee, seeking bare skin. A different creature now, twoglasses into the bottle and with privacy a fact, she doesn’t bat his hand awaywhen he pushes her skirt up, and the gleam in her eyes chases the years off hisback, off his heart.

“Ihaven’t seen you in three months,” she reminds him. “The glasses can wait.”

“Yousure? This place might go under if you do.”

Shepinches his thigh for that, and he catches her hand – traps her fingers betweenhis, to tug her knuckles close for a kiss, and nips at her fingers when shetugs at his beard in retaliation. “Although while we’re on the subject of the past threemonths, I’d like to remind you that Isuggested a quickie when I walked off the ship earlier,” he says, browslifting. “You’re the one who didn’t take me up on the offer. Regretting thatnow, are we?”

“You,” Makino laughs, and the word holdstoo many things to count – an endearment, a fond reproach, contentment and thatsoft disbelief, as though he can still surprise her. “Sometimes I find it hardto believe you’re almost forty,” she says. “Twelve years, and you haven’tchanged one bit.”

Before he can offer a comeback to that, preferably something glib, she tiltsher head an adds, flicking her eyes low, “Well. Your dress-sense used to be alittle more discreet.”

“Stillon me about the pants,” Shanks sighs. Then, brow raised in challenge, “You’re welcometo take them off, you know. No one’s stopping you.”

Hehears her hum, and catches the downwards direction of her gaze, openly boldnow, and in a way that makes his grin stretch, unabashedly pleased. Then –“Thatpattern is stopping me,” she quips, dark eyes bright with laughter when hechokes in outrage. “But if you remove them, I might change my tune.”

Heshakes his head, but his heart feels light with her presence, and when hetightens his grip on her thigh she shifts closer, small shape seeking his.

Andfor all her claims to the opposite, he has changed, Shanks thinks, watchingher. There’s little of his old restlessness left, and he wonders if she’s feltit – if it’s as obvious as the rest of him, that it’s not the sea his heartseeks now, for rest.

She’snever asked him to stay, and he doubts she ever will, although looking at hernow, fingertips tracing the pattern on his shorts, almost absently, he has the sudden thought that he wouldn’t mind if she did.

Becausehe wants this, he realises – the little things that are his. Their son sleeping, and abottle shared between them. Little, intimate pleasures; small hands that never strayfar from where he is, and her gentle humour, the one that can so easily be wicked as entirelyinnocent. And they might be married and entirely too obvious, but that she canstill catch him off guard with the latter is a marvel, and anything but a given.

Thenudge of her glass against his own yields a tender sound, and, “I’ve missedyou,” Makino says softly. And it’s the closest she’ll come, Shanks knows, totelling him that she wishes he’d stay longer – that he’d stay.

Heknows the answer he’d like to give her, but it’s in the scars that he feels theonly answer he can give, although he’s never been moretempted to be selfish and choose the former, Teach and the New World be damned. And she knows, which is why she won’t ask. The only thingshe’s ever asked of him is to come back, which is a terribly small thing, givenall the things he’s asked of her – for her patience, and to have her for wife,both of which she’d accepted, and without so much as a pause for breath, let alone for thought.

“Youhave, huh?” he asks, palm curved around her knee. He finds her pulse, the skin above it soft and yielding.

“Hmm.”She flicks her eyes to his, laughter in them, and something far more tender. “Enough that I’m willing toforget about the pants.”

Hishand gripping her knee tips her off the stool, startling a laugh when she fallsagainst him, before she’s stifled it in his shirt, along with the reprimand thatthey’ll wake the baby at this rate, and then it’ll have to be a quickie, and he’llonly have himself to blame if they can’t get him to go back to sleep, and–

Andit’s good to be home, he thinks, and surrenders to that thought – and to her, whateverparts of himself he can. And it would be all of them if he could, but even if it isn’t, not yet, he’s never once doubted that it’s enough.

#Shanks x Makino #Shanks/Makino #Shanks #Makino #Red-Haired Shanks x Makino #otp: sing me sea shanties #Akagami no Shanks #Ben Beckman #One Piece #One Piece fanfiction #opfanfiction #opfanfic #fanfiction #fanfic #my fic #mungoe writes #flower prompts #thank you for the prompt friend!!#rhdina

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pretty-rage-machine · 7 years

Text

The Young Wolves in Springtime: director’s commentary

Good friend @transversely requested I do a commentary on my Blade of the Immortal fic “The Young Wolves in Springtime” a long time ago. I’m FINALLY around to it! You can read the original fic here.

Before all the fights. Before years so steeped in blood. Before all that killing, so many people. They were just skinny kids. Magatsu had the muscle, Kagehisa the grace. Magatsu's first night. He felt homesick. Anotsu had watched him with fish-flat eyes all night and barely said a word. Grandpa Anotsu slept the next room over. The thin door was pulled closed, with a little gap left open. Kagehisa still watched with the same deadpan stare, sitting up with his sleeping robe fallen open to show his shoulders. There was little light except for the silver fall of moonshine. Kagehisa's eyes bored flatly into Magatsu. “Well, let's see,” his voice hardly a breath coming in the still air. “What?” “They think you're good. Let's see.” What a weirdo. Magatsu sat up. He didn't feel like getting pushed around for however long by this kid whose ass he could probably kick with one hand tied behind his back.

Who the fuck makes friends like this? Only Kagehisa, that’s who. Let’s all be honest: he’s kind of a hyper-focused weirdo (I say this with love) even as an adult; as an awkward tween, he would have been far worse. I also imagine that Grandpa Anotsu is so horrendous to live with himself, and so unconcerned about Kagehisa having friends his own age, that Kagehisa’s social skills are bottom-tier no matter how good at fighting he is.

Magatsu, on the other hand, had a relatively normal upbringing. He seems to have cared a lot for his sister, so I presume his family loved both of them. He probably has friends. Now the only person around in his age bracket is Kagehisa, who is a complete freak, but the only peer Magatsu has.

Yikes.

Magatsu pulled his robe open, his right arm out of its sleeve, held it in front of him. He clenched his hand into a fist, curled up his hand to tense. It wasn't bad, he thought – he'd won fights. His growing muscle stood up like a burl from a tree. His skin prickled in the cold of night air. Kagehisa looked right back into his eyes. Did the same with his robe, his sleeve, his hand cocked up the same. The same muscle stood up. He was leaner than Magatsu, built different. The muscle the same, not the same, distributed different. Magatsu had been chopping wood for a good part of his life. He had some of the bulk for it, not all of it yet. But this kid was supposed to be good. Magatsu glared at him. Kagehisa smiled a weird smile. It looked like it kind of had a hard time on his face. Magatsu would bet for sure that he'd never got beat on by the big-kid coalition in town, when his dad took him in to help keep an eye on what they were selling. “Not bad.” Kagehisa put his arm back and Magatsu did too, glad of it. It felt like he'd had a long life. He wanted to snuggle under the covers and crash into sleep. But Kagehisa watched with a curious face like a cat's. That was why it was so unnerving. “Welcome to the Itto-ryu. You'll get to try.”

Kagehisa is sincerely trying to be friendly here, which I think makes it all the worse/much more awkward/much funnier.

I’m a huge sucker for characters who don’t really understand how to be nice trying very hard to be nice, and kind of missing the mark.

“What the hell,” Magatsu said. This kid was his sempai now. What the hell. “I'm supposed to lead it.” Kagehisa didn't sound too sure at all. “Congratulations. You'll be part of an effort to revolutionize the country.” “What the hell.” No one Magatsu had met talked like that, ever. “We're going to reawaken the true spirit of swordsmanship in Nippon. It's fallen into decadent worship of techniques that are practically speaking useless.” The kid watched him. The words were fervent, the tone went over them sort of by rote. Still, Kagehisa head was tilted, keen and curious. “If they didn't tell you that, why are you here?”

Imagine, if you will, that this is said in a perfect robot voice. You’ll-be-part-of-an-effort-to-revolutionize-the-country-bleep-bloop-I-am-a-human.

“I just really hate samurai.” It came out in a quiet rush. Magatsu didn't know what he expected, but Kagehisa's face went still with thought. “Oh,” the kid said after a moment, without judgment in his tone. “I hate them too.”

They are off to an awkward start, but here’s the first moment of actual connection and having something in common. Kagehisa’s miserable life is sort of a byproduct of the system that makes and breaks samurai, so he doesn’t have quite the direct experience with samurai Magatsu has - Magatsu has lost someone he loved to samurai - but it doesn’t matter so much when the end results are the same.

Scene change!

There wasn't much money around the place, which Magatsu was used to. There were a lot of creepy guys that stayed around and about, which he wasn't. “Allies,” Grandpa Anotsu said, when asked. “Aren't you supposed to be chopping wood, you little brat?” There was no mellowness to his tone nor gentleness to his hands to soften the words.

I think it was probably healthy for Kagehisa to have Magatsu around. I feel like Anotsu probably never knew what it was like to have a warm and loving family who thought of him as if he were a child in need of protection. He was expected to perform like an adult from a very early age. Magatsu can’t change their living situation, but he is like a breath of normalcy who at least gives Kagehisa some hints that all is not well with his home life.

Kagehisa joined Magatsu as acting woodcutter. It was apparently not a chore he'd had before. He was intense, the kind of kid who's chop til his hands bled and then chop a little more. Lucky he already had plenty of calluses. Magatsu got the clear idea without ever being told that Kagehisa didn't spend a lot of time with kids. But they talked, between beating up on each other and the old codger beating up on Kagehisa.

I recall Manji (or maybe Shira?) telling Rin that one way to build practical muscle (which you obviously need for sword work) was by chopping wood, and in general doing hard labor like that. Grandpa Anotsu is apparently a follower of the same philosophy. I imagine Kagehisa and Magatsu do plenty of other drills and exercises, but a lot of their spare time is spent doing backbreaking chores for the cause and FOR THE MUSCLE.

One day they'd just got done splitting wood. It was early fall, and they'd chopped a lot of kindling. Enough Magatsu felt like they were sitting pretty for an entire winter, just like he'd felt when they chopped every other day. “We're selling it, of course,” Kagehisa said when he asked. The ax dropped to the ground. The handle was stained dark from the oils of their hands and Kagehisa's old blood. He'd had calluses but the handle of an ax was different than the handle of a sword. The pressures different. “I figured. Man, it's shit that we get landed with the whole damn job.” “Don't let grandfather hear you saying that.” Kagehisa turned his way with the same smile as usual, glib and dry as a lizard. “Let's let him know we're done.” “Let's not,” Magatsu suggested, on impulse. Then went on with haste when Kagehisa stared at him. “He's had us at this shit all day. He's just gonna give us another job. Let's do something else?” “What stunning diversion would you suggest?” Kagehisa said, by which Magatsu knew he had him. “Let's walk. Hey, let's explore. We can take our swords. We'll tell him we decided to practice together.” “That's hardly a diversion at all. I expected better from you.” “Yeah, well,” Magatsu said, deadpan back, “I'll work with what I've got.”

Another incidence of Magatsu being the breath of normalcy in the situation. By himself, Kagehisa wouldn’t rebel against his grandfather even in this small way. I’m sure he kind of hated Grandpa Anotsu, but he wouldn’t have risked getting beaten up or otherwise abused just to skive off work for a couple hours.

Magatsu puts them both at risk, but he also opens Kagehisa’s eyes to a different way of doing things, also occasionally doing things “just for fun” and not to serve some ultimate purpose.

Again, it’s Magatsu’s ‘normal’ background showing up again. He did plenty of work with his peasant family but also had time to relax, play, and enjoy himself. Kagehisa might not take the lead with such things and its influence might be hard to see, but it’s good for him to have someone so different from his grandfather and his minions.

They got their swords. It wasn't that hard. It wasn't hard to sneak off either, gramps off somewhere, probably ruminating bitterly about all he'd lost and how he could make their lives harder to make up for it or something. Besides his being a good swordsman Magatsu was not impressed with him as a sensei.

Ok I know Kagehisa is a revolutionary who wants to burn the system to the ground BUT I think especially as a kid he would buy into authority and be inclined to follow the rules, and if he broke rules he’d probably try to rules lawyer his way out of trouble. Magatsu, on the other hand, has a healthy distrust of anyone who aspires to be in charge of him. If I were writing a high school au he totally would have been a baby anarchist.

“I've explored everything already,” Kagehisa told him, once they were out of earshot of their little house. “There's not a whole lot around here, anyway. We might as well fight and then go back.” “Dude, I've never been. Don't make me sorry I invited you.” “Sorry to put a damper on your little outing.” Kagehisa shrugged, his sword resting on his shoulder bobbing with the motion. They were climbing up a gentle hill now, precursor to a larger mountain. Magatsu didn't feel like a hike, so he led them left and Kagehisa at least didn't complain about that part, just went on: “There's nothing exciting or dangerous to do. Tell me, do you even like being a swordsman?” “I like it but this training is shitty. No bandits or dogs or anything?” “Well, there were dogs.” Kagehisa's face still like the surface of a morning pond. “But not anymore.”

/IMPLIED MAKIE

I really love fics that are not just… about a duo. I like fics where characters have more than their ship partner or just one friend, even if it’s just implied. Makie does not appear in this story, but she’s very much on Kagehisa’s mind, just as she will be 10 years later.

Also again, Magatsu, the earnest anarchist, who just wants to explore and maybe chill a little and possibly have a normal friend moment or two with his weird lizard of a peer. Magatsu tries so hard.

Kagehisa and Magatsu aren’t naturally friends in this fic. If they weren’t sorta forced together by circumstance, they probably wouldn’t have become close. As it is, they don’t really have a choice.

It could have been a pretty walk. What leaves were left colored in red and yellow, branches scratched like ink strokes against the blue sky. The chill in the air even enlivened his skin like the scrape of a blade but Magatsu felt more aware of a hard winter to come and shivered with premonition. Besides that he kept an eye on Kagehisa. A furtive one. The kid walked with this weird look of still remove. He was always coming across glazed over, or several hundred ri away; a little slow sometimes, maybe. Except with a sword, where he was guaranteed on the ball. “I guess you know around here, huh?” Magatsu said it out a weird impulse to break the silence. “When did the dogs get lost?” “You talk so much,” Kagehisa said. Then, at a glimpse of Magatsu's offended place. “Not like that. Calm yourself.” “I do not,” Magatsu said, and sealed his lips up in preparation to maintain a manly silence for the rest of their jaunt. Kagehisa sighed. “Be an adult. If you have a question, why don't you ask it?” “I am an adult, and you are a real asshole.”

THEY’RE TWEEEEEEEEEEEEEEENS

I’m still proud of this little exchange at the end, and Magatsu’s determination to keep his ‘manly silence.’ I imagine before his sister died, he was a sweet, chatty, affectionate kid; I can’t see him as a comedian type (he’d love to do silly things but get flustered when people actually laughed. I have had students like this and I know the type) but he probably would have been quite open and pure in a way.

Unfortunately, circumstances nipped a lot of that inherent sweetness in the bud. It’s similar to what happened to Rin, who had to become a harder, more calculating person over the course of the series, just so she’d survive. Still, Magatsu has empathy for others, some sweetness, and an inherent interest in people, and it peeks out now and again, even when the audience is Kagehisa.

“Speaking as an adult,” Kagehisa said with a smirk, “A kindly demeanor doesn't get you far in the real world.” “Shut up.” “Why are you angry?” Kagehisa's tone tended steadily more clipped. “When you're fighting seriously a temper is a liability.” Magatsu knew that. The assumption that he didn't stung. He uncinched his lips to mutter. “We're not fighting seriously.” “You're taking it seriously.” Kagehisa shrugged and glanced away. Magatsu thought he'd get ignored until Kagehisa spoke again. “The dogs got killed years ago.” “Some kinda training rite from the old man?” “Well, he tried.” Magatsu could always recognize now when Kagehisa's smiles weren't real ones. “It didn't go so well.” They walked over hill upon hill. Zigzag branches diced up the sky. Up close, black bark shone rich brown or gleamed with blue highlights in the autumn sun. “It's nearby,” Kagehisa said eventually, “If you want to see the place.” It was a plateau that opened out into a clearing. “The dogs scavenged from town and came here to bed down at night,” Kagehisa said. “But they never found enough. They were always hungry. Sometimes they tried to steal from us. Grandfather finally got tired of it.” “So he helped you fight him.” Already, Magatsu could guess that wasn't how it had gone. “No, he sent me...” There was one tree in the middle of the clearing. Kagehisa went to it and touched it. The touch of an old man, Magatsu thought, or someone blind, reaching to understand... “There was a girl,” Kagehisa said. “Oh.” “Not like that, would you stop,” but Kagehisa's smile lost some of its lines of unfortunate strain there.

Tbh it’s a travesty we never saw Makie and Magatsu interact more in the series itself. I like to imagine they’re friends; they’re very different people, but have a lot of interests in common. I think they’d have compassion for each other. Someday maybe I’ll try and write a friendship fic with them.

Also, Kagehisa and Anotsu are definitely at the age where they’d notice girls, if there were girls around to notice.

A moment came. A precipice. Teetered on, and then fallen past. Two old men fought and then only one of them had his blood decorating the ground. That was how it was, that was how it had to be. Magatsu went to help Abayama. It seemed to have taken it out of the guy, killing Grandpa Anotsu. Magatsu helped him sit. Abayama didn't let go of his sword. Anotsu was still looking at the wreckage of his grandfather with his back to them both. His black ponytail fell limply over his tightly squared shoulders. Magatsu wondered if Abayama would have to kill him next. Kagehisa turned and his face was wet, white and staring. Tight and confused, horrible with its tears. He stared at both Magatsu and Abayama as if surprised to find them there looking back at him. “I hated him,” Kagehisa said. “Take it easy, now,” Abayama said. “Family's family.” Men got crazy over less, Magatsu thought. Kagehisa stepped towards them. His eyes were still raw and staring, never having quite let out their tears. That was the moment that turned them both out into a new life.

Abayama definitely gave Kagehisa a hug after this scene change, Magatsu probably did too even though he was super embarrassed.

This series is haunted by Grandpa Anotsu’s ghost. He’s the one who was thrown out of the Asano dojo, and in a big way he’s responsible for setting Anotsu on his path. And he was a horrendously abusive guardian. Kagehisa is justified in hating him.

From that day they came a long way. It seemed like they were charmed with an easy work, or it was pleasant, as smooth as anyone could have wished. School after school, budding kenshi who’d never have blossomed anyway stamped out, the potentates gathered up. It became a blood-steeped story with more exposed entrails in it than Magatsu really thought there would be. The dead never went away. Not the new crowd, not his old tail. His sister was always at his heels, the flutter of her pink robes grabbing his eye from time to time. He could go a while without thinking of her and then circle back around and contemplate her existence for hours. Back around to her and Kagehisa and O-ren. Winter nights with their horrendous bite, summer nights slowing the world to a trickle, lulled in deep heat. Or the bitch-slap wind of spring. It came to a spring night with a nervous feel to it like a young horse taming to the saddle. A night at another brothel, one more upon an immeasurable number of flophouses and cheap inns. And nicer places. But the one night in particular: a brothel with a muddy yard, with a budding plum tree at the corner. A little sake for both of them. Half a bowl each. Magatsu had seen Kagehisa imbibe but they were past things like that. At least now was not the opportune moment for an alcoholic blowout. He who holds earth can conquer heaven but he who is too drunk to stand can’t even aim his dick to piss right. Magatsu would hesitate to say life was good, but it wasn’t horrible. And Kagehisa was filled with nervous, fever-bright energy.

I wish we’d learned Magatsu’s sister’s name in canon.

I like the imagery in these first paragraphs! Balancing dialogue, action and imagery is still a challenge for me. I can navel gaze with poetic images for paragraph upon paragraph, and it bothers me in my old work, but I don’t think I overdid it here.

Anyway, something that always bothers me in fiction is when characters so easily forget their dead. Magatsu is not perpetually sad about his sister, but I wanted to indicate that he never forgot her either, and always felt a bit haunted by her. He wants justice for her, not something that’s easy to find in the world of BotI.

He’s also not exactly a soft guy, but he is kind of sensitive to the awful things the Itto-ryu is doing.

It was hard to tell with him but they’d known each other for a long time. Kagehisa could always be controlled but his excitement gleamed in his eyes, the movement of his fingers on the ax-handle, his fixed smile. A warm spring night wouldn’t sway him. They drank together squatting in the yard. “Man, would you cool it?” Magatsu asked him finally. “You’re wigging me out.” “You talk so much.” “Yeah, well, try it sometime, maybe you’d scare off fewer women.” That made Kagehisa laugh. He could’ve pounded his hand bloody on a pulpit somewhere if he’d been raised to talk. Magatsu knew that much. Kagehisa had just been raised for something else. That was their high-water mark if Magatsu only knew it at the time. Kagehisa gazing up over the wall as the first stars wiped off their faces, Magatsu checking the Turk over, making sure it all fit quick, smooth and easy. They were on a trajectory towards greatness. They had so much to lose but it felt like anything lost would mean nothing. Would only be a move or two away from being won back. It wasn’t the first time Magatsu had heard the name Asano but it was the first time it stuck.

I imagine that Magatsu is one of the few Itto-ryu who’ll ever zing Anotsu, and probably one of the only ones (minus Makie) who could be called Kagehisa’s friend. They were kids together. Magatsu is one of the few people who remembers Kagehisa ever being vulnerable.

“They’re not a remarkable school,” Kagehisa told him, blasé and easy as always. “You know, it’s the one that threw grandfather out. The master has expressed some disrespect towards us now and, well…” His smile ironic: “You could say I’m putting grandfather’s soul to rest at last.” “Don’t go there, man. He was fucked in the head in the first place.” “Take care how you talk about the dead,” Kagehisa said with remarkable mildness, “They always might hear you. The master has a lovely wife and a young daughter, I believe. Almost fourteen. Somewhere thereabouts.” Magatsu thinks about that and then doesn’t. Almost fourteen, not much like his own sister at all. She’d be old enough to be wed by now, even. Maybe. Maybe with a child. “That shit’s not important. If they stand in front of us, roll ‘em over. But don’t do it because of your old man’s old man.” “I’ll do it for the Itto-ryu and the future of the country, not for him.” Kagehisa could do a cool snap withdrawal when it suited him. Like now. Magatsu looked sideways at him and Kagehisa looked back, steady. Family was always family. And, well – it was Magatsu’s ugly story too, there. But not all his. Magatsu likes little girls. In the healthy way, thanks, and he’s got the wherewithal to slice anyone who intimated anything nasty about his liking for them in half. He doesn’t show it much. It doesn’t have much place in the business. Just, he likes little girls, and bigger ones, watching them in the dusty streets, watching them shout at their brothers imperiously. Even the big girls. What his sister could’ve been. “That family must be put down,” Kagehisa says. He has a good capacity for casual cruelty. More than Magatsu’s got, enough like a leader needs. “Dude, kill who you want. I’m not attached.”

Of course this is a prelude to the incident with Rin. I would say the first cracks in Magatsu’s allegiance to the Itto-ryu showed there.

Gramps is dead, but Anotsu is still damaged by him. Honestly I don’t think he ever got over that damage. BotI was not a series that went easy on its characters, and frankly the Anotsu family line was not wrong that there was plenty wrong with the world they were living in. Magatsu is right to be uncomfortable with this though. Even as a kid he was always the more objective one regarding Grandpa Anotsu and his dream. Anotsu is going to do some terrible things in the name of avenging his grandfather and Magatsu can feel it even if he doesn’t know the exact details.

Abayama killed Grandpa when it became necessary but as they say you can’t kill an idea. Anotsu has carried the idea forward himself.

“We could spare the girl, if you like.” Kagehisa watches him. The offer sounds like it’s given without a care. His eyes have got no shine in them sometimes. He’s not paranoid but he’s always watching, and sometimes – Magatsu hasn’t got a hard-on for him. But sometimes it’s a look that’s vulnerable. “It doesn’t matter,” Magatsu returns, keeping the eye contact up, breaking it casually to turn back to the Turk. He would follow Kagehisa anyway. It was still the high-water mark. Before he watched his comrades rape a woman and walked away from it. Still there was no telling the future. What came ahead could be as important as anything that came behind. “I’ll keep that in mind,” Kagehisa says. If Magatsu knew what was all to come. If Magatsu knew his life, and the tempestuous years ahead. The whole business, when he stopped doing it to mend sandals or work fields he remembered why he hated it, and then remembered again why he didn’t have a taste for the simple life. There was no place for a good man to rest easy. Thinking like that he’d been on the run for all the part of his life that mattered. On the run, and putting his feet in Kagehisa’s footsteps. As terrible as the things they did were, as awkward and bizarre as Kagehisa was, it was just so familiar to be at his back. Magatsu felt sometimes at parting the squeeze of a bitter, fire-forged affection that would never rest easy between them. It had been more fair than he liked to say it didn’t matter what Kagehisa chose to do to the woman, to the girl. What Kagehisa chose to let others do to those women. Magatsu’d come much too far with him to cut it off easy right there, or not to go on with him for longer. They were brothers-in-arms by now.

I made myself emotional with my own fic, help

Anyway. The feeling at the end should definitely be that it’s maybe not a GOOD thing that these two are as close as they are. I would say Magatsu loves Kagehisa, I don’t make any distinction tbh if it’s friendship or a romantic ship; Kagehisa in all his weirdness and intensity is simply the most important person in Magatsu’s life at this time. And yet, he won’t be able to follow Kagehisa everywhere; he doesn’t always agree with Kagehisa.

The thing about Magatsu that makes him interesting is he basically is… too sensitive to comfortably live in the world of BotI as it is (which is why his ending of happily working in the fields was pretty terrible).

Kagehisa was never WRONG that the system he lived within was massively unjust and kind of broken and in need of huge restructuring. But the things he did to achieve that were absolutely wrong, and terrible. I believe he grew a lot over the course of the series (imagine end-series Anotsu redoing the scene with Rin’s parents; I think he might still have killed her dad, but things with her mom would NOT have gone the same way)... but no matter how much he grew I think he couldn’t do what would have been necessary to “escape” the system. At least, by the time he wanted to escape the system in that way, so much had happened and so many bridges were burned that it was impossible.

Honestly, as I say that, I’m not even sure what “escaping” the system would have looked like, other than leaving for China, which in the canon’s case was not an escape but a sign of just how broken and defeated Kagehisa was in those moments.

Anyway, I think the fact that Kagehisa had genuine desires to create a better system, but he didn’t think through what worst-case scenario consequences would be for people like Rin. And Magatsu, in the meantime, couldn’t escape what worst-case scenario consequences would be for people like Rin. He was too empathetic to ignore those things, and too sensitive to injustice to be as ruthless as Kagehisa when it came to changing things.

What it meant was that even though Magatsu loved Kagehisa, their friendship would eventually break apart, as it does on and off in canon until the very end where Magatsu doesn’t meet up with Anotsu to go to China. And I think even when they’re not friends, they still love each other; that’s what’s tragic about them. They’ll always be unique people to each other, and irreplaceable. But… the cost of one of them following the other would always be too high.

#blade of the immortal #boti #anotsu kagehisa #anotsu #magatsu taito #magatsu #fanfic #my fanfic #my writing #commentary

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biofunmy · 5 years

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Taylor Swift Emerges From the Darkness Unbroken on ‘Lover’

Two years ago, Taylor Swift was painted into a corner, and lashed out. “Reputation,” her sixth album, was her darkest, her most aggrieved and, not coincidentally, her most stylistically experimental. She was already a pop star, but “Reputation” was when she arrived into the understanding that klieg lights can scald. Often a conscientious objector, she became a combatant.

Reception was mixed; “Reputation” is a genuinely great album, if not a particularly appreciated one. It pushed the boundaries of what people expect from Swift — the kind of singer she could be, the kind of collaborators she could work with, the moods she could adopt. By far, it’s her least commercially successful effort.

Which says something quite loudly. Swift’s antagonists have always been intimates, and the joy she’s taken in either loving them or eviscerating them has always been evident, and thrilling. But lashing out against the Kanye-Kardashian industrial complex was an awkward fit, and also bad business.

“Lover,” her reassuringly strong seventh album, is a palate cleanse, a recalibration and a reaffirmation of old strengths. It’s a transitional album designed to close one particularly bruised chapter and suggest ways to move forward — or in some cases, to return to how things once were. Once again, Swift’s concerns are largely interior: who to love, how to love, how to move on when love is gone.

The album’s power is encapsulated on “Paper Rings” and “Cornelia Street,” two songs in the middle that couldn’t be more different. “Paper Rings,” written and produced with Jack Antonoff, is jumpy punk-pop, vibrating with almost a nervous energy. Swift talk-sings about the flush of a new obsession that becomes something deeper: “Went home and tried to stalk you on the internet/Now I’ve read all of the books beside your bed.” Bubbly and wise, it’s peak Swift.

That’s immediately followed by “Cornelia Street,” another Antonoff coproduction, but one much more in line with the atmospheric gloom of “Reputation.” Here, Swift is coy and lost in reverie: “‘I rent a place on Cornelia Street,’ I say casually in the car/We were a fresh page on the desk, filling in the blanks as we go.”

These songs have one thing in common, though. Near each bridge, the music thins out, and Swift sings less busily, leaning on her voice’s natural contours and emphasizing the way she effortlessly communicates fragility. They are jolts of the personal, a reminder that there is a person inside the song, something Swift has sometimes overlooked in her quest for bigness.

On “Lover,” there isn’t a consistent musical throughline so much as a slate of options, some familiar and some new. “I Forgot That You Existed,” the opener, is cheery, almost glib — a lyrical disinfectant for the “Reputation” era. “You Need to Calm Down” has a sleek viciousness to it. As a song, it didn’t benefit from the simultaneous release of a heavy-handed video emphasizing Swift’s L.G.B.T.Q. allyship. And there are duds: The shimmery “London Boy,” presumably about her paramour, the British actor Joe Alwyn, is an effective argument against transnational romance.

If she leans in to a particular pop style, it’s the one she and Antonoff have been honing for her last two albums, with thick, ethereal arrangements that suggest the scores to films where children discover fantasy worlds. The best example here is “Cruel Summer,” on which Swift sings in several of her signature voices — the question-mark syllables that shoot to the sky, the hard-felt smears and the childlike chants: “I don’t want to keep secrets just to keep you!”

But in the middle of “Lover” comes a hard brake: “Soon You’ll Get Better,” an intimate acoustic song about Swift’s mother, Andrea, who is battling cancer. Swift was never a completely unvarnished performer, but early in her career, she cut extremely close to the bone. Here, agonized harmonies by the Dixie Chicks serve as an empathetic swaddle as Swift is lyrically immediate: “Holy orange bottles, each night I pray to you/desperate people find faith, so now I pray to Jesus too.”

The jolting specificity of these words only underscores how Swift has been retreating from detail in her lyrics, once the cornerstone of her power. Broad strokes can be just as emotionally potent as diaristic impulses, but from her earliest songs, her lyrics have always communicated a bracing amount of information in digestible fashion, a consistently stunning high-wire act.

The shift in emphasis from words to music on her recent albums has left her on less steady ground. But there is no Max Martin or Shellback here — superproducers who helped guide her recent pop tracks — which means no cheat code. And in her songwriting, in addition to Antonoff she collaborates with Louis Bell and Joel Little, who have been some of the most successful songwriters in pop over the last two years, but who don’t approach the power of Swift’s pointillism.

“Soon You’ll Get Better” captures that energy, though, and also points to a quiet thread on this album: There is country here — nods, winks. Swift’s ease with it is like flirting with an ex.

Take “Death by a Thousand Cuts,” a song about how relationships that are ending never seem to end, which could be a Kelsea Ballerini song: “I get drunk but it’s not enough/’cause the morning comes and you’re not my baby.” Or the title track, which has echoes of “Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door,” but also sounds like a steroidal take on the alt-country of the 1990s.

Were Swift ever to explicitly return to the genre that catapulted her to global acclaim, she’d be as fluent as the day she left town. But it’s more provocative to wonder — especially after her experiments with trap production on “Reputation” failed to connect — if Swift remains committed to pop centrism, what shape that might take.

There have been two major jolts to Swift’s musical grammar over her 13-year career: on “Red,” when she first attempted pumped-up pop, and completely rebuilt the foundation of her sound; and on “Reputation,” which will likely stand as the outer boundary of the risks she’ll take. As performers get older, and more successful, their willingness to pivot typically softens as well.

So it’s intriguing that “Lover” offers a whole set of newish propositions, most of them promising, especially “Paper Rings.” The excellent and pointed “The Man” is a stern synth-pop take on sexism that’s also Swift at her funniest. “Every conquest I had made would make me more of a boss to you,” she deadpans, running down a litany of the double standards she’s been dodging for years. In this alternate timeline, she avers, “I’d be just like Leo in Saint-Tropez.”

The strutting “I Think He Knows” delivers a sweet intention with a blend of elation and petulance. And on “The Archer” — which is redolent of Cyndi Lauper’s “Time After Time” — she’s restrained and a little imperious, using her voice as a mood piece.

On an album premised on leaving the past behind, these are the songs that suggest a way forward. In recent years, it’s been clear that the less Swift sets her own terms, the more challenges she’ll face. And so on “Lover,” she’s back to steering. Being a pop star, she’s learned, is different from being yourself — except when it isn’t.

Taylor Swift “Lover” (UMG/Republic)

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