#people try to call him 'neutral' or 'impartial' and he himself plays into that impression a lot

[the-light-followed]

MORT (1987) [DISC. #4; DEATH #1]

“‘Why did you have to save me?’  The answer worried him.  He thought about it as he squelched all the way home.  …As he lay shivering in bed it settled in his dreams like an iceberg. In the midst of his fever he muttered, ‘What did he mean, FOR LATER?’”

Rating: 6/10

Standalone Okay: Yes

Read First: Sure, why not!

Discworld Books Masterpost: [x]

* * * * * * * * * *

I’m just going to get it out of the way right off the bat: as much as I hate to admit it, the Death books are my least favorite of the Discworld sub-series.  (I mean, I still love them, a lot, but I don’t love them as much.)  And I know, I know—Death is an excellent character, and I love all of his cameos in the other Discworld books.  I love Susan Sto Helit, because I’m a sensible human lady with eyes and I recognize a brilliant, beautiful powerhouse of a woman when I read about her.  But the Death books just…aren’t my favorite.

And it’s doubly strange that I still think that’s true, even though Reaper Man might be my favorite Discworld book, depending on the day.  It’s definitely top three.

Mort, though, is—kind of boring.  Actually, no.  Let me rephrase that, without the italics this time: Mort is kind of boring.  The story itself is unique, and the concept is fantastically interesting, and I’m almost sad about that.  Because Mort, the character, is unimpressive.  I spend half the time reading this book wanting to grab him by the shoulders and shake some sense into him.  It might just be that he’s a teenage idiot—I do sort of have the same feeling with him (and especially all his interactions with Princess Keli) that I do any time I’m forced to read Romeo and Juliet. It’s a sort of constant, high-pitched, internal shriek of rage and distress.

Stop that!  Stop what you’re doing right now!  Grow some common goddamn sense!!

But he never does.  I am continually disappointed.

Even beyond his regrettable life choices, the kid is just dull.  Some early text flavor we get for Mort includes gems such as: “Mort was interested in lots of things.  Why people’s teeth fitted together so neatly, for example.  He’d given that one a lot of thought.  Then there was the puzzle of why the sun came out during the day, instead of at night when the light would come in useful.  He knew the standard explanation, which somehow didn’t seem satisfying.”

Yikes, buddy.  Yikes. Might as well be interested in watching paint dry.

It’s wild to me that of everyone and everything involved in Mort, Pratchett picked—well, Mort—to be his main character.  Mort, who complains that he’s not an ordinary human being living an ordinary human life.  He’s got a super awesome thing going for him, given that he’s Death’s actual apprentice, and he wants to be normal and boring?  By the time he makes this complaint, he’s already messed up reality and, frankly, a very easy job by being a lovestruck twit over a girl whose eyes he met exactly once across a crowded room—just before her father was brutally murdered.  He’s clearly already the king of bad decision-making.  It’s baffling that he wants to be even more boring, too.

We’ve got so many cool and interesting characters that we could have focused on instead!  Actual, literal Death!  Ysabell, his immortally teenage daughter, who’s been sixteen for thirty-five years!  We’ve even got Albert, a formerly great and terrible wizard so terrified of death (and Death) that he chose to become Death’s eternal servant rather than die!  Any one of those would make a cool as hell main character.  We could have had it all, but instead we focus on a dunderheaded teenager, distracted by hormones and totally lacking in common sense.

I get that Mort is acting as a sort of audience surrogate, coming from a vanilla human background, learning as he goes, and only just beginning to move in the occult and magical circles.  But I would be about one hundred million times more interested in following Ysabell’s journey from normal human orphan to the never-aging daughter of Death, both rescued and trapped by her father in his land outside of reality, where time never moves and there’s no one to interact with except the stories of the outside world as they write themselves in the library.

She’s a cool goth romantic trapped in the body of a sixteen-year-old for decades.  Her favorite thing to do is read real, historical accounts of love stories where everyone dies horribly.  Death is her dad and why is this book not about her?

Mort, I’d argue, doesn’t really get interesting himself until he and Death start picking up some of each other’s traits.  And even then, if Mort-going-inhuman is cool, it’s overshadowed entirely by Death becoming a person rather than simply an anthropomorphic personification.  It’s, just, damn.  Death’s arc is beautiful and poignant and has lasting implications for the Discworld. Meanwhile, Mort’s whole…thing…will soon be fridged so that his daughter, Susan Sto Helit, can begin her reign as unstoppable badass and also queen of my heart.

Susan is great.  On second thought, I wish this book was about Susan.

Conceptually, everything about this story is wonderful.  I love the plot elements, the concept itself is so unique and executed well, and Mort does an amazing job of setting up the rest of the Death series within the Discworld.  It’s impossible to read Mort and not think about what it means to be a person—recognizing that everyone must and will die, that there’s no rhyme or reason to it, but also knowing that fighting back against that inevitability is built into us on a fundamental level.

Not yet.  Not today. Fairness might not matter; justice might not matter.  But part of what makes us human is that we think they should.  We want them to.  

And, by the end of Mort, Death agrees.

Part of the reason I keep coming back to Mort is that I do like seeing the seeds of what Death will become in later Discworld books. Mort, Ysabell, and Albert—and eventually Susan as well—all give Death the experience and the space to become more than what he was meant to be.  Rather than just an anthropomorphic personification, just a thing, Death becomes a person.  He has wants and desires and needs, and he acts on them, sometimes despite the fact that it causes problems with The Duty—his literal, actual reason to exist.  He grows and changes.  He cares.

Compared to the Death we see in The Colour of Magic, who seems relentlessly antagonistic to poor Rincewind—who implies, several times over, that he is actually, actively, trying to kill people himself—the Death we meet at the beginning of Mort is already a relief. He’s perfectly neutral, not threatening at all.  He’s an entity who performs a necessary service without any sort of emotion at all.  But by the end of Mort, the Death we see is—well, I find him flat-out comforting.

It’s the little things.  He goes fishing.  He makes jokes, even if they’re creepy and morbid and so specific to his field that most people don’t understand them at all.  He likes cats.  He’s a good cook.

[Death’s Glory, by Paul Kidby, off his website. Shit, I love his official Discworld art. This, I think, shows his attempt at making a fishing lure that Pratchett describes in a way that seems—nightmarish at best.]

And it’s the big things, too.  Death makes mistakes.  He plays hooky from his work, which is a bit more impressive when you remember that it’s the literal reason for his existence.  He knows right from wrong, and when it comes down to it, I think it’s less important that he chooses to do what’s right over the letter of the law (though I also appreciate that he does), and more important that he can choose at all.

“THERE IS NO JUSTICE,” Death likes to say, “JUST ME.” But when Death is a person, and on top of that, a good person, it almost feels like the same thing.

You have to love the see-saw of Mort and Death going wrong in equal but opposite ways, both of them fascinating (and horrifying). Mort starts losing his humanity as he picks up aspects of Death, leaving him with more and more of the power and knowledge, but none of the steadiness and impartiality that Death has shown so far. And as Death gains humanity, gains personhood, he starts to feel and to understand those feelings.  

It’s beautiful to see, but it’s also desperately sad.  I think it’s almost cruel to give an emotional range to an undying being who must be there for the end of every life, who must be alone for most of time.

But he gets the good things out of existence, too. Over the course of the Death books, he seems to think it’s worth it more often than it’s not.  So it’s a good thing that even after everything’s sorted out and the humans have been given back their normal lives, Death keeps what he has taken.

One of my favorite quotes:

“WHAT IS IT CALLED WHEN YOU FEEL WARM AND CONTENT AND WISH THINGS WOULD STAY THAT WAY?  ‘I guess you’d call it happiness,’ said Harga.  Inside the tiny, cramped kitchen, strata’d with the grease of decades, Death spun and whirled, chopping, slicing and flying.  His skillet flashed through the fetid steam.  He’d opened the door to the cold night air, and a dozen neighborhood cats had strolled in, attracted by the bowls of milk and meat—some of Harga’s best, if he’d known—that had been strategically placed around the floor. Occasionally Death would pause in his work and scratch one of them behind the ears.  ‘Happiness,’ he said, and puzzled at the sound of his own voice.”

While Death moves more and more towards being a person, Mort goes the opposite way, and I, reluctantly, have to agree he’s right to give it all up and go back to being purely human.  As conceptually cool and interesting as it is to be apprenticed to Death, to be more powerful and more real than any other living person, people aren’t meant to live like that, and certainly not meant to live forever.  Mort understands that.

As Death says, “YOU COULD HAVE HAD ETERNITY.”  

And in reply: “‘I know,’ said Mort.  ‘I’ve been very lucky.’”

Honestly, in the course of writing this all out, I’ve almost talked myself back around to really loving this book.  It’s got everything we all want from a Discworld novel: exquisitely crafted and delivered puns, punchy and memorable quotes, unique and well-written characters in a unique and well-crafted setting, a perfect blend of humorous absurdity and heart-wrenching sincerity.  And unlike the first few Discworld books (especially The Colour of Magic, but I’d include all of the previous three novels), Pratchett is clinging less to established High Fantasy tropes and relying more on Discworld-specific flavor. Ankh-Morpork feels more and more like a real place with every visit, and even the other regions of the Disc come across less as never-explored, baffling and bizarre foreign lands (Here There Be Dragons!) and more as places that really do exist, even if we haven’t seen them personally just yet.

And, if nothing else, Mort is so, so important to the rest of the Discworld books from this point on because it establishes exactly what and who Death is on the Discworld.  He’s a person.  He is, at his core, good.  And maybe, as Death says, “THERE IS NO JUSTICE, JUST ME,” but I think it’s incredibly reassuring while reading the series to know that no matter how badly things go wrong, no matter how much danger our Discworld heroes are in or how nerve-wracking things get, the absolute worst thing that could happen is that they end up in Death’s hands.  And Death will treat them as they deserve.

I will always appreciate Mort for that peace of mind.  (And I can appreciate Mort for it, too, even if I still want to grab that ding-dong dumbass by the shoulders and just shake—ahem.  Sorry.)

* * * * * * * * * *

Side Notes:

I need everyone to read this quote about a party at the Patrician’s palace and join me in my confusion: “In fact some two hundred of the Patrician’s guests were now staggering and kicking their way through the Serpent Dance, a quaint Morporkian folkway which consisted of getting rather drunk, holding the waist of the person in front, and then wobbling and giggling uproariously in a long crocodile that wound through as many rooms as possible, preferably ones with breakables in, while kicking one leg vaguely in time with the beat, or at least in time with some other beat.”

Vetinari let them do WHAT

Sure, he’s not technically Vetinari yet, he’s never been named at all, but that’s still proto-Vetinari’s guests at proto-Vetinari’s house and he’s letting them do WHAT

Rincewind pops up briefly in this book, serving as an assistant to the Librarian.  Is this an important cameo?  No, probably not.  Does it make me smile down at my book like I’m seeing a long-absent friend, even if there’s only been one book so far in the series that does not include him? Absolutely, yes.  Hi, Rincewind!  Missed you, buddy!  See you in a minute, Sourcery is coming up next!

Ysabell and Mort have such a strange love story.

“‘I don’t want to get married to anyone yet,’ he added, suppressing a fleeting mental picture of the princess.  ‘And certainly not to you, no offense meant.’  ‘I wouldn’t marry you if you were the last man on the Disc,’ she said sweetly.”

“‘Obviously we shouldn’t get married, if only for the sake of the children.’  Mort nodded.”

“DAUGHTER, EXPLAIN YOURSELF.  WHY DID YOU AID THIS FOOL?  Ysabell curtsied nervously.  ‘I—love him, Father.  I think.’ ‘You do?’ said Mort, astonished.  ‘You never said!’  ‘There didn’t seem to be time,’ said Ysabell.”

Teenagers. Honestly.

We get a lot more discussion about belief and reality in this one—Mort himself kind of embodies the point as he becomes “more real” and begins to stroll through walls, or doors, or arrows.  Nobody can see Death wandering around the mundane world (with the exception of cats and the magical community) because nobody expects to see him; they don’t believe he’ll be there, and so they don’t see him.  Princess Keli died, according to history, so even though Mort “saved” her, history (and the population of her kingdom) start to write her out.  Belief = reality.  We change the world with the force of that belief.

Favorite Quotes:

“I?  KILL? said Death, obviously offended. CERTAINLY NOT.  PEOPLE GET KILLED, BUT THAT’S THEIR BUSINESS.  I JUST TAKE OVER FROM THEN ON.  AFTER ALL, IT’D BE A BLOODY STUPID WORLD IF PEOPLE GOT KILLED WITHOUT DYING, WOULDN’T IT?”

“Let’s just say that Ankh-Morpork is as full of life as an old cheese on a hot day, as loud as a curse in a cathedral, as bright as an oil slick, as colorful as a bruise and as full of activity, industry, bustle and sheer exuberant busyness as a dead dog on a termite mound.”

“‘How do you get all those coins?’ asked Mort.  IN PAIRS.”

“‘Are you going to send me home?’ he said.  Death reached down and swung him up behind the saddle.  BECAUSE YOU SHOWED COMPASSION?  NO.  I MIGHT HAVE DONE IF YOU HAD SHOWN PLEASURE.  BUT YOU MUST LEARN THE COMPASSION PROPER TO YOUR TRADE.  ‘What’s that?’  A SHARP EDGE.”

“They’re always telling people how much better it’s going to be when they’re dead.  We tell them it could be pretty good right here if only they’d put their minds to it.”

“It had been a long afternoon.  The mountaineer had held on to his icy handhold until the last moment and the execute had called Mort a lackey of the monarchist state.  Only the old lady of 103, who had gone to her reward surrounded by her sorrowing relatives, had smiled at him and said he was looking a little pale.”

“Logic would have told Mort that here was his salvation…Logic would have told him that interfering with the process a second time around would only make things worse. Logic would have said all that, if only Logic hadn’t taken the night off too.”

“‘Why did you have to save me?’  The answer worried him.  He thought about it as he squelched all the way home.  …As he lay shivering in bed it settled in his dreams like an iceberg. In the midst of his fever he muttered, ‘What did he mean, FOR LATER?’”

“‘I mean, friend or foe?’ he stuttered, trying to avoid Mort’s gaze.  ‘Which would you prefer?’ he grinned.  It wasn’t quite the grin of his master, but it was a pretty effective grin and didn’t have a trace of humor in it.  The guard sagged with relief, and stood aside.  ‘Pass, friend,’ he said.”

“The sword burned icy cold in his hand, dragging him on in a dance that would not end until there was nothing left alive.  And that time came, and Mort stood alone except for Death, who said, ‘A fine job, boy.’ And Mort said, MORT.”

“‘I think there’s something you ought to know,’ said the princess.  THERE IS? said Death.  (That was a cinematic trick adapted for print.  Death wasn’t talking to the princess.  He was actually in his study, talking to Mort.  But it was quite effective, wasn’t it?  It’s probably called a fast dissolve, or a crosscut/zoom. Or something.  An industry where a senior technician is called a Best Boy might call it anything.)”

#discworld #mort #death #hey if you read this and like this maybe look at my other ones #and come talk to me! #I'll be writing more of these #aiming for about a book a week #and I'd love to hear what people think

[prairiesongserial]

3.12

Cody stared at Pem for a long moment, almost willing him to go back on what he’d said. Wondering if he’d misread the signal - but no, two taps on the side of the cup meant a bluff. Was Pem trying to tell him that he hadn’t been in control of his tells? Cody thought he’d kept his face carefully neutral, even relaxed, but maybe he’d been wrong. He couldn’t exactly see himself to know.

Maybe Pem was just calling him out first thing, so Jacquet and the others wouldn’t be able to imagine them collaborating in an elaborate cheating plan. That had to be it. He was taking Cody off guard so that Cody would actually look taken off guard, cementing the idea that they didn’t know each other, or have a way of communicating their rolls. He could even have been trying to get onto Nash and Cole’s good side, to form a sort of alliance with them against Cody.

Or maybe, a voice in Cody’s head that sounded too much like Ethan supplied, he’s stabbing you in the back.

“Well, go on then,” Cody said, raising an eyebrow at Pem. “Lift it up.”

Pem grinned even wider, and did so.

Cody didn’t have to look. He already knew what was under the cup. Cole and Nash didn’t, though, and he watched their expressions change from disbelief, to curious, to impressed. If Pem was trying to get them on his side, so to speak, he was doing a good job of it.

“Ms. Cole loses a life,” Jacquet announced, impartially. “Mr. Pemberly will re-roll the dice, and continue the round.”

Cole hummed, flipping her life die over so that the five faced upwards. She didn’t seem to mind being a casualty of Cody’s lie - though, Cody supposed, five lives still gave her a lot of chances to win. At least she wasn’t sour about it.

“Before the round continues, would any of the players like to increase their bet?” Jacquet asked, looking around at the rest of the table. Nash and Cole shared a look, Cody noticed, but neither of them moved to put down any more chips. Neither did Pem.

“I will,” Cody said suddenly, grabbing two chips out of his pocket and slapping them down onto the stack of three chips he’d already started into the pot. If Pem wanted to do surprises - well, Cody would show him surprises.

“Well, alright, then,” Nash said cheerfully, digging up two more chips of his own before anyone could protest. Cole smiled and did the same.

Pem blinked briefly, looking confused for only half a second before moving two chips into the center. His grin was strained around the edges. That was a look Cody knew well. It was the same look Ethan had when he sensed a plan was about to go off the rails. Hopefully Pem would get back on track after this. Cody wanted to stick to the plan, wanted to cheat La Salle, but he could only do it if Pem was on his side. And they couldn’t read each others’ minds, so there was no way for each of them to know for sure what the other was thinking. All they could do was stick to the signals they’d set up beforehand.

“Very well,” Jacquet said. “Mr. Pemberley, if you please?”

Pem nodded, and rolled the dice, lifting the cup to look at them.

“Thirty-two,” he said, putting the cup back down, and passing it to Nash.

Nash didn’t waste much time in re-rolling the dice. Maybe he didn’t trust Pem, or maybe he was hoping for something bigger than a thirty-two. Or maybe neither of those, because he didn’t look under the cup before he passed it on to Cody.

“Thirty-three,” he said, cheerfully, as though daring Cody to call his bluff. “If you don’t mind me askin’, since you asked about Miss Cole’s eye, how’d you lose the fingers, Mr. Allison? Those cuts look awful fresh.”

Cody wondered briefly how forthcoming he should be about being pursued by Ethan, barely even looking at the cup of dice. Cole and Nash were definitely strangers, or else they would’ve recognized him on sight, but there was always the chance that they worked with another gang that was friendly with the Dead-Eyes. Most gangs were, because of the big central group the Dead-Eyes had bought into. Hemisphere, or whatever it was called.

“I owed money to a gang, and didn’t pay ‘em quick enough,” he settled on, still trying to decide what to do about the dice. Nash let out a low whistle.

“How much money?”

“Ten thousand pieces of Oregon silver,” Cody said, his tone unchanging.

He could feel the rest of the table’s eyes on him, very suddenly, and ignored it, re-rolling the dice under the cup. He didn’t look at them. He was going to have to match Nash’s roll or go higher, anyway, so it was better not to know if he was lying. Unfortunately, since doubles were the highest rolls you could get in Mia, there were only so many rolls higher than a thirty-three.

“Forty-four,” he said, quickly passing the cup to Cole. Hopefully she’d reroll, and be forced to go higher, or just match his bluff.

“What’d you do, to owe a gang that much?” she asked, looking at him with something resembling sympathy. Cody looked down at the table instead, fidgeting with his life die.

“I just borrowed it,” he said.

“But why?” Cole asked.

“My sister was sick,” he said, glancing up to meet her eyes again. He could feel his cheeks burning - this hadn’t been what he wanted to talk about. But he hadn’t gotten the chance to talk about any of this, not even to John, and it felt apt to spill out of him anyway if he didn’t let it. Being able to put what had happened to him in words, after weeks of stumbling around in a haze of pain - it was almost a novelty. There was a sense of relief in knowing that he was alive to tell the story. Even if he was telling the story to strangers. Even if the strangers were people he was supposed to be hustling.

“It’s some family illness,” Cody went on. Cole’s question had practically begged for him to justify himself. He drummed his fingers on the table, unsure if the nerves were from the game, from telling this story, or both. “My dad had it, and he died from it. There’s nothin’ in Oregon that can help it, not for very long, so I had to get the money to send her to Canada. My friend’s the head of a gang, so I borrowed from him.”

Canada had better technology, better doctors - it was practically a hundred years in the future, compared to the States. Everyone knew that. Cole pursed her lips, some sort of understanding sparking in her eyes, and re-rolled the dice.

“Fifty-five,” she said, glancing under the cup. That was ballsy.

“Sounds like your friend ain’t really your friend anymore,” Pem commented, taking the cup from Cole. Like everyone else at the table, he looked interested in Cody’s story. Superficially, at least.

“I’ve never heard of a gang takin’ fingers on a first offense, even for that much money,” Nash said. He looked a little put off by the thought, but also a little fascinated. “It ain’t right. Especially if the boss is your friend, yeah?”

“I told him he could take my fingers, if I didn’t pay him back,” Cody said, with a dry laugh. He seemed to recall admitting that to John, too, but he’d been in and out of consciousness so often that it was hard to tell if the memory was real. “I guess he took it too seriously. He’s always been kinda dramatic.”

“Still,” Nash said, shaking his head ,“it ain’t right.”

He had a point, Cody realized, quite suddenly. What Ethan had done - it wasn’t right, even if Cody had been the one to suggest it in the first place. The idea was almost a novelty, maybe because no one had told him in such plain, certain words that what had been done to him was wrong.

“I guess,” he mumbled.

“Is that why you’re here?” Cole asked. “Getting the money to pay your debt?”

“It’s your turn, Mr. Pemberley,” Jacquet interjected, but the table largely ignored them.

“Hell, no,” Cody said. The idea was so far-flung that he almost laughed. “I’m on the run, now.”

He had to win John back before they could be properly on the run again, but Cole and Nash didn’t need to know that part. If they knew there was someone in the building Cody was trying to win back, if they knew how desperate he actually was, they’d use it against him. They may have been friendly, but everyone around the table was still playing the game.

“Where’ll you run to?” Cole asked.

It was a decent question, one Cody hadn’t thought about, nor one he’d talked about with John. He knew they were going to the Mississippi, but after that, it was anyone’s guess. Hopefully Ethan wouldn’t even bother chasing them that far. But Cody knew Ethan - when he wanted something, he was like a wolf with a dead animal locked in its jaws. He wasn’t apt to let go anytime soon.

“Out East,” he said, with a shrug. “Hopin’ a gang from Oregon won’t bother goin’ that far just for one guy who owes ‘em money. I guess we’ll see.”

“Well, good luck with your little road trip, Mr. Allison,” Nash said, apparently genuine. “I hope you don’t think we’re about to go easy on you, even so.”

“Never,” Cody said, managing a genuine grin at Nash.

“Mr. Pemberley,” Jacquet said, a little pleadingly, trying to get the game back on track. “Please make your move.”

“Oh, all right,” Pem said, with a theatrical sigh. He leveled a finger at Cole. “You know what I think? You’re bluffin’.”

“Again?” Cole asked, with feigned surprise. “I don’t see why you’d accuse me. I didn’t even rely on Mr. Allison’s roll this time. I rolled my own dice and everything.”

“I still think you’re a liar,” Pem said, and wasted no time in pulling the cup up from the table, to prove it.

Only, he didn’t. The dice on the table each showed a five, facing upwards - a fifty-five, just like Cole had said. The same trick Pem had beaten her with in the practice round. Cody watched her carefully, and saw a smile curling over her lips.

“I believe that’s what they call a taste of your own medicine, Mr. Pemberley,” she said, and Nash laughed.

3.11 || 3.13

#story

[solaciummeae]

The Glow Inside Burns Light Upon Her; I’ll Try to Kiss You If You Let Me | Part 18

MOOD MUSIC

She’d gotten up early that morning for seemingly no reason at all. The house had been relatively quiet as of late. When Bobby had finally returned to discover Jude was back he’d put a hole through the living room wall. But other than that, there seem to be a certain peace that had taken over– as much as their world could offer.

Emma had lie in bed for a good hour before she finally gave up getting back to sleep. Jude was already long gone as he was always an early riser. During her time alone she’d contemplated a great many things as she often did. She couldn’t keep herself from thinking about Myranda frequently even though the blonde hadn’t been seen or heard from since Sam sent her packing.

Upon turning to finally get out of bed, she notices the way her legs dangle above the floor. As she scoots off and they touch down she’s reminded of Myranda once more. The expert hunter had been a good four inches taller than Emma herself. She finds herself wondering about the length of her legs and can’t help but remember thoughts of Jude’s.

That first time Myranda had shown up seeking help the thoughts and emotions radiating from Jude had been dense and far reaching. Maybe he’d been too distracted to realize that Emma was reading him but she’d done it none the less.

She can’t help but look down at herself now and compare herself to the other woman. Granted, she’d done a great deal of training up since then. Somehow, she still felt inadequate. She feels lower to the ground than she usually does, as though someone could easily step on her if they so desired. Of course this wasn’t true, but Emma feels the need to seek out some answers of her own directly from the source.

She makes it down the stairs to find him standing in the kitchen pouring himself some orange juice. He’s just replaced the cap on the carton when she makes her presence known. “I have a question.” She begins as he raises the glass to his lips. Without waiting for further prompting she asks, “Do I have short legs?”

Jude, completely confused by the question, gives a low snort in response. He takes a long drink too tired to read her mind. He’s not sure where this is going, but he’s up for the surprise. He briefly waits while swallowing the juice easily as she continues.

“Its just that– you seemed to be really impressed by Myranda’s legs– but she was a lot taller than me– so I’m thinking mine can’t possibly be quite as impressive as hers. Maybe if I wore shorts like hers–”

As soon as the first part comes out he chokes, violently pulling the glass away from his lips. As she goes on, he has to force the rest of the liquid down his throat so as not to spit it out completely. By the time she gets to the part about the shorts he’s managed to eliminate any further threat of choking but his throat burns. He puts his hands out to stop her from speaking further before he can interject.

Emma all but rolls her eyes at him, crossing her arms over her chest. “I mean– come on, you totally had sex with her– you’ve got to know the full extent of just how far those legs go.”

Jude coughs again harshly, wondering what he’d done to get himself into this position so early in the morning. “Please stop talking.” His words are short, his tone flat. He doesn’t want to get into this conversion with her. Normally one to keep his cool, he can feel his skin beginning to heat. He immediately raises defenses in his mind so she can’t get a read on him. He wants to use the excuse that its too personal, but finds himself feeling as though he shouldn’t keep it from her.

Emma steps closer to him, refusing to back down. She knows he’s uncomfortable. The air is thick with awkward tension between them– only it doesn’t come from her. She’s certain of herself. She wants to know. Instinctively, she starts try to dig into his mind but its as if nothing is there. Her mouth falls opens as her hands find her hips. “You’re blocking me out!” Her voice rises in accusation.

The blonde puts his hands out again as if to stop her from losing her temper. “Emma– please–”

She doesn’t even know how to feel. They’d had this open door policy since they’d begun to fix things between them. It stings that this is one thing he refuses to be open with her about. She glares at him. “It was that good, huh?” She barks, reaching out to shove him. Seconds after she releases a scoff, shaking her head and making to leave the room.

So maybe she felt the need to sulk over it for a while and maybe it was childish. The fact that he’s secretive about it is what truly bothers her. Half the time she can’t even bring herself to believe that they have this grand destiny together. She almost wants to encourage him to see other people as long as they’re not like Myranda. Still, she denies the jealousy that stirs within her.

“Emma wait–” He calls after her, his feet instantly carrying him to follow her. He catches her arm and pulls her to face him, fully preparing for the hand to fly across his cheek.

She turns on him, her own pride over not wanting to admit how bothered she is getting the better of her. She works to form walls of her own in her mind so that he isn’t able to see the animosity brewing. “Look– I don’t care, okay? I don’t care what you did with her. I don’t care how you felt about her. To be honest, I wanted you to get a girlfriend– I just didn’t need her to be abusive toward me or manipulative toward you.” She begins her tone remaining surprisingly impartial. “If you don’t want me to know I get it– my curiosity got the better of me– its none of my business.” She tells him apologetically. “Now can I have my arm back?”

He can’t imagine what the level of astonishment looks like that overtakes his features. When she confesses to having wanted him to see other women just not the way he had, it sends a shock through him. His mouth agape, he tries to form any kind of argument but she’s so calm and collected about all of it. Again, he finds himself caught off guard by the changes in her since he’d left and come back.

Never one to take things at face value when it came to her he tries to get into her mind. He heaves a sigh, the rest of his features falling as his eyes close. “Yeah okay– so if you’re so cool with this then why won’t you let me in?” He asks, resigned to the idea of confrontation with her. If nothing else, he can’t say she isn’t worth fight for or– in this case– with.

She doesn’t yank her arm from his grip in an effort to prove the act she puts on is real. Instead, she reaches her free hand to pull his away, taking a step back. “My mind is my own. You don’t need to be in it twenty-four seven.” She tells him simply before making to return to her bedroom. Maybe it was too early to be awake. Sleep tended to help any problem. Then again, she can’t help the fear that he’ll invade her privacy when she’s unconscious.

He opens his eyes to look into hers as she gently pulls his hand away from her. She resonates firm resolution of her own, but its different than his. She seems too willing to forfeit and walk away. He can’t help but feel as though he’s failed her again. Her statement leaving a sense of loss within him. It seemed as though they were back to where they’d started.

He blocked her out because he was doing everything he could to keep her from getting hurt by his poor decisions. Whereas she blocked him out for God only knows what reason. He wants to make it right but he’s not quite sure how to yet.

No matter the circumstances, Emma was different from any other woman he’d ever been with. He seemed to always be at a loss for how to handle things where she was concerned. Normally, he might make a joke about it being okay to be jealous– but with Emma, that could be a death sentence. “Please don’t walk away from this.” He finally pleads as she ascends the stairs.

She stops halfway up and turns to face him, her lips pursed together. Her shoulders rise and fall again, this time– at least outwardly– she does nothing to conceal her defeat. “I don’t know what there is left to say.” She states neutrally. “I don’t know what you want from me.”

His thoughts race to find a solution– something he’d considered himself good at up until seven months ago. He finds that his words don’t seem to be enough. He feels the need to show her instead, but he can’t bombard her with the truth.

He’d been played by Myranda, but it wasn’t that black and white. He’d developed this deep infatuation with her. It had helped him to glaze over the fact that the woman before him now had seemingly wanted nothing to do with him. Maybe he shouldn’t have handled it the way he had. Maybe he shouldn’t have let her so close. He’d be the first to admit that– but it didn’t change the fact that he’d done it anyway.

He worries that if he comes clean about all of it now, its only going to push Emma away further. He isn’t sure there’s anything he can do but let her go to her room until she’s ready to see him again. It leaves the very real fear rushing through him that she’ll refuse to see him again. It occurs to him that she still stands there, looking at him with the kind of exhaustion that comes from fighting– too hard, for too long.

“Yeah– I thought so.” She heaves an exasperated sigh before climbing the rest of the way to the second floor. She enters her room and closes the door behind herself, leaving it unlocked despite that same pride that won’t let her give in. She throws herself back onto the bed, falling into place against the messy sheets and strewn pillows.

He wants to follow her. Everything in him tells him that’s what he should do, but he’s still so frightened of doing the wrong thing– pushing her too hard. He’s also certain that he owes her an apology, again. A breath of air mimicking hers escapes him as he runs a hand down his face. The last thing he needs is to get kicked out of the house again. Though the last time he’d left her alone in her room– the consequences had been devastating.

He thinks over his options for a good few minutes before finally following after her. He makes a silent promise to not make any attempts at reading her thoughts or her emotions. As he hits the top step, he’s still on the fence about whether or not he should out himself to her.

Preparing himself for the immediate rejection he might face, he knocks on the door. He tries the handle, half expecting her to have locked him out. He almost wants to laugh at the irony of the fact that they had some kind of fate together when they never seemed to be able to figure things out. He’s never struggled so hard in his life to make a relationship work with another person. It triggers the thought in his head that maybe that’s why the others hadn’t been right– because they’d been too easy.

She lies facing the wall as she normally does to sleep comfortably. Of course, her mind is far too busy for rest to take over but her eyes remain closed. She knows that no one else is home thus leaving it no mystery as to who enters the room. She does nothing to avoid him as she listens to his footsteps come closer to his side of the bed. Even as he comes to rest beside her, she doesn’t shy away. The defenses in her mind are still on high alert. She doesn’t want to fight. She doesn’t want him to feel guilty. Most importantly, she doesn’t want him to feel obligated.

He looks her over, his fingers reaching to tuck stray hair behind her left ear. She looks so peaceful he’d almost buy what she was selling. However, her mind is still a blank slate as if she’s not lying a foot from him.

“Emma–” He begins, as though the words will magically come to him if only he attempts to speak.

There are about a hundred responses she can think of– all of which have the same outcome– one she doesn’t desire. So instead, she asks him an honest question. Her face remains calm, her eyes still shut as though she were trying to sleep. “Why is it that we always fight? If the future is what it is– why can’t we ever make it work?”

He blinks a few times slowly, wondering to himself how its possible that with both of their defenses up– she still manages to know exactly what he’s thinking. “I don’t know…” He replies, a frown across his features. He can’t help the anxiety over where she’s going with this.

“I don’t know either.” Her voice comes back tinged with a certain melancholy.

His hand reaches over to her again, this time tilting her head up to face him even though she doesn’t look at him in return. He doesn’t want to fail her anymore, he can’t keep letting her down. It occurs to him that maybe he’d made assumptions for far too long. Maybe he’d assumed things he’d no right to. He shifts his jaw, retracting his hand. He’s scared to even ask the question that pries at his sanity. “Do you love me Emma?” He finally inquires softly, cutting through the silence between them.

He worries over the question now too late to take back. Again, he makes internal promises to himself that no matter how she reacts, he won’t get upset. As her eyes open to look at him, she seems confused. That same fear sets in that maybe he’s pushed to hard– maybe that question hadn’t even been fair.

She can only hope that anything she’s trying to hide isn’t betrayed by her appearance. Her eyes dart between his as she considers his question fully. The answer was quite simple. She does love him. The hang up is that she’s loved people before– people she’d hoped and prayed wouldn’t leave her but had anyway.

She wants Jude to be different. She wants to give him that chance. However, the way he asks leaves her feeling as though the problem here is her. She’s always got her guard up. She’s always keeping her distance regardless of how she feels toward him. Its as though she is incapable of letting herself be with him because she’s worried that the second she does– it’ll be over.

“Yes.” She replies slowly, her eyes falling away.

Knowing her the way he does, its to be expected that she process things the way only she can. She tends to get lost in her mind which is why more often than not, he prefers to be in it as well. Being blocked out the way he is at present, his own thoughts become frenzied with paranoia. She’d taken a long time to say such a short word. He fights to keep from over-analyzing this but he worries none the less. His eyes lower so as not to come off as staring her down as he nods slowly in response.

She can tell that he’s troubled by the way she’d responded. She knows that if she’d just let him into her thoughts, he’d be able to understand. Then again, if she did that– he’d know just how much it really killed her to think of him with anyone else. Her eyes flash up as he nods without another word.

“I do–” She repeats adamantly. “I’ve just– never been good at this stuff– and even when it did seem good– something bad always happened– and then they always left and never came back– I don’t know– how to do this…” She rambles, doing her best to make him understand without the internal perspective.

He wants to laugh at the way she nervously rambles in explanation, but he hates what she’s been through. It isn’t funny. She deserves better than she’s had, but he’s sure she doesn’t even know that herself at this point. He moves closer to her in an instant to kiss her if only to stop her from stumbling over her words.

The larger part of his intent is to reassure her that none of that is going to happen to them. At the idea, he realizes that something bad did happen– he did leave. The only difference between himself and the others was that he’d come back. As he pulls away, he’s sure she can feel the remorse over his past transgressions coming off him in waves.

She frowns as he retreats, having just settled into the pressure of his lips against hers. “You know– you can’t just do that every time you don’t want to hear the truth.” She chides, her eyebrows knit together. She’s not even sure that made sense but it wouldn’t be the first time nor the last her words got mixed up.

“Yeah okay–” He starts, squinting across to her.

“Alright fine– a question for a question–” She wagers. “Why are you always so sure of this? Why do you– love me?” She falters over the last part. Even if he said it a hundred times a day and meant it– she’d still struggle to believe it as truth from him.

He scoffs, his eyes glancing away before returning to her. “That’s two questions.” He corrects.

“Just answer or I’ll know you’re avoiding it– them.” She shoots back.

His eyes narrow on her again as he takes into consideration the depth of his answers. If she got to take her time responding, so did he. Now that he really gives it thought, he doesn’t exactly know how to explain it.

“I don’t know– it just seems natural– like believing in God– even though you can’t see him or hear him or physically touch him– you know he’s there. He’s constant. It just seems right. That’s how I feel about us–” He replies to the first. “And honestly– I could write an entire book to answer that second question– so if you really want to know– we’re going to be here for a while.”

Her lower lip hangs open, her eyelids blinking rapidly. Admittedly, she hadn’t expected the answer to be that good– that concrete. A second later she scowls at him. “I hate you.” She grumbles, turning to lie on her back so she doesn’t have to look at him.

“Ouch– guess you lied before about that whole “loving” thing…” He teases, making a face. “Does that mean I don’t get another question? You still owe me you know?”

She’s half a mind to reach over and slap him upside the back of the head. “You’re so not funny.” She continues to pout toward the ceiling. She’s so caught up in working over the answer he’d given her that she almost allows her mind to open up to him.

“Hey– you asked me a question– I answered it– you’re the one who didn’t like what you got out of it.” He’d been joking at first but the more his words repeat within his own mind, the more meaning they hold.

It wasn’t entirely untrue in more than one instance. She often showed severe distaste for their supposed future– largely because of him it seemed. He can’t help but feel as though he’d subconsciously meant more by what he’d said. She’d didn’t seem to like what she got out of this whole destiny deal– like he wasn’t what she’d wanted.

Its this thought process that triggers his awareness of the question he wants to ask next. Its a question that he feels the need to know deep to his core. He may be certain of her– certain of what they had– but she wasn’t. He’d be a fool to not know why that was, but the question still begs asking.

“Do you love me like you loved the others or am I just– second best…?” He finally utters quietly, keeping his tone even.

She keeps her back flat to the mattress but her head turns to face him. She wants to play it off as meaning less, but she knows he’s serious. She can feel the dull pain ebb away in her chest at the idea that Jude could ever come second to anyone. She’s stunned for a moment, something he has a strong knack for doing to her.

“The others–” She stops short. Apparently, her reply wouldn’t come so smoothly as his had to her previous question. “Its different. I can’t compare you to them–”

“But you do.” He cuts her off gently. “Otherwise you wouldn’t keep expecting me to leave like you do.”

“Would you let me finish?” She snaps defensively. “I can’t compare you to them, because you’re not like them–” She pauses to compose herself. “You don’t keep secrets from me– you don’t disappear for extended periods of time with no reasonable explanation when you come back– you don’t make me feel like I’m the only one fighting for this to work–” She takes a short breath before continuing on. “In fact, you treat me so well I don’t even know how to take it half the time– you– you just–” She struggles to find the right words.

“Love you?” He offers sheepishly.

“Yes!” She cries, turning her head back to face the ceiling. “I don’t know what to do– because I can tell you do– and I feel like I’m never going to live up to what you deserve in return.” She goes on, this time more vehemently. “You couldn’t possibly be second best– because you are the best that I’ve ever had.” Her voice cracks at the end causing her to swallow to keep from choking.

He has to resist the urge to smile at the way she struggles to get out her response once more. He watches her as she stares at the ceiling above them, a look of great determination through her eyes. He’s not amused by the tension he can just barely feel emanating from her– more so relieved at her confession. He’s always wondered if he didn’t measure up– if the reason she didn’t give him her heart openly was because she hadn’t the love left to give. He allows the silence to linger between them before deciding on a proper response to what she’d told him.

She senses his eyes on her, causing her eyebrows to pull together as she debates her options. She wants to yell at him to say something but doesn’t out of concern for just what he’d say to her. Instead, a deep seated breath leaves through her nostrils. All at once, she releases her thoughts and emotions in a flurry aimed in his direction beside her. It goes against everything she’d normally do– but she feels it necessity.

He’s overwhelmed as the walls in her mind come down and he’s swallowed by the truth he’d sought out just moments before. He can see this image of Myranda in her mind’s eye– distorted, yet not the usual way. Instead, the other woman seems this perfect being. Emma seems to think she has no reason to even try to compete with her as her failure to do so would be a miserable defeat. She also replays some thoughts and emotions that Jude recognizes as his own having met Myra for the first time. His eyes close as a reflex, a grimace forming to match. Above all, Emma sends a strong wave of jealousy– jealousy that stems from a feeling of inadequacy.

He wants to tell her to stop, but this is exactly what he’d asked for. He can’t help but feel as though he has some owning up to do on his end. As his eyes open to look on her, he reaches for her hand. It takes him a minute to gather his thoughts enough to speak. While its a risk either way, he feels some warning is necessary. He chooses rather to send that warning in his mind feeling almost afraid of the sound of his own voice.

He holds tightly to her hand his eyes focused on hers even as she refuses to meet his gaze. ‘Before we do this– I need you to see it through– you’ve already seen the aftermath. So please, don’t get up and walk out– don’t assume you know where its going.’ He pleads, the expression on his face matching that of his thoughts.

She nods in turn, closing her own eyes this time. Admittedly, she fears what she’ll see– what she’ll feel– but she also needs to know.

He nods slowly again in response before starting with the memory of Myranda knocking on the front door. He leaves out no detail as he replays the process of his reactions to her presence, from the first meeting all the way until he’d found out that she’d been taking advantage.

He goes through every part– how they’d worked together, how impressed he’d been, how they’d flirted, the first time she’d been so bold as to kiss him, all of the teasing she’d done, the sex– right up until the point where the truth had come out. He makes a point to let Emma feel how everything before that had twisted into meaning nothing– the betrayal he’d felt and the disgust in not only her but himself.

The memories are just enough to tell Emma exactly what she needs to know, what she’d questioned him about. As the images of Myranda leave his mind, they’re replaced by those of Emma herself– sitting crumpled up on the bed in Sam’s room. He shows her everything he was feeling that night– how he’d been too worried about her to even continue thinking about the manipulation he’d been put through.

He lets her feel the burn in his chest that just the sight of her had caused– the realization that Myranda was a cheap replacement for Emma who was so much more than the blonde could ever be. His eyes stay fixed on her as her face contorts to react to all of the information there is to process. He can only hope that she knows now that Myranda could never be all that she was to him. As his control over her mind subsides, he brings her hand to his lips– pressing them firmly as one final reminder that he is right where he wants to be.

Emma, as someone easily overtaken by the strong emotional transference of reading someone else, has to keep her breath steady. Throughout the process, she sure she does a fair amount of cringing and flinching. However, there’s such a strong undertone through all of it. He makes such a point to be so sincerely honest about the entire thing– that Emma is more important that Myranda could have ever been.

She finds her heart breaking for him. He’d really had no idea just how wrong it had been until the very end– the very end when he’d been forced to leave despite only wanting to stay and repair the damage. She begins to feel as though she’s largely to blame for the months they’d both suffered. If she’d just asked him to stay, instead of driving him out.

Maybe he’d made some mistakes, but now that she sees it all from his perspective– there was little to blame him for. In a sense, she’d made him feel so unwanted that he’d searched for love elsewhere because he felt he couldn’t be enough for her. He’d only done what was natural and she’d punished him for it.

She’d thought she might feel angry at him once learning the truth– some form of resentment over his transgressions. Yet somehow, she finds her own are greater, and the guilt it leaves her with is suffocating.

He lies beside her, his thumb gently moving over the back of her hand as he waits for any kind of verbal response. He expects her to want to be alone. He expects her to ask him to leave and give her space upon knowing all that he did– but instead he’s hit with a wall of grief.

Instead of blaming him as he’d anticipated, she blames herself. He props himself up, shaking his head vigorously as he looks down at her. His hand leaves hers only to reach to touch her face. “Hey…” He calls out, hoping to stop her from self-destructing. “Don’t do that.”

Her face crumbles, the tears slipping underneath her eyelashes even as she refuses to open her eyes. As part of her newest promise to herself, she acts on her first instinct. She turns to face him, moving closer and hiding her face in the fabric of his shirt as the choked sobs overcome her ability to stop them.

He relaxes back into the mattress, using the arm that had been holding his weight up to slide around her. He pulls her tightly into his arms, resting his chin atop her head and beginning to hum a song he’d written about her long ago. He is in no way perturbed by her reaction– he knows her too well for that. Especially given a recent memory reading session where she’d relived the pain of her past, he’d say this is a perfectly normal response.

Emma covers her face with her hands even as she hides herself in the protection of his body. She keeps promising herself she’ll get better at this, that she won’t keep falling apart. It doesn’t stop her from feeling stupid or worthless even as she listens to his voice. He must catch some of the self-deprecating bits going through her mind because shifts just long enough to kiss her forehead before retaking his position of holding her to him. She can’t even find her own voice long enough to say the thought that just keeps repeating above all else in her mind– that she’s sorry.

Jude allows his own emotions to overpower hers– calmness, certainty, and confidence that they’re going to get through this. As he pushes his own feelings toward her, his own thoughts intrude upon hers. He tells her how much he loves her, how important she is to him, that its okay to be upset sometimes, and that they too would be okay now.

In the back of his mind, he wonders if maybe she should try to see someone like he had. Maybe it was what she needed more than anything he could give– to be with someone else without all of the baggage. His mind subconsciously turns to Dean and without realizing immediately, a pang of jealousy goes through his system.

That was the funny thing about being psychic, sometimes things escaped that you hadn’t intended. He knows she’s figured him out as she pulls away and looks at him in such a way he isn’t sure what she’s feeling. “It was just an idea…” He defends softly.

She scowls up into his blue eyes as her own seem to penetrate to all that lies behind them. She seems to have regained just enough strength to fight him on the ridiculous plan he’s working over his mind where he thinks she can’t reach. “Why?”

“Because–” He pauses, trying to find the right words so as not to set her off. “–maybe I’m not what you need right now.”

Her eyes narrow on him the same way they had earlier and just like that her fire seems to have rekindled. “Didn’t we already try that?” She asks him incredulously. “And it didn’t work right?”

He sighs, glancing away and momentarily tightening his jaw. “We tried me seeing someone else– I don’t think you and Dean really count–”

She doesn’t give him the chance to continue before interjecting. “Why not? I did try– it didn’t work.” She argues firmly.

“Emma– come on–”

“No– you come on–” She presses her hands to his chest and gives a light shove. “I’m done trying to “see other people” because it doesn’t ever work. Why should I bother when I know its you I should be fighting for? That’s like asking for failure– who does that?” She demands angrily. She knows she might be rambling but her mind almost moves too fast for her words to keep up. “Unless you’re giving up. In which case– fuck you, you’re a liar and you better not plan on–”

He attempts to cut her off as she shoves him, and then again when she begins to berate him for the reasons why his idea is stupid. He holds out a hand between them as she pauses to figure out where to take her rant next. As she proceeds to accuse him of giving up on their relationship he rolls his eyes at her.

By the time she swears at him he decides that action without thought is his only hope of stopping her tirade. He moves to kiss her before she get the words out that are already shouting at him in his mind. He doesn’t hesitate to move his lips with hers even as her thoughts tell him he “might as well leave now and not come back this time.” He can feel her staring at him, refusing to respond physically even as his eyes remain closed. He pretends to ignore her quiet rage, pulling away just enough to bounce his lips off of hers a few more times.

This time she doesn’t act on the instinct to shove him away and slap him. She knows that regardless of where they stand, physical abuse as a response to affection wasn’t the answer. Instead, her hand reaches between them to grip his jaw, holding him in place as she moves away. “That’s not an answer.” She grumbles.

He feigns a sigh of frustration even though he finds it increasingly more impossible to be upset with her with each passing moment of each passing day. He grins through her hold on his face with a casual shrug of his shoulders. “It could be– maybe you’re just not paying close enough attention.”

Her fingers tighten, molding to the hollows of his cheeks. She leans in of her own volition this time to return the several kisses he’d given her which she’d seemingly ignored. Her eyes fall shut, this time pressing her mouth firmly to his just long enough to prove her point. As she pulls away from him, she shifts to climb off of the bed– leaving him lying there on his own.

“Disappointing– I actually liked where this fight was headed– what could possibly be more important?” He complains, watching her as she makes her way to the door, and opens it to leave. He does nothing to stop his eyes from traveling over her body as she moves. Nor does he attempt to conceal the same kind of thoughts he’d had the night he’d found out about Adam being their son.

She stops to lean against the door frame– acting as though she can’t read every inappropriate thought and emotion coming from him. “Well– I’m thirsty– and that orange juice you choked on earlier looked real good so I thought I’d take my short legs and go get some for myself.” She deadpans, the corners of her lips pulling down and jumping back up as if with a shrug of their own. “Is that okay with you?”

He doesn’t want to admit that she’s as funny as she is but he can’t hide the snort that escapes him. “Hey– do what you have to– but for the record– I made no such comment about your legs– which by the way are perfect just the way they are.”

Emma’s head falls as she extends an index finger to point at him. “Uh huh–” She utters before bringing her eyes up and arching a brow at him just as she exits through the door. “Watch it.”

#indie drabble #supernatural drabble #spn drabble #spn rp #supernatural rp #verse: supernatural #series: so this is where the story ends; or have we just begun #relationship: could this be out of line; to say youre the only one #muse: emma #muse: judah #drabbles: emma #drabbles: judah #i cant even call this a starter