#raising him. something that grows heavier once he walks into the life you abandoned. BUT THEN..... the reality of what almost happened is

[fanmoose12]

on the coastline of memories

a second part to this!

“You shouldn’t do it,” Armin says gently, his eyes an endless sea of sorrow.

“The commander is gone, Captain,” Jean tells him, his voice quiet and bitter. “There is nothing left of her.”

“It would only make the pain so much worse,” Mikasa adds, weary and heartbroken.

“Hange-san wouldn't have wanted you to suffer,” Connie agrees with a faraway look. “None of them would.”  

And, maybe, they’re right, Levi thinks, looking at their worn-out faces. Maybe, it’s better this way. Maybe, he should just let go.

He can’t.

So he packs a few changes of clothes, takes a few things from the office, from her office, and boards the first ship, headed towards Odiha.

A journey by plane would take a lot less time, but after all he has been through, after her sacrifice — Levi doesn’t trust planes that much.

***

He gets off the ship and someone immediately approaches him. He turns his head to the side – damn his lost eye – and sees a Cart Titan, Pieck, standing beside him.

“Captain,” she greets. “May we have a talk?”

Levi doesn’t understand the reason for it, what could they possibly talk about it? But he nods and follows after Pieck, as she leads him to a more secluded area.

“I’m not sure if that’s true,” she fidgets, wriggling her fingers and looking slightly above his shoulder, refusing to meet his gaze. Watching her behave so awkwardly around him, Levi is hit with a realization – she is still so young. How old is she? Twenty? A bit more? She’s not much older than the brats from his own squad. So young and already she’s seen so much, lost too much, but— Levi muses, he was all the same. All of them – Erwin, Mike, Nanaba, Moblit - they were young. Too young for this war. Too young to die.

Hange— Hange was too young to die too.

Levi shakes his head, chases those thoughts away. They’re pointless, they bring nothing but pain. Instead he focuses on Pieck.

“There are reports about… someone living in the abandoned cabin near the port. I went to check, albeit from afar, but it seems…” she pauses then, and looks at Levi, tilting her head. “Maybe, you should sit down?”

“I’m not an old man,” Levi grunts, despite feeling very much like one. “What were you saying?”

Truthfully, Levi doesn’t pay much attention to what Pieck is saying. Something about an abandoned cabin, about someone occupying it… what relation does it have to him?

“I was saying,” Pieck looks straight into his eyes, her gaze unwavering. “I think Commander Hange is alive.”

Levi blinks – once, twice, thrice, but he doesn’t understand. What Pieck is saying… it can’t possibly be true. And if that’s not the truth, then it can only be—

“Is this a joke?” he says in a low voice, an almost forgotten feeling of cold fury washing over him. He clenches his hands into fists and they tremble from barely restrained anger, as he glowers at Pieck. “Do you think that’s funny?”

“No!” Pieck cries out, and the distress on her face looks fairly genuine. It chases some of his anger away. “I couldn’t believe it myself, and I’m not one hundred percent sure yet, Commander’s face isn’t the same as it was, but—”

“Show me then,” Levi demands, cutting off her ramblings with a surprising desperation. He can’t believe Pieck, won’t believe her until he sees a living, breathing proof. But he gives her words the benefit of a doubt. It’s not hope, he persuades himself, he can’t afford to hope. He doesn’t think he’d be able to recover when it inevitably gets shattered.

“Of course,” Pieck easily agrees. “But before we go, I have to warn you – Commander isn’t the same as she was.”

“So you’ve told me.”

It’s natural, he thinks. If Hange was able to survive – which he still doesn’t believe in – of course, she wouldn’t be left unscarred. His face isn’t the same as it was too, after all.

“No,” Pieck shakes her head. “You don’t understand. I think she lost her memories. I’ve tried approaching her once, when she was visiting a nearby town, but— Commander didn’t even recognize me.”

Levi reflects on her words. He knows Pieck is sure that she had seen Hange, she wouldn’t have approached him or gone through all the trouble of finding him if she wasn’t. He doesn’t know her that well, but former Cart Titan doesn’t strike him as a cruel or imprudent person.

Pieck is sure that Hange is alive.

Levi doesn’t know how to feel about it. On the battlefield, he trusted Pieck with his life. But it’s not his life that is at stake right now, it’s his heart. And if it breaks one more time, Levi is sure – he will break too.

“Lead the way,” he asks in a quiet, faint murmur.

He doesn’t dare to hope. But as he follows after Pieck, he’s filled with nervous anticipation.

***

“Here,” Pieck raises a hand, pointing her finger at a small cabin at the coastline, hidden between two large trees. “Commander lives here.”

Levi looks at it, waits for something to happen. And then— something happens.

A person walks out of the cabin, oblivious to the company that watches them.

Levi squints his one remaining eye, gets a better look at that person— and feels his knees buckle.

It’s her, it’s Hange, there is no doubt about it. She’s standing far away from him, and Pieck was right, she doesn’t look like she used to – with burns adorning her face and half of her hair missing, but Levi recognizes her right away. It’s the way she holds herself, the way her shoulders are slightly slumped and her head is held high, as she stares at the horizon.

It’s Hange, she’s alive, Levi realizes, and sinks down to his knees.

“Hey, hey!” Pieck looks down at him, alarmed. “Are you alright?”

Levi glances at Hange once again, and he almost smiles. “I’m good.”

***

Once the initial shock washes over him, leaving him only slightly dazed and breathless, Levi gets back to his feet. He wants to go to Hange. He needs to go to Hange, needs to look into her eyes and hold her in his arms. Needs to tell her everything he kept unspoken.

He takes the first step with the intent to do exactly that. Nothing is going to stop him, them, this time, but then— then he remembers.

I think she lost her memories

He remembers Pieck’s words. He remembers Hange’s last years too - the weary look in her eyes, the absence of that loud laughter and bright smile. Remembers how easy it was for her to sacrifice her own life.

Maybe, Hange truly forgot about everything. It’s a blessing then and should be treated as such.

He doesn’t take another step forward. Instead, he turns around and leaves.

It’s better this way, he thinks.

The distance between him and Hange grows bigger and bigger. His heart grows heavier with every step.

***

In the end, despite his best efforts, he just can’t stay away. He knows he should, knows he has to let Hange go, but he can’t.

He’s just an old, broken man, who is too weak to resist.

He never shows his face, afraid that it could trigger Hange’s memories, afraid of what it would do to her, but he visits her cabin frequently.

Hange is isolated from the others, but there are things that she needs. He’s just helping her, Levi persuades himself, as he leaves small packages at Hange’s doorstep again and again.

And if sometimes, he stands in the distance, watching her - on the isolated coastline, no one is a witness to it.

***

Hange gets curious about him, of course. Levi isn’t surprised, she is the definition of that word, after all. She tries to catch him, runs out of the house every time he visits. Luckily, even old and beaten, Levi remains faster than her.

It is tempting, though. It is so tempting to just let Hange see him, to slow his step, to turn around and face her.

But then Levi remembers a quiet, broken whisper.

So just let me go, will you?

And he hurries to walk away, to leave Hange behind, persuading himself that it’s better this way.

***

One morning, he visits Hange at the very break of dawn. The sun is barely up in the sky, the world painted in a gentle pink light. The air is chilly and the cold wind ruffles his hair. The spring has just began, and so Levi wraps the coat tighter, shielding himself from the cold.

He approaches the cabin, his eyes trained at the sea. At the mornings like this, it looks particularly splendid.

Levi tears his gaze away from the mesmerizing view and turns to the cabin. He freezes, as he sees Hange sitting on a porch. He panics and means to flee that instant, but then he looks closer - Hange doesn’t react to him at all.

She’s asleep, he realizes with immense relief.

He realizes another thing then – it’s the first time he’s so close to Hange.

Slowly, he takes another step. She looks a bit ridiculous, with blanket wrapped all over her and only head sticking out, but she’s just like the sea, the sight of her so splendid, it’s hard for Levi to look away.

He climbs up to a porch and softly puts the package down. The sharp, familiar aroma fills his nostrils and the permanent scowl on his face softens, as he notices two cups of tea, standing on the table.

He takes one in his hands, inhales the scent deeper and takes the first sip. The tea is bitter and strong – just as he likes it.

“Thank you,” he whispers, as he puts the empty cup down.

Hange can wake up at any moment, he knows that. He should leave soon, he knows that too. But he stays behind, just for a couple of minutes. He watches Hange snore quietly, marvels at the way her chest moves up and down, at the small puffs of air that escape her mouth. The sight is warming him more than the hot tea. He leans in then, unable to resist. He leaves a soft kiss on forehead.

He gazes at her for another short moment, his chest filling with so much love and longing, it feels like it’s going to explode.

He doesn’t want to leave her, more than anything he just wants to stay with Hange. He wants to start a life with her, a life she promised to him, a life that became impossible when she decided that humanity is more important than their happiness.

But Hange is still alive, she can still find some happiness. In the meantime, he’ll be keeping watch over her.

It’s better this way, he remembers and forces himself to walk away.

***

Hange gets more vigilant after that, and Levi’s annoyance grows stronger. Is that so hard to simply accept his kindness? Why must she always stick her long nose where it doesn’t belong?

It takes him four days of almost constantly watching the damn cabin to catch the time where Hange isn’t waiting on a porch for him. He traveled to another town to get her those damn journals, and that’s how she repays him?  

What an insufferable, irritating douche.

What a pair they make.

***

Same as the amount of steps that led to the lab and the amount of turns he took to get to the Commander’s office, the trail to the cabin becomes so familiar that Levi can get to it with his eye closed. He knows every tree that stands along the way, every stone and bump on the road.

And as he walks it one day, Levi notices a new, strange smell. He follows it and finds a plate with pie on it and a cup of tea. A note lies next to it all, and Levi snatches it in his hands.

Since you don't let me thank you any other way, it reads. Levi rolls his eyes. Someone is a little passive aggressive, he muses, taking a bite of the pie.

It’s a little too sweet for his taste, but not awful. He likes it actually. Of course, there is no way in hell he’ll tell Hange about it. Teasing her became a second nature, and so, as he grabs a second piece of pie, he takes out a quill and sits down to write a reply.

A smirk pulls at his lips as he finishes his note. It’s a little rude, he knows, but it’s meant for Hange, the only person who was always able to see through the stern façade. He wonders if she still possesses this ability, or it was lost among with her memories. He hopes it was not.

He puts the note down, takes another piece of pie and leaves.

Work on your cooking skills, four-eyes. The pie was awful. Try adding less sugar next time. I think just a piece of this shitty pie could give someone cavities. Tea was good, though.

***

With the taste of pie still lingering in his mouth, Levi returns to a room he’s renting at a small motel not far from the ruined port.

Someone is standing next to his room, obviously waiting for him. Levi curses softly, recognizing Jean’s long face.

“Captain!” he raises his hand in greeting. “I was waiting for you.”

Dressed in a long coat, three-piece suit and with black hat on his head, Jean is the epitome of a charming young man.

“The kids have surely grown,” the voice in his head murmurs. It sounds suspiciously like Hange.

Jean looks at him, staring Levi in the eye, unflinching. A man in front of him is a far cry from the unruly teenager Levi was so used to.

He’s not much of a brat anymore, he thinks with a mixture of annoyance and pride. Jean grew into a good, noble man.

The beard is still ridiculous in Levi’s opinion.

“Come in,” he sighs, unlocking the door to his room and letting Jean go in first. “What brings you here?”

How were you able to find me, he wants to ask, but he can guess the answer himself. Apparently, he wasn’t the only one Pieck was watching over. Levi wonders how much she told to Jean and the others.

“I came here because of you,” Jean says, taking off his hat.

“Me?” Levi raises an eyebrow. “What do you need me for? Is there some trouble on the island?”

“No,” Jean shakes his head. “But… we’re worried about you. What are you still doing here, Captain? Why don’t you go home?”

Because it’s not my home anymore, Levi wants to say. The home is where the heart is, or so his mother used to say. His heart is living in the abandoned cabin on the coastline. And he won’t leave her this time.

He can’t say all of it to Jean, though. Obviously, he doesn’t know about Hange, he wouldn’t be asking the obvious question otherwise. And Levi can’t tell about her survival to the kids. He wants, but he can’t. He doesn’t want to compromise the safety of that secret. He doesn’t want to sabotage Hange’s chance at finding peace and happiness. Not again.

“It’s not any of your business, Kirstein,” he retorts, his voice harsher than Jean deserves.

Jean sighs, fiddling with his hat. “I saw you coming back from the beach this morning. Are you… still visiting that place?”

The way Jean looks at him – sad and weary – tugs at Levi’s heart. He can’t hold this gaze, and so he turns away, squeezing his hands into fists. He knows how he must look to the others, knows that they probably think that he’s an old, broken man who is going mad with grief.

He’s not mad, though. He is not. Pieck had seen her too.

“Thanks for the concern, Jean,” he says, and he means it. The kids’ worry and care warms his heart. “But I’m fine.”

“You won’t be going home with me then?”

“No,” Levi softly refuses. “I’ll stay here.”

Jean looks like he wants to argue, but Levi sends him a look, silencing him. Jean sighs again. Levi raises his hand to pat Jean on a shoulder, but then he realizes – Jean is too damn tall for him to do that. He tsks in annoyance, awkwardly lowering his hand.

“We’ve all grown so damn big, eh?” Jean teases with a small grin.

Levi scowls at him. Jean’s grin grows bigger.

“C’mon,” Levi says, leading Jean further into the room. “You didn’t just come here to persuade me to go back, right?”

“Well, actually…”

“So tall and still so stupid,” Levi remarks, making Jean chuckle. “Sit down, let me make you some tea. You can tell me how the others are you doing.”

“Thank you,” Jean nods, as Levi puts a cup with steaming tea in front of him. “The others are good, they’ve asked to pass on their best wishes to you. Connie wanted to visit you with me, but he broke his arm just a few days ago.”

“Broke his arm?” Levi asks, sipping his tea. “How did that happen?”

“Ah,” Jean chuckles. “The Marleyans showed us a new mean of transportation, called bicycle,” he frowns slightly, making sure to pronounce all the syllables correctly. “It’s like a horse, but a bit faster. Long story short, Connie tried to master that bicycle. He failed spectacularly, though.”

Levi hums, hiding a smile. “What about the others?”

“Armin is getting used to his new role bit by bit. Mikasa and Annie help him a lot. Historia’s baby is getting even more adorable, if you can believe it.”

Historia showed him her kid, while Levi was still on the island. She even let him carry him around, and Levi still remembers a knot in his stomach that appeared, when he took the kid from Historia’s hands. Jean is right, though, the baby is adorable. Just like his mother.

Jean continues talking after that, telling him a story of how Connie fell asleep during the government’s meeting and how Annie tried to bake a birthday cake for Armin, but Levi doesn’t listen to him anymore. Instead, he imagines a person, who would be sitting at his right. A person who would get worried after hearing about Connie’s broken arm and who would coo over Historia’s baby.

Hange would have loved to hear the news about kids. She would have loved to be a part of their lives.

As he absentmindedly listens to Jean, Levi has to remind himself of the truth that is bitterer than tea:

It’s better this way.

***

Jean returns to the island after spending a few days with Levi, and his life goes back to the already familiar routine. He visits Hange, brings a small gift or essentials, gets annoyed at the seemingly endless stream of questions she writes down in the small notes, curses her curiosity and answers her with sarcastic comments and crude jokes.

The life goes on, and Levi feels at peace.

***

He strolls through a town one day, passing by a flower stall. It’s amazing how quickly the world has recovered. Despite all these deaths, despite ruin and tragedy, people are trying to heal, desperate to get things back to the way they were. This kind of perseverance is admiring, Levi can’t help but think, as he watches an old woman selling a bouquet of daffodils to a shy-looking man.

Suddenly a splash of vivid purple color attracts his attention, and Levi subconsciously takes a step closer.

Hange told him once – when she was pissed drunk after a celebration of Mike’s birthday – that her favorite color is purple. Apparently, it reminded her of lavenders that grew on a field behind her childhood house.

“It always makes me think of warm, sunny days,” Hange said then, a big, happy grin on her face. “Those are my favorite kind. Just remembering them makes me feel so good.”

Before he can stop himself, Levi approaches an old woman and buys a pot of hyacinths. It’s not lavender from the fields behind her house, but hyacinths are very pretty too.

Hange always loved flowers, whenever they walked through town, she always stopped by a flower stall, admiring the bright, beautiful colors. As he takes a pot in his hands, Levi wonders if she would like those flowers too. Would they be enough to make her smile?

She isn't at home when he brings the flowers. It's the first time it happens, and Levi guesses that she probably went to explore what lies beyond her little cabin. Her absence does make him a tiny bit worried, but Levi isn't all that surprised by it. Hange is curiosity personified, after all, and he is glad that this side of hers has returned.

He leaves the flowers on the porch and walks away, wondering when Hange will come back.

***

He checks on her the next day, and finds that his flowers are now standing at the windowsill inside the cabin. There is also a note she left for him. He picks it up, his expression softening when he reads the beginning of the note.

His face changes, though, turning into a frown, when Levi sees a name Onyakopon written at the end. He crumbles the note in his fist and hurriedly leaves, his shoulders slumped.

He comes back to the motel and the sight of Onyakopon waiting for him in the foyer doesn’t surprise him at all.

"Captain!" the man quickly catches up with Levi, falling into step with him.

"I'm not Captain anymore," Levi grumbles, thrusting hands into the pockets of his pants. "I'm retired, if you didn't know."

Onyankopon nods, absentmindedly, and before he even opens his mouth, Levi knows what question he is going to ask him.

“Commander Hange? You knew that she’s alive?”

"None of your business," Levi quickens his step, and Onyakopon grabs the sleeve of his jacket, turning him around.

Levi wants to snap at him, to tell him to fuck off and leave him and Hange alone, but words die in his throat, as he sees the distress and concern etched on Onyakopon's face.

"I don't know why are you keeping all of this away from her, sir, but... She's suffering. She's hurting and she doesn't even know why."

"Did you tell her anything?" Levi asks, turning his face to the side, uncomfortable with the weight of Onyakopon's gaze.

"No," he shakes head, his voice defeated. "I didn't."

"Good," Levi nods. "It's better this way, believe me," he adds and walks away, leaving Onyakopon behind.

***

Despite his best attempts to ignore them, Onyakopon's words strike a cord inside him. They make Levi think, they make him question if—

She's suffering. She's hurting and she doesn't even know why.

If his course of action really is the best one.

It all crashes down on him when he finds a letter from Hange. In it, she asks him to reveal the truth. She begs him to tell her about her old life. He reads the letter again and again, doubt and uncertainty clouding his mind.

Does he have any right? Does he have any right to decide what's best for Hange? Shouldn't it be her own decision?

Maybe, Levi thinks, but then he remembers - a quiet, defeated voice, the dull, lifeless look and he thinks no, Hange deserves a second chance, she deserves a chance to live, to lead a life without pain and regrets.

Forgive me, he writes in response to her letter. But it's better this way.

***

 Hange doesn't write another note or letter for him after that.  It looks like she's ready to let go of her old life. It's a good thing, Levi knows that. But a part of him is disappointed. A part of him hasn't let go of Hange yet. A part of him hasn't stopped wanting to get her back at his side, right where she belongs.

A part of him regrets leaving that forest.

***

He still visits her, of course. Hange doesn't speak - or, well, write to him - but he continues to help her in what little ways he can.

He finds her journal during one of his visits. He shouldn't pry, he knows, but he takes it in his hands, opening it at a random page. A rough sketch of a bird - seagull, his mind supplies after a moment - is staring at him. The drawing is surrounded by short notes that detail various observations.

Levi flips over a page and sees another drawing - this one of a hyacinth's flower, leaf and root. Underneath Hange wrote more comments and remarks about the flower's characteristics - how it responds to sun deprivation and how many days it can survive without water before it starts wilting.

Levi smiles as he traces Hange's scribbles with his fingertips. Her passion and curiosity has returned, or so it seems. It warms his heart, makes him remember the good old days, when Hange was allowed to be Hange, when she was just a weird, eccentric scientist with an insatiable hunger for knowledge.

It brings back a particular memory, before the world has gone completely to shit, before it wasn't just them against the world, when the others - Erwin, Mike, Nanaba, Moblit - were still alive. When everything was so much easier.

He tears out a page out of the journal and writes down a short message.

Are your hobbies so boring that watching the birds is somehow fun for you?

***

Last time he said that, he didn't receive an answer, not really. This time, he does.

***

They start talking again, and their conversations – however short they are – never fail in brightening his day. Every word, every doodle Hange makes for him bring a smile to his face. They make him feel like Hange always made him feel during all those years they knew each other.

They make him feel alive.

Of course, Hange is still annoyingly noisy, she still asks him tons of questions, but this time Levi doesn’t ignore them. He doubts that his favorite color or a fact that he prefers to sleep on his left side would trigger some kind of painful memories.

So he continues talking to Hange, and Hange— Hange continues making him happy.

***

He doesn't believe in fate, destiny, providence or some other shit. He never did. He used to scoff at the madmen and drunkards from Underground who cursed God and fate for their misfortunes and he rolled his eyes every time he heard the cultists preaching about tragedies and sorrows that were destined to befall on people who dared to doubt their teachings.

But he does not know how else to call it, how else to explain the universe's apparent disinclination to keep Hange and him apart.

Is it fate, a miracle, or a mere coincidence? Levi isn’t a poet or philosopher, he’s a retired soldier. He doesn’t understand what force constantly brings them together.

But he’s thankful for it.

***

He is descending from the cabin's porch. Hange is bird watching and he knows from experience that it could take hours, if not more. That's why he allows his steps to be slower and more careful than usual. His wounds have healed but they don't let him forget, inconveniencing him at the most unfortunate of times.

He watches his step, grunting softly as he lowers one leg and then the other. It is only when he gets from under the roof, Levi notices that it's raining. The first droplet falls down on his head and he looks up.

And the time stops, because Hange is standing just a few steps away and she stares right at him and the look in her eyes, the one that was always reserved only for him, it tells Levi - she remembers.

"Levi," she calls him, again and again, and Levi realizes - no one had called him by his name for a long, long time. Ever since that fateful day when he thought that he had lost his heart forever.

But his heart is still with him, his heart is still alive. His heart is standing right in front of him and calls out his name.

His hands tremble with the desire to touch her, to feel her, and he clenches them into fists, stopping himself.

He has to make sure first. He has to be certain, so, taking a deep breath, he asks.

"So your memories returned?”

"They did," Hange answers, and, oh god, the sound of her voice. He missed it so much.

"And you..." his knees feel weak, and he shifts his weight from one foot to another. "And you aren't freaked by this?"

Aren't you angry with me, he wants to ask. What do you feel, he needs to know. He doesn't ask any of it, though.

He's afraid to hear the answer.

"I'm still processing," a tentative smile curls at her lips, as if answering Levi's unasked question. "Would you like to… help me with it?”

Would he like to? There is nothing more he ever wished for.

“I know I’ve talked about living in the forest," Hange adds. "but… will the coastline be good enough for you?”

The forest, coastline, city, what difference does it hold?

Home is where the heart is. And he's tired of contradicting that statement.

“You’re more than enough," he replies.

They start walking at the same time, as always perfectly in sync. And as they hold each other tightly, ignoring the rain, forgetting the pain, Levi thinks—

We are together - and it's so much better this way.

#it's basically the same thing but from levi's pov this time! #hope you guys enjoy #levihan #levihan fanfiction

[wave0fg00dvibes]

You’re my Home - Spencer Reid x Reader

Murders, betrayal, violence, and corpses. Or, in other words, a typical day at work for Dr. Spencer Reid.

He felt the overwhelming exhaustion of the day start to catch up to him as he climbed the concrete steps to the house. His messenger bag somehow seemed heavier than usual as his limbs began to give in to the stress the day had brought. He unlocked the door and stepped inside, making sure to lock it behind him and reset the alarm system.

The little house was silent. Not eerily so, but peacefully. Spencer closed his eyes, took a deep comforting breath, and smiled. He was home.

Home was the place where he didn’t have to worry about bodies dropping left and right. There was no one to pressure him to work harder or move faster. No profiling, combat, negotiation, or death. His only worries in this house involved toddler meltdowns and diaper changes, and he wouldn’t have it any other way.

Spencer walked past the living room to the hallway, noticing the many toys and books scattered about. Dirty dishes sat in the sink, and daily crafts were scattered across the kitchen table, long forgotten. He smiled to himself. He could only imagine what destruction your smart, chaotic, beautiful children had caused today.

He slowly made his way down the hall, arriving at the first door and quietly pushing it open. The princess night light cast a pink glow around the room, illuminating the face of his daughter, sleeping soundly.

She was turning 5 soon. Where had the time gone?

He seemingly blinked and Ava had transformed from a fussy baby into a tiny, wildly intelligent human that understood his racing thoughts. Though so very little, she was already discovering the wonders of books and knowledge, and striving to learn all she could get her hands on. He knew from the moment she was born they had a special bond. She is one of the only people who truly understands his mind, because she shares it.

He slowly crept into her room, sitting on her bed gently, as not to wake her. He attempted to subtly kiss her forehead, but she stirred and sleepily opened her eyes, taking a moment to process what was happening.

“Daddy?” She whispered. He couldn’t help but smile.

“Hi baby. I’m here.”

The excitement in her face was quickly replaced by her small body’s urge to fall asleep again.

“I missed you today.” She drowsily muttered.

“I missed you too.” He whispered back.

“Mommy read me Chaucer, but it wasn’t the same without you. It’s okay though. We can read some different subjects together! I want to learn more math, but she doesn’t like reading those to me as much as you do.”

Spencer felt his eyes slightly water. One of his greatest fears was missing these little moments with his children. He wanted nothing more than to read books and learn with Ava all day.

He also knew that you were an incredible mother who would read the entire phone book to Ava if she asked. You weren’t offended at all by Ava’s requests to read with her Dad. You knew their bond was special, and couldn’t be matched.

“I would love to learn some math with you. We can do that tomorrow though, okay?”

She nodded, smiling brightly as her eyes drifted closed again. His heart could hardly take the amount of love he harbored for that smile.

“Goodnight, Ava.” Spencer whispered, attempting to get up. She grabbed his hand before he could stand.

“Daddy, will you please stay just a little bit longer?”

She had him wrapped around her tiny finger.

“Of course I will.”

He held her hand and smoothed her hair back as she slowly but surely fell back into a deep sleep. Spencer pressed a kiss to her forehead, slowly put her hand back, and tip toed out of her room, quietly closing the door behind him.

Next, he made his way to the nursery.

He crept down the hall and into the baby’s room with ease. Ever so quietly, he leaned over the crib to observe the little boy, sound asleep.

Grayson had just turned 6 months old. It seemed like every time he got home from work his son had grown another inch.

Spencer didn’t want to wake him. Lord knows you had enough on your plate with the little sleep you got. He didn’t want to add to that stress. So, he simply watched Grayson’s tiny, adorable body squirm in his sleep.

It seemed like just yesterday he heard Ava’s first cry. How could time be flying by this quickly?

“Goodnight, Grayson.” He whispered, leaning down to kiss him on the forehead.

As he turned to leave the nursery, an intense feeling of guilt overwhelmed him. Lately, he was so caught up at the bureau that he barely saw his children in the daylight. He wasn’t able to read with Ava, hold Grayson, or spend any time with you, his wife, his life partner.

Spencer would rather die than abandon his family the way his father abandoned him. He couldn’t bear the thought of his babies not knowing him, not trusting him, never knowing how much he would give up for them. He felt his mind begin to spiral. So, as with many other intrusive thoughts, he pushed it away. He could deal with those feelings another time. Right now, he needed to sleep.

He stepped quietly into your bedroom, noticing that you left his lamp on for him. He smiled softly, heavy heart lifting a bit at the thought of you waiting up for him. He quickly put on his night clothes and padded to the bed.

Your shoulders rose and fell with every relaxed breath. Though you were facing away from him, he could tell you were wearing his favorite t-shirt. He smiled again and gently pulled back the covers.

You were pulled from your sleep as you felt your husband slide into the bed beside you. You sleepily, yet excitedly turned your body to face him, smiling and reaching your arms out to hold him.

Spencer surprised you. He gently cupped your face in his hands and kissed you deeply, longingly, passionately.

It must’ve been a really tough day at the BAU.

When he pulled back, his hands didn’t leave your face and you pressed your forehead to his.

“Do you want to talk about it?” You gently asked.

“No.” He stated. Kind, but firm.

You nodded. He would tell you later, when he was ready. He always did.

“Did you say goodnight to the babies?”

“Of course. Always.” You could hear the drowsiness in his voice as you felt the tension in his muscles begin to relax, but there was still something bothering him.

“Hey, what’s up?” You gently prodded, running a hand through his hair. He let out a deep sigh.

“It’s really nothing. I promise.”

You looked him straight in the eye. Your glance saying more to him than your words ever could.

Don’t shut me out, Spencer. I’m here.

He averted his gaze, but you brought your hand to his face, turning it to meet your eyes again. He could see the concern blooming, and was reminded how little he could hide from you. His partner. His person.

He couldn’t help the flurry of loving thoughts running through his mind as his eyes responded.

You are so beautiful.

You smiled. You knew he meant it, but there was something more. However, the bags under his eyes suggested it could be a conversation for another time.

You leaned in and pressed a light, lingering kiss to his lips.

He smiled back at you, thankful for your understanding. He turned his bedside lamp off and promptly pulled you as close to him as possible, limbs intertwining, hearts finally whole again.

You laid like that for a solid couple of minutes before his racing mind couldn’t take it anymore.

“Do you think they will resent me for not being around?”

You slowly opened your eyes and pulled back to look him in the eye, not having the faintest idea where he was going with this.

“What?”

Spencer sat up in bed and turned the light on again. He took a deep breath, and all at once you knew what was coming.

“Did you know that children who grow up without a father figure in the house are two times more likely to drop out of high school?”

“Spencer…” You attempted to reach for him, but he was too focused now.

“Or… or what about the fact that they are more likely to have behavioral problems? Or that they are 279% more likely to carry guns and deal drugs than their peers? That’s a HUGE margin!”

“But Spence…” You sat up to face him, knowing this needed to run its course before you could help him. You softly rubbed his back as he continued.

“Children who have father involvement are far less likely to cause trouble. They get better grades in school, have better social skills, have a far greater emotional wellbeing, are less likely to succumb to obesity… the list is endless! And… and boys with absent fathers are more likely to become absent fathers themselves. What if Ava isn’t succeeding as much as she could because I’m not around? And what if I’m scarring Grayson’s idea of a father? And now the pressure of raising our children is all on you and I’m so afraid you’re going to start resenting me and I just…”

“Spencer. Hey.” You turned his head to face you, finally seeing the tears threatening to spill over.

Your heart fractured. How could he not know how much his family loved him? How could he doubt the utter adoration the three of you shared for him?

Your eyes welled up as you realized that this is what his job does to him. He sees violence, destruction, and betrayal every single day. He sees families turn on each other and split apart because of tragedies. He works relentlessly because if he doesn’t, people die.

Of course he questions every aspect of his life.

Words could never convey the magnitude of the love you shared. They couldn’t pull him out of this hole in his mind he had been painstakingly digging. So, you listened to your heart when it told you to kiss him so hard that he forgets why he was ever worried.

You grabbed his face and pressed your lips to his, slowly, but firmly. He responded immediately, but with reservation. A few tears tracked down his face as his arms tensed, holding onto you ever so tightly. You kissed him harder, hands trailing from his neck to the back of his head to get lost in his hair. He followed your lead, reserves fading, walls coming down. Slowly, his hands snaked under your shirt to trace shapes on your back. You smiled into the kiss and felt him do the same.

Before you knew it, his hands were begging you to come closer to him. You swung a leg over his so you were straddling him, holding his face again as his arms enveloped you with full force. He kissed you with the fiery passion you knew he held. He held you as if the universe were going to take you away any second. He showed you just how much he loved you with every frenzied movement, every soft touch, and every crash of your lips.

Impossibly close could never be close enough. Not for two souls intertwined, like yours.

You pulled away and pressed your forehead to his, breathing heavily. His breath matched yours as you both sat there, holding each other, waiting for the world around you to reappear.

When it finally did, you met his eyes again. Hoping to see the unique spark that only your husband possessed.

“I love you, Spencer Reid.”

“I love you too.” He smiled lovingly up at you, and there it was. His spark. Your heart leapt for joy.

“Forever and ever, ‘til death do us part. Right?”

He nodded, breaking your gaze to wipe away stray tears with the back of his hand. You wiped away the rest with your thumbs, softly stroking his face.

“You are a fantastic husband and father. You hear me?” You meant it with your whole heart, but his eyes questioned you.

Yeah?

Yeah. I promise.

He smiled and let out a sigh of complete relief, pulling your body even closer and nuzzling into the crook of your neck. You held him, so unbelievably content to give your husband the security he craved. You pressed kisses into his hair as you rubbed his back, feeling him start to relax. He pulled away to look at you, with all the love in the world in his eyes. You smiled back, feeling your heart flip the same way it did the first time you met.

You reached over to turn the lamp off once more, and then settled comfortably into Spencer’s arms. His whole body relaxed as soon as you laid your hand on his chest.

There was so much more to say. So many things he needed to know, to absorb, to be sure of. So much love he needed to take with him to the job that tore him apart. But he was exhausted, and that could all wait until the morning. You snuggled into his chest and felt his arms grow tighter around you.

Just before you were about to fall asleep, you remembered something you knew would ease his troubled mind.

“You know what Ava told me today?”

“Hmm?” He answered, clearly also close to sleep.

“She said she wanted to wait to put the quadratic formula into practice until you got home.”

He let out a joyful laugh, and you joined, holding him tighter.

“Really? She did?”

“Yeah, she did. She loves you. More than anything.”

Nothing could match his smile at that moment. He leaned down to press a gentle kiss to your lips before letting his head fall back to the pillow.

“I love you.” You heard him whisper.

“We love you too, Spencer. So much.”

You snuggled impossibly closer, and with that you both slipped into a deep, relaxing sleep.

----

A/N: Here we go again, friends. How have I not seen Criminal Mind’s until this quarantine?!? My disguised blessing of Coronavirus. Anyway, thank you for reading, as always. Feel free to comment/critique/roast here or on my AO3 – wave0fg00dvibes. I love feedback! I have some more Reid stuff in the works… let me know if there’s anything specific y’all want to read! Love always. <3

#criminal minds #spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #criminal minds x reader #fluff #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds fluff #criminal minds imagine #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid x y/n #criminal minds x y/n

[peaceoutofthepieces]

chapter 16

The Stars Look Very Different

Social Media AU

previous chapter

this isn’t proofread because I literally just finished it so...I hope you like ❤️

tag list: @yellowballoon @cleocc @skaming-myself @boldlydeepestcupcake @pduwd @notallthereyall @gingerhead007 @groeneweiden @nyttvera @painfully-oblivious @zoenneforever @curiouskopf @engelkeijsers @xiaomailab @honeyandsinn @lauren-bk @saraben00 @tailsbeth @boysrunaway @howlingsaturn @menamesniall

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Sander was nervous.

Really, nervous was an understatement.

He’s gone through the whole day with an erratic heartbeat and sweaty palms, counting down the hours. He was sure he would combust before the time even came. The only thing that stopped him was the idea of Robbe waiting for him, growing more and more restless as the minutes passed, eventually leaving on his own. Sander couldn’t have that.

More than anything, he was excited.

It pricked and sparked under his skin, urging him onwards, incredibly impatient. There was nothing in his head but Robbe. He was struggling to comprehend it. It didn’t seem possible that he was being allowed to see him again—that Robbe himself had requested it. None of it seemed possible. None of it seemed real.

It was also the only thing that was clear to Sander. His feelings for Robbe, his desire to see him, his need to talk to him at all times.

It might not have been real, but as long as Sander got to live in the fantasy long enough to see this night through, he couldn’t bring himself to care.

He had to admit, though, that he cared a little when Robbe finally came into sight and he short-circuited for just a small moment.

Was he really going to do this?

“Hey, Robbe!”

He was.

Robbe found him in an instant, eyes catching and lips tweaking up in a smile. They held their usual element of danger, and it left a thrill thrumming through Sander’s stomach. But there was something else, hidden behind the glint. Something softer, curious. Something that almost resembled excitement. It set the thrill on fire.

Robbe hopped down off the wall when Sander came close enough, cocking his head as he examined him. Sander felt a little ridiculous, suddenly, wearing his leather jacket and Doc Martens, while Robbe wore his usual ensemble of hoodie and sweatpants and his signature brown coat. He was beautiful, all russet curls and doe eyes and smirks. Sander carefully bit down the urge to tell him so.

Though he was very tempted to see how Robbe would react.

“Nice,” Robbe commented, finally, simply. He turned and took a few steps backwards, nodding his head to the side in a gesture for Sander to follow.

This time, Sander didn’t question him.

“How did you get out past Lucas?”

Robbe shrugged. “Didn’t have to. He’s gone out with Jens.”

Sander’s brow furrowed. “You didn’t give them any explanation?”

“Sander,” Robbe snorted. “They might not even come back. And if they do, they’ll assume I’m asleep and continue on in their own little bubble. Don’t worry.”

Sander focused on the two syllables of his name in Robbe’s light, lilting voice and didn’t worry about it. “Are you at least going to tell me if it’s far? You could’ve told me to where walking shoes.”

Robbe snuck another glance at him and shook his head. “What would be the fun in that?”

Sander groaned in response and Robbe finally took pity on him, rolling his eyes.

“It’s not far. You’ll manage. You have longer legs and everything.”

Robbe finally grinned, and though it was teasing and left Sander narrowing his eyes in response, it also sent his heart flapping around in his ribcage. He didn’t care where they were going or how far it was. He was already with Robbe, and that was already enough.

Still, he was glad when it didn’t even take another ten minutes of walking before Robbe turned off into a darker street and beckoned Sander after him once more. Sander followed slowly, lightening his steps. The air seemed to grow quieter, even though they had already been walking through mostly empty streets. They were rounding a large brick building, plain and worn with all the windows dark, looking as if it hadn’t seen life in years. Robbe went right to the back door before taking a paperclip out of his pocket and sliding it into the lock.

Sander’s eyes widened and he took a step closer to him. “*Robbe.”

“Shhh,” Robbe hissed back.

Sander lowered his voice to the same tone. “What are you doing?”

“What does it look like I’m doing? I’m opening the door.”

“Robbe,” Sander tried again. Robbe ignored him, continuing his work, and it only took a few seconds before the lock popped and he swung the door open.

He looked around at Sander and raised his brows, holding the door open and sweeping his arm through. “Babies first.”

Sander pulled a face at him and didn’t move, sneaking a hesitant glance into the darkness. Robbe slipped his phone out of his pocket and shone the small flashlight through the door.

Then he held out his hand.

Sander stared at it, pulse kicking up. Robbe wiggled his fingers. Sander reached out to grasp them.

Aside from the tight squeeze Robbe initially gave, his grip was unexpectedly light. Sander hadn’t quite prepared himself for the gentle touch, or for the uptick of Robbe’s lips seconds later. Devious and sparkling, maybe, but pleased nonetheless. He took a small step backwards into the dark and rugged Sander with him. “Come.”

Sander went.

The building was cold, and Sander was glad for the thick hoodie under his jacket and the warmth of Robbe’s palm, pressing closer against his as he guided him through an empty room. Sander shuffled his phone out of his own pocket, but Robbe stopped him before he could turn on the torch. He waved his own light at another doorway, and Sander watched on, intrigued, as he swung it open with ease. Sander was left mourning the loss of his touch as he turned around to shine the torch on the wall, illuminating a light switch.

He gave Sander a cheshire grin and flicked it on.

The ceiling hummed with energy before six long overhead lights flickered to life, dull and dirty but enough to illuminate the expanse of the larger room in a yellow glow. The larger room that was filled with statue upon statue, sculptures filling the spaces in between. It was the sides of the room that took Sander by surprise—where painting upon painting lay stacked together, all in different styles and mediums and colours, all eye-catchingly beautiful.

Sander stared and stared and forgot that Robbe was watching him. He forgot to school his expression out of the automatic awe it fell into, lips parting and eyes widening and heart hammering. It was something right out of a dream.

“How?”

Robbe was examining him closely, he knew, but Sander still couldn’t look at him, still hadn’t taken everything in. “It’s just an old warehouse. This stuff has been here for years. I think it’s all pieces that got kicked out of the museums, some others from the college, some that people just wanted to store and then forgot about. Just, left here. All abandoned.”

Sander finally looked at him to find that he was now examining the room, gazing upon the art with something akin to sympathy. “All beautiful,” he said quietly.

Robbe looked back at him, and a new understanding passed silently between them. “You’re an artist, aren’t you?”

It was really unfair, how Robbe had managed to do this. Sander had worried, in brief moments before speaking to Robbe, if his feelings were misplaced. If he’d fabricated his own fantasy into a little too nice of a picture, of the reasons for his intrigue were unreasonable. It had only gotten worse, last month, the month before; but the feelings had stuck.

Then Robbe had come to him, and he’d left Sander even more smitten than before.

“You wanna admire, then?” Robbe raised a brow.

I’m already admiring.

Sander took a few careful steps towards the closest sculpture, a twisted mass of wires that he couldn’t quite figure out but enjoyed nonetheless. He did a slow lap of it before moving on, to a sculpture of a man curled around himself, body locked tight and head bowed, hidden. Sander crouched down next to it, allowing himself to reach out and skim his fingertips over the ridges. “I wish I had my camera.”

“Wait.”

He looked up and watched Robbe reach into his pocket, before he pulled out a small disposable camera. He held it up, then tossed it to Sander before stuffing his hands back in his pockets. Sander examined the object and laughed. “Cute.”

Robbe rolled his eyes, but he’d spent the past ten minutes smiling.

Sander ducked his head to hide his own grin and snapped a photo of the statue.

He took his time wandering around the room, and Robbe let him, following quietly. Sander would admire, and Robbe would joke (“it’s metaphorical, how he’s standing under an invisible weight”; “he’s taking an invisible shit”), and it all felt too easy. It was all too good to be true.

Robbe pushed the camera down when Sander pointed it at him, and while Sander expected to be told off, Robbe merely said, “Don’t use it all up yet. I have one more surprise.”

Sander blinked at him and was granted another grin. His heart fluttered as Robbe retook his hand.

“Come.”

Robbe led him to the corner of the back corner of the room, where it opened into a small hallway. They walked to the end and turned into a stairwell. Robbe let go of his hand and winked at him before leading the way down. Sander allowed himself to admire him as he followed, cataloguing all the bumps and shadows of his curls, how his coat swallowed his thin shoulders but his sweatpants hugged his legs. Then his thoughts turned silly, turned to thinking about how he wanted to hug Robbe himself, and he shook himself out of it before the other boy could notice.

There was another door at the bottom, heavier than the others, and Robbe had to press his whole side together to shove it open. Sander did his best to bite back his laugh. Robbe glared over his shoulder at him anyway.

Once Robbe flicked on this light switch, however, all thoughts of laughter left Sander as his breath wooshed out of him.

This space was a maze of gray, stone walls overlapping and interconnecting.

Or it would be, if the entire space wasn’t covered in dozens of pieces of brilliantly bright graffiti.

“Robbe,” Sander breathed. “What?”

Robbe waved at the space, watching him carefully. “You’re an artist, but this is your favourite kind of art. Isn’t it?”

Sander could have kissed him.

He swallowed, and then his lips were curling into a grin. They stared each other down, and Robbe’s eyes widened in understanding just a second before Sander took off, racing for a gap in the walls.

“You’re such a child,” Robbe yelled after him, but he was already chasing.

Sander laughed and kept going, whipping around corners and whizzing past bright bursts of orange and blue and red and green and every colour in between. He didn’t even bother pausing to take it all in. It was already enough to know he was surrounded by it, encased in the whirl of colours, and that Robbe was right behind him.

Until he wasn’t, because he was right in front of him.

Sander skidded to a stop, breathless, and reveled in Robbe’s hands catching his chest, in the laugh spilling out of him as he looked up at Sander. He liked Robbe most, like this. Softer, brightened, smiling. When it became obvious that he wasn’t pushing Sander away, that he’d taken a moment to trust him enough that he didn’t have to hide himself.

The smile smoothed out slowly as Sander continued to stare at him, and he grew suddenly more serious, tongue poking out to lick over his lip for a split second before he dropped his hands from Sander’s chest.

“You didn’t believe that I know you as well as you know me, right?” Robbe asked.

Suddenly, it clicked.

“Well, for example,” Robbe started, “I know that you’re also a bit of an insomniac. I know you’re an art cliche, and you especially like graffiti, even though that just might be a thrill thing. Your best friends are Noor Bauwens and Lucas Van Der Heiden. Noor is your best best-friend while Lucas is almost like an older brother, who is also dating my best friend and who I also now live with because of reasons. You’re a tease. You do this weird little snort instead of laughing and it would be funny if it wasn’t so cute. You never take off your ring.”

He nodded at Sander’s hand, and Sander brought his hands together to twist the ring around his finger before looking back up at Robbe. It shouldn’t have been possible, with them having been already toe to toe, but he seemed even closer than before.

“And I don’t know this yet,” Robbe continued quietly, eyes dropping to Sander’s lips. “But I’m willing to bet that you’re a fucking good kisser.”

Sander’s breath stopped.

It was hard to think, with Robbe looking at him like that, with Robbe so close, so he kept his thoughts simple. He ran through all their texts messages, the ease with which their conversations flowed, the lightness of the jibes passed between them. He ran through their first proper meeting, when he could do nothing but stare at Robbe and hear his blood rushing in his ears, thinking that it was too soon even as he berated himself for not meeting him sooner. He ran through the months before that, when all he could do was watch Robbe from afar and tamp down the need in him, the desire to seek that thrill more than he wanted to do anything else.

He ran through this night up until now, when the nerves were spilling and spiking through each of his veins before he set his eyes on Robbe and it all slipped away. When he’d finally understood their plans, and he hadn’t bothered to hide his surprise or his overexcitement that always came with setting his eyes on art. When he’d thought of muting his joy to a more acceptable level, so as not to affect Robbe’s possible feelings for him, and then he’d quickly tossed it aside.

He didn’t need to hide either, with Robbe. He didn’t have to be nervous. With Robbe, he was enigmatic and unabashed and alive. He wasn’t a problem to solve or a case to crack or a pity project.

With Robbe, he was known.

Robbe’s hands moved to his cheeks as Sander’s found their place on his waist, and Robbe pushed up on his toes as Sander leaned down and their lips met in the middle.

And Sander breathed.

It was nothing and everything like he’d imagined. Meaning he’d expected defensive, edgy, tight-lipped Robbe to be harsh and he wasn’t, and he’d expected it to bliss and it was.

Robbe’s lips were soft and slow, but demanding, taking everything Sander had to give and still going back for more; though he gave just as much in return. His hands had found their way around Sander, one sliding into his hair and the other wrapping around his shoulders, pulling him in until they were pressed together from head to toe.

It still wasn’t close enough.

Sander was vibrating. Sander was floating. Sander was on fire.

He was dying.

He’d never felt more alive.

Sander—Sander was kissing someone.

Sander was kissing Robbe.

Sander was kissing someone and that someone was Robbe and Robbe was kissing him back.

They parted for air. Well, Robbe did; Sander didn’t need it. Air wasn’t important. Getting his lips back on Robbe’s was. Robbe allowed it, and Sander hadn’t even realised his lips had turned up in a grin and that Sander himself had mimicked it, and that kissing was quite impossible when one didn’t have complete control over their mouth.

Then Robbe scratched through his hair, and made a noise like an aborted giggle, and Sander pulled back to rest their heads together and sneak a kiss to his nose.

Robbe’s nose wrinkled in response, so Sander kissed it again.

Robbe nudged their lips together once more, brief, and then mumbled, “Thank fuck I was right.”

Sander snorted. “Would have been a deal-breaker for you, would it?”

Robbe hummed, tilting his head side to side, but he kissed Sander again and Sander forgot to care about anything else.

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next chapter

#sobbe #rosander #robbe x sander #wtfock #sobbe social media au #the stars look very different #tslvd

[helgabatwrittings]

When your world comes crashing down don't cry

Chapter 3 - Confessing

AO3

I’m baaaack!

And even though his world seemed to be crashing down at that very moment, his tired brain came up with a plan. He would get his confirmation. And after Nino told him what he already knew, Adrien would stop being selfish for once in his life. He would leave them alone. He would ask his father to take him out of school, and his classmates would never have to deal with him again.

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“Adrien, are you there? Dude, please, say something, I can’t see you…” Nino was speaking to him. Somehow, the fall his phone suffered had made it accept the call, and so Nino was currently trying to get Adrien to speak to him.

“C’mon dude, at least turn your phone so I can see you… I’m only seeing the sky, where are you?” The subconscious fear of abandonment that followed Adrien everywhere was screaming at him to say something. To let Nino know that he was there so he wouldn’t get sick of being ignored and leave. But he couldn’t find his voice!

Adrien opened his mouth, but no sound came out, only a weak strangled cry seemed to have made its way out of his throat. He wanted to let Nino know he was there, but he couldn’t show him how miserable he must have looked at that moment. Adrien felt the tears cascading down his face and saw them hit the floor beneath him through his blurry vision.

“Adrien… please… I’m worried about you…” Nino was speaking slowly as if he was deliberately giving time for Adrien’s numb brain to process the words.

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Nino squinted at his phone, but no matter where he looked all he saw was the blue sky that was covering Paris. He waited in silence, giving time for Adrien to react.

“Can we… can we just stay like this ...” Adrien’s voice quivered, but at least Nino got an answer, and he released the breath he didn’t know he was holding in relief.

“Sure, dude!” He knew how Adrien struggled to get anything out of his system, so anything to make his best friend comfortable. But still, Nino was worried. Adrien hasn’t been his normal self lately, he needed to at least know if his best friend was safe.

“But, uh… Could you tell me where you are?”

A couple of seconds passed. Nino could hear his own rushed heartbeat.

“I’m uh…” Adrien’s voice sounded despondent. “I’m on a rooftop.”

Nino’s heart stopped beating.

“You’re what?”

Now, there were plenty of reasons why Adrien would be on a rooftop. He could be just chilling. The dude was weird like that. He could have been wandering and somehow found himself on that rooftop and was now enjoying the view. He could have been kidnapped by a crazy fan who was akumatised and gained wings so that they could specifically carry Adrien to a place high enough no one could reach and now his fate was in the hands of Ladybug and Chat Noir!

Or…

He could be there because he purposedly climbed it knowing that if he took a single misstep he would fall and-

No! His brain would not go down that road. Adrien was fine! Yes, he had been a bit weird lately, but he was fine! He had to be fine. He was okay! Nino would talk to him, and maybe convince him to hang out, they would laugh all afternoon while they played videogames, or took a stroll in the city, and this would all be left behind, they would laugh about how Adrien managed to get himself on a rooftop, and that was it!

“Why are you on a rooftop?” Nino had to get to the bottom of this. He needed to make sure his best friend was safe. He waited with bated breath for Adrien to reply.

A couple of seconds went by.

“I fell…” He heard his despondent voice, and he felt a stab in his chest. His eyes widened.

“You what??!” How did he fall on the rooftop?? What the heck was he even doing on a rooftop? That was it. Nino had to see him in that very moment, or he would have a stroke from sheer stress. He was sure of it. He could already feel his heart race, his brain going a thousand thoughts per second, thinking of every possible explanation as to why Adrien was on a rooftop, how he fell, if he was safe. Nino had to see him!

“How did that happen?? Dude!! Are you okay?” He really was trying his best to be patient, to let Adrien speak at his own pace. But worriedness was consuming his entire being at an alarming rate, and if he wasn’t reassured that Adrien was safe soon, he knew, he just knew that he was not going to be able to handle all of this, he would lose it for sure.

“I don’t know…”

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He really was sick of lying, and Plagg was glaring at him, prompting him to speak.

His whole body was burning, an agonising slow fire that spread through his every muscle and gathered in his chest. His hands were shaking so badly. Dark spots were dancing right in front of his eyes. He was exhausted. So utterly exhausted from all the pain he was feeling, from all the lying and the isolation the universe had forced upon him.

He wished Nino was there beside him. He wished Nino would wrap his arms around him and tell him everything would be alright, that he didn’t hate him, that he wasn’t alone. He wished he could tell him the whole truth, but his identity must remain a secret. He couldn’t risk losing him, nor Plagg! He would never survive that loss!

Adrien gasped as he tried to gather his voice.

“I don’t know…” His voice wobbled. His eyes drifted to Plagg, who nodded at him. The dark spots across his vision were coalescing and Adrien blinked rapidly in a futile attempt to make them vanish.

He raised his right hand to his face, biting the back of it to try to keep himself grounded. He felt the tears rapidly hitting his hand.

“Adrien…” He was being so pathetic; all he could get from Nino was pity. He could tell it by the soft sigh his best friend made after he called his name in a whisper.

God! He tried to be flawless, he really did! He hid all the broken pieces deep inside his heart, covered all the cracks in his persona, because he knew, HE KNEW this would happen! He knew that the second he showed a single flaw to his friends they would get sick of him, just like his family did.

And don’t get him wrong, he did it! He managed to fool them all… he was perfect!

He just never thought his friends would also see all the ugliness he never cared to hide as Chat Noir. That was his mistake… Of course, Ladybug would never fall for that loud and obnoxious persona. Of course, his best friend would take a single look at him and immediately conclude that he wasn’t worth being around.

And even though his world seemed to be crashing down at that very moment, his tired brain came up with a plan. He would get his confirmation. And after Nino told him what he already knew, Adrien would stop being selfish for once in his life. He would leave them alone. He would ask his father to take him out of school, and his classmates would never have to deal with him again.

The pit on his stomach was growing heavier and heavier. Just one more question. He only had to ask a single question and that was it.

“Nino…” Adrien rasped, “Are you alone right now?”

“Yes! I’m in my bedroom. You can” Adrien ended the call in a rush, not caring to hear the rest.

He stood up abruptly and his head swarmed, but he would not be deterred. Just one more question.

Adrenaline flowed all over his bloodstream.

“Kid, what are you doing?” Plagg rushed to his side, looking at him as if he has finally gone mad. And maybe he had, it would explain what he was about to do anyway.

“Plagg claws out!” He wasn’t even completely transformed when he started to run.

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He hung up.

Adrien was possibly seriously injured on a conspicuous rooftop somewhere in Paris, and he hung up on him.

That call might as well have been the last time Nino spoke to his best friend, and all he could do right now was stare dumbfounded at the black screen of his phone. And so, while his body was stuck, his feet rooted to his bedroom’s floor, his mind was increasingly catastrophising any thought he was having about Adrien’s current situation.

It was like the entire world stopped working for a minute.

And then, just as fast as it stopped working, it restarted, and his feet automatically moved towards the backpack that had been carelessly thrown at his bed in his rush to call Adrien in the first place.

He grabbed it while formulating an emergency plan to find Adrien and shove some sense into him. He was so out of his depth, maybe he should call the girls. Alya and Marinette are geniuses with emergencies. They would know what to do. Marinette always knows where Adrien is, it’s like the girl has a superpower. She would find him.

And Alya would prevent them both from freaking out because he was damn certain he was on the verge of a panic attack. And Marinette was no better. Especially when it concerned Adrien.

Yeah…

He would call them, and they would find him.

His chest was burning so badly, as if someone was pulling a thick rope around it, constricting him more and more each second.

Nino threw his backpack to his back and grabbed his phone as he started walking towards his bedroom door. But as soon as he unlocked his phone; he heard a soft tap at his window. He paused and looked at the source of the noise.

Nino’s eyes widened and he released a gasp as he saw Chat Noir perched on his window. His green feline eyes were staring at him urgently like they were telling him to let him in right away.

Nino moved in his direction, and as soon as he opened the window, Chat Noir practically threw himself inside, making him jump in surprise.

“Dude…” Nino could immediately tell something was seriously wrong with him. His whole posture was wrong. Chat Noir was supposed to be this confident, larger than life hero, but his vacant green eyes and the way his shoulders hunched while he turned his back at him made him look devoid of any of the characteristics Nino knew and adored.

Yes, Nino had been a jerk to him, and he has deeply regretted behaving the way he did ever since, but he never thought that day would cause such an impact on Chat Noir. It’s almost as if he was scared of Nino! He looked like he was trying to make himself appear as small as possible... so that Nino wouldn’t explode on him. Like he did last time they interacted….

His heart panged for the hero. And he looked down in shame.  His eyes drifted to the phone in his hand and all the panic that had been momentarily interrupted by Chat Noir’s impromptu visit came back with a vengeance.

He hated to have to leave Chat when he clearly wasn’t okay. But his best friend was lost on a rooftop somewhere. And he would always prioritise Adrien.

“Dude, I’m sorry, but”

Chat Noir suddenly turned and before Nino could react, he grabbed his shoulders harshly, and somehow, being careful not to hurt him. Chat Noir was shaking so badly, and now that Nino managed to look closer at him, he saw that he had been crying. The tears’ tracks were still fresh on his masked face.

“Nino, do you really think I’m annoying?” Chat blurted. A fatalistic vibe on the air lingered between them, like Nino’s answer would determine Chat’s entire fate.

“What?” He whispered in a daze.

Nino was so confused. When had he become such an important piece in Chat Noir’s life? And how did he even come up with that question?? When did Chat Noir so wrongfully conclude that Nino found him annoying?

“I’ve asked if you really think I’m a-annoying…” Chat’s voice cracked.

“I’ve heard the first time, but why are you asking me…” Wait a minute. He remembered this conversation. He was in the school’s basement. He had been enraged because he thought Chat Noir and Alya were secretly dating. He was so unfairly mad at Chat Noir, and he had gathered all that evidence he thought was so accurate. He had ranted about it in that basement to…

His eyes widened as he finally really looked at the disarrayed boy in front of him.

“Adrien…” He whispered. The other boy flinched.

“Nino, I need to know.” Adrien’s eyes were bright with unshed tears, his lower lip trembled as he bit into it.

Suddenly all his protective senses activated, and the urge to grab the boy in front of him in a crushing hug overwhelmed him. How had he not noticed it? It was so clear! Adrien’s puns that he only shared with Nino. Chat Noir’s timid posture when he thought no one was looking. Adrien’s detached smile when surrounded by strangers. Chat Noir’s confidence when he was the centre of attention. It was so obvious! And Nino never noticed.

“Adrien, I was so mad that day… I was so unfair to you…” He released a sob. “Ever since that awful, awful day that I’ve regretted ever saying those words, ever treating you the way I did!” He pulled his best friend into a crushing hug, sending them both to the floor, feeling Adrien freeze in position.

Gradually, he felt Adrien relax in his embrace. Nino had his eyes closed for he could not look into his best friend’s eyes at that moment. He had failed him so badly. He felt like trash. Adrien was hurting, and it was all because of him.

“I’m so sorry, dude.” He sobbed, “I don’t find you annoying, I never did! Not Adrien, and not Chat Noir! I’ve always adored you! I was so stupid!”

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Adrien didn’t know how to react. Nino was hugging him. Clinging to him like he was his only lifeline. No one has ever treated him like this, he had to reassure him that he wasn’t mad. That all he ever wanted was to feel validated for once in his life, for someone to care.

“So, you don’t hate me?” He muttered in shock.

Nino immediately released him from the hug, and Adrien felt a gelid cold falling upon him suddenly. That hug was like someone had finally given him a droplet of water after years of being stranded in the desert, however, it was far from being enough for him.

Nino looked him in the eyes, and Adrien found himself looking down immediately, afraid that he had said the wrong thing.

“Adrien, look at me.” It wasn’t that stern disappointed tone his father always used when Adrien failed to meet his expectations. Those three words had been said softly, granting a strange sense of safety he had rarely been exposed to. His eyes slowly drifted upwards.

“I could never hate you. It’s literally impossible for me to hate you, dude.” Nino squeezed his shoulders.

Adrien wanted to believe him. Rationally, he knew that Nino was being completely honest with him, but everyone was leaving him behind. His family, Chloé, Ladybug…

So, no matter how sure he was that Nino’s words were sincere, there was always this small nagging part of his brain that kept telling him not to trust anyone, that he was all alone in the world and that that’s how it should be.

Nino must have noticed his hesitation as he asked, “What’s wrong?”

He looked down. Now that the adrenaline in his system was dissipating, exhaustion took hold of him, and his brain finally processed what had just happened. He already said too much. He broke the one rule that had been imposed on him ever since day one. He broke a rule that could potentially take his miraculous away from him, and strangely enough, that didn’t send him straight into a panic attack as it used to whenever he thought about that possibility. In fact, all he felt was relief.

Like a weight that had been crushing him had finally been lifted, and he was finally able to breathe! Like he finally had something to grab onto while the violent waves that had been sweeping all over him passed. And with this realisation, Adrien didn’t stand a chance. The dam was open now, and no barrier in the world would prevent the flood of words that started leaving his mouth.

“Everyone is leaving, Nino!” he took a sharp intake of breath. “Everyone is leaving, and no one cares that I’m left behind, no one cares to look back! And I can’t say anything about it because I’ll just add to the massive stress Ladybug is under and I’m supposed to be helping her! But she’s replacing me, right in front of my eyes, and I know she’s not doing it on purpose but I can’t help but think that this is exactly what people have always done. So, I don’t even know why I’m crying about this, because I should really be used to it!”

His brain was producing so many thoughts by the second, overwhelming his entire system and now that he had started speaking, he realised that he still had so much to say. But his head was going too fast for his mouth to follow, and so he found himself completely unable to utter a single word.

He pulled his hair to keep himself grounded, shutting his eyes in the process so that he could block out the entire universe, and focus on his disorganised thoughts.

Adrien felt Nino’s hands resting on top of his own, squeezing them softly, which helped him relax the tense hold he had on his hair.

“Adrien, I know that this is really hard to believe, especially how I’ve been such a terrible friend to you lately, but I promise you that I will never leave you. I love you, dude! Every single day I think about how lucky I am that you’re my best friend… If anything happened to you, I don’t think I could ever move on!” Adrien was looking so intensely at him, his brown eyes so bright, as if he was making sure the meaning of his words entered Adrien’s brain and stayed there.

“Adrien, you can always count on me,” Nino spoke slowly.

And for the first time, Adrien felt like someone cared. For the first time in his life, he knew he finally had someone on his side, who would stick with him no matter how awful things would get.

A warm wave spread across his chest, as his heart swelled with joy. Tears started to fall down his face, but for the first time in a long time, they weren’t accompanied by desperation and helplessness.

“Dude, don’t cry or else I’m going to start crying too!” Nino hugged him tight, his face was already wet as both boys burst into tears in each other’s arms.

Everything was so far from being over. Adrien still couldn’t say that he was fine. Ladybug was still leaving him behind. But now he had someone to share all his burdens with. Adrien was simply enough to someone! He was wanted! And he couldn’t find anything more perfect than that.

#miraculous ladybug #miraculous fanfic #When your world comes crashing down don't cry #final chapter #hope you like it!

[carewyncromwell]

“Twinkle, twinkle, little star, So we'll know where you are --  Gleaming in the skies above, Lead me to the one who loves me...”

~“The Second Star to the Right (cover),” by Simone

x~x~x~x

HEY PETER PAN ANON! I MADE YOU SOMETHING!! 8D

Hahaha, yes! This is Peter-Pan!Orion and Wendy!Carewyn (Carewyndy?). No, I won’t be writing this AU before the Tangled AU at least (and yes, I should have that up hopefully by next week)...but I couldn’t resist doodling these and talking a bit about the daydreaming I did based on this concept. Orion’s ripped pants were kind of based on how the pants are ripped in the 2003 Peter Pan’s costume, but I just couldn’t resist giving him his canon fingerless armwarmers. (I see them being forest green just like his pants, though, while his tunic is a light tan.)

Basically I see eternally 12-1/2-year old Orion Amari taking a strong liking to 10-year-old Carewyn Cromwell when she comes to Neverland. Even though she does act a bit too grown-up sometimes, it’s largely because of how deeply she feels for other people -- she’s determined to protect others, whether from bullying or actual danger, and she hates the thought of anyone feeling alone. She actually is the only person who’s ever asked Orion if he was lonely, being the only child who was destined to never grow up. And as much as Orion will airily state that “to die would be an awfully big adventure,” he finds that it’s Carewyn who believes this most, for the idea of growing older doesn’t frighten her the way it does her grandfather, the man now called Captain Hook. If anything, what makes her saddest about leaving Neverland is not for her sake, but for Orion’s -- she, Jacob, Charlie, and Bill were all going home to London, along with a good chunk of Orion’s friends among the Lost Kids...and Carewyn hated the thought that she’d never see her friend Orion again. So she reminded Orion that she would always have her window open at night, if he ever wanted to come and visit, hear her read a story or two, or even just listen to her singing while she did her evening chores. Sensing Orion’s hesitance, she reassured him that she’d never forget him. 

Orion proceeded to return to life in Neverland, embarking on those same old adventures that make the days blur and make it easy to forget things. Forgetting was part of Neverland’s magic -- even Bill had almost forgotten he had a new baby sister back in London, when he, Charlie, and Carewyn had been there with Orion and the Lost Kids. But, as Orion would often tell himself, adults forgot things in the other world too: they forgot the joys of childhood, they forgot the freedom and the simple pleasures and the bottomless daydreams. All of them, every last one of them, eventually forgot how to fly. 

But perhaps because of Carewyn’s final promise, every time Orion thought of how easy it was to forget things in Neverland, and therefore how easy it was to forget things outside of it, Carewyn’s face and words always returned to his mind. And so, the memory of her conviction and caring never strayed too far from his mind...and with it, other thoughts would crop up too. How stable things had been, when Carewyn was around. How well she understood him and how easy it was to talk to her and trust in her. And it was then that Orion realized that he really, truly missed Carewyn. It was a feeling he’d never really experienced that deeply before, not even for the other children who had eventually returned home to their families. Even Bill and Charlie, who Orion likewise grew reasonably fond of, didn’t make him feel like his stomach was always empty, no matter how much food he ate -- like his heart was scraping at the inside of his chest like a hungry animal desperate to devour something outside its cage. And that feeling only intensified when his fairy guardian Merula would try to urge him to go challenge Torvus and the centaurs to a race or splash around with the mermaids, even when Orion wasn’t in the mood to do so. 

Orion felt restless, unsure of quite what was wrong with him and not knowing how to explain his muddled thought process to McNully and his remaining Lost Kids. One day Orion was eventually persuaded by McNully to lead an expedition to find a lost chest of pirate treasure, and for a short while, the Boy Who Never Grew Up was simply able to enjoy pulling one over on his old enemy and sharing the loot with his gang. That changed, though, when Captain Hook crashed the party. 

Orion and Hook traded as many blows as ever, throwing insults at each other like they always did -- but this day, Hook said one barbed phrase that stuck in Orion’s ear more than he ever would’ve admitted.

“Already forgotten my dear Winnie, I see. But I guess I can’t be surprised. After all, the only thing that can break through Neverland’s curse -- that thing that makes everyone forget...is love. And you -- ha -- you don’t know anything about that, do you, boy?”

Love. Yes. That was the thing that made Carewyn remember her lost brother and mother, even while she was a Lost Girl. That was the thing that had made Charlie remember his parents, even after he’d forgotten London altogether. That was the thing that made Bill remember his other siblings, once he remembered how his baby sister Ginny would always cry after her afternoon nap until he came home from his newspaper route and bounced her up and down for a minute or two. That was the thing that had made Jacob remember his little sister in London, even after he was kidnapped by Hook and commandeered into piracy. And, Orion realized, it was the thing that he missed most about Carewyn -- her ability to love more deeply than anyone else he had ever known...like a mother would, and yet like an equal...a companion, more than just someone to go on adventures with. 

Orion tried to broach this topic with Merula, but the huffy little fairy put up her walls and stubbornly refused to let them down. Feelings were grown-up things, and Orion didn’t need grown-up things! Orion wanted to agree, but the feelings he felt were becoming heavy -- so heavy, in fact, that he found it harder for him to find his center, to think thoughts happy enough that he could fly to any height he wanted. He actually found himself hovering and floating more than flying...and this troubled him. It made him more anxious than he could remember ever being. 

Then the thought struck him -- why didn’t he just go and visit Carewyn? She said he could, whenever he wanted. She could tell him some stories and sing some songs for him -- maybe she could even sew him a new pocket for his shirt! These thoughts perked Orion up a bit, and he decided to leave for London straightaway. 

He hadn’t expected it to be so cold -- for you see, in Neverland, it’s every season all year ‘round, all except winter. It was a fact Carewyn had lamented, for winter was her favorite season. She loved the Christmas holidays and how everyone would gather around the fireplace with warm food together and sing Christmas songs and tell stories. It had actually sounded kind of nice to Orion, when she described it to him and the Lost Kids -- but on this day in London, Orion didn’t think the cold was so nice, nor the gray, dreary city itself. There were buildings that had been crushed and holes in cobblestone streets, made by bombs that had been dropped by German Zeppelins, and just about nobody raised their heads enough to look skyward. The adults prowling the streets were just as lacking of joy as Orion had always imagined them to be, yet it wasn’t due to stupid grown-up things like wearing a tie to work or paying bills. Instead there was exhaustion, sadness...pain. Orion hated these people’s wrinkles even more than the ones he’d see on the pirates’ faces, from dwelling on mindless things like how much treasure they had or what their daily duties were. 

But none of that mattered, of course. What mattered was seeing Carewyn. But alas, when Orion arrived at the Weasleys’ house, it was still daytime...and the window to the room Carewyn, Bill, and Charlie once shared was locked. 

Orion rattled at the window desperately, slapping the glass and pulling at its handles as he cried her name. All logic left his mind -- his breathing became raspier and weaker even as he shouted louder. 

She had to be there -- she had to be there -- she couldn’t have forgotten -- she wouldn’t have forgotten -- she promised -- she promised she wouldn’t forget him -- love was what kept someone from forgetting -- Carewyn knew love better than anyone -- she loved her brother -- she loved the Weasleys -- she loved the Lost Kids and Torvus and the mermaids and the fairies -- she loved Orion -- didn’t she love -- ?

As Orion’s anxiety spiked, the magic of Merula’s fairy dust began to abandon him. He found himself becoming heavier. He tried to cling onto the windowsill, pulling at and smacking the window, but it wasn’t wide enough for him to hold onto while it was closed. Soon enough he found himself falling slowly, like someone drifting down to the bottom of a pool...and when he landed on the ground, he landed on his knees, shaking. He clasped his hands together, his eyes wide and hollow upon the frosty ground as wintry condensation fell from his panting lips. 

He’d lost his happy thought. He’d lost it. 

He tried to fly. He tried desperately to fly, only to fall and scrape his knees and hands. Never in his life had Orion Amari ever been so frightened, shuddering from head to toe in the freezing cold. 

He shakily got to his bare feet and, barely knowing where he was going, he walked. He wandered aimlessly, his eyes glassing over as he gasped for air, searching every revolted and anxious face that he passed as the faces’ owners cringed at the state of his long hair, ripped clothes, and lack of shoes. 

Orion wandered for what felt like hours, until at long last, as if by fate, he ended up not far away from a Church-funded school, which taught both elementary and higher-elementary-level students. One of those such students was a girl with a ginger braid and almond-shaped blue eyes, walking home with several classmates, including a black-haired girl with glasses carrying a bunch of books, a rather pretty blonde with pigtail braids, and a rather cowardly-looking boy with blond hair, brown eyes, and a very thick sweater and mittens over his Church-provided uniform. The ginger-haired girl herself was wrapped up in a rather thick old dark blue blanket she’d turned into a shawl after it got ripped and had been holding it tightly around herself when, all of a sudden, she heard her name being cried by a misty, and yet anxious voice. 

“Carewyn! Carewyn...!”

One can only imagine what Carewyn’s school friends Rowan Khanna, Penny Haywood, and Ben Copper thought, seeing such a scrawny, ragamuffin street boy running toward their friend. Rowan actually tried to step in front of Carewyn as if to protect her, while Ben made as if to cling onto Carewyn’s arm in terror. But Carewyn herself, her eyes very wide upon the boy, immediately tore away from both Rowan and Ben and ran to Orion without a single shred of hesitation. 

“Orion?!”

She barreled over, whipping the shawl off her shoulders and wrapping it around his instead. 

“Orion, what are you doing here?! You’re going to catch a death of cold!”

Orion hadn’t been able to stop shaking for an instant, but her shouting his name, rushing to take care of him -- her remembering him -- it made his heart feel like a beast craving food again. Her concern wet his appetite. He wanted it. He wanted her caring. He wanted her love...

She was as tall as him. She’d been so tiny before...

“Carewyn...you know this boy?” asked Rowan, looking bewildered.

“Yes,” said Carewyn, glancing over her shoulder, “he’s a friend. Rowan, this is Orion. Orion, this is -- ”

“You’ve...grown older,” Orion’s absent mumble cut her off. 

Carewyn fixed him with a faintly reproachful look. “I’m afraid that does happen, in the span of three years...”

Thirteen. She was thirteen. ...She was older than him.

Carewyn’s eyes welled up with concern as she looked Orion over. She turned to her friends quickly. 

“...I’d better get him inside and warm...I’ll see you all tomorrow, okay?”

She quickly bid her friends goodbye, before wrapping an arm tightly around Orion’s shoulders as best she could, rubbing his arm through her shawl in an attempt to warm him. 

“Orion, what were you thinking?” she whispered, her voice full of concern as her eyes stayed locked ahead at their path. “Coming here in broad daylight, in this cold...”

Orion had started to shake again, his hands clasping more tightly. 

“Your window was shut,” he mumbled. 

Carewyn looked very upset. “...My old window, you mean? The one I shared with Bill and Charlie? Oh, Orion, I don’t share a room with Bill and Charlie anymore -- I share with Ginny now. Girls’ room, you know. Charlie and Percy actually share that room now...Bill’s sharing a flat with several other boys, closer to the newspaper’s headquarters in the East End...” 

Her eyes rippled with pain. 

“...Ginny’s and my room doesn’t have a window,” she explained. “I’ve told Charlie and Percy to keep their window open for me, but...well, Percy’s grown up way too fast. He must have closed it to block out the air raid sirens last night and forgotten to reopen it...”

Orion didn’t understand half of what Carewyn was saying, but the tone she spoke with held such reassurance and remorse that it soothed the racing anxiety that had so paralyzed him. He closed his eyes as the adrenaline his anxiety had built up ebbed away, leaving him oddly drained and colder than ever. He was so out of it that he barely seemed to acknowledge that his head flopped down onto her shoulder. 

“Orion?” said Carewyn, startled and worried. 

But Orion merely inhaled and exhaled slowly. Her caring fed that beast in his chest. He wanted a bit more. 

“Carewyn,” he murmured, “did...did you think of me?”

He felt Carewyn adjust her arm around him. 

“Of course I did,” she said softly. “I told you I would never forget you.”

The tenseness in Orion’s clasped hands and face loosened its grasp. “...Because you love me.”

Carewyn looked at him, her eyebrows furrowed with confusion. “What?”

But Orion barely reacted -- as if he didn’t think what he’d said was the least bit weird. 

“There’s only one thing that can prevent someone from forgetting...and that’s love. For once you love someone, your heart never really forgets them. Instead they become part of you...an indispensable piece...that would make you feel incomplete, if it was ever removed.”

Orion slowly opened his eyes, his lips spreading into a small, rather soft smile that made him look a bit more like his usual self. 

“...It’s what helped you remember your brother and the Weasleys, while you were with me...and your brother remember you, while he was with Hook,” he said. “It’s something I know nothing about...but I know you know it very well.”

Carewyn considered him for a moment, before returning her gaze back to the road. Plenty of people passing by gave her and Orion the side-eye, but she didn’t care. 

“I don’t know if I’d say you know nothing about it,” she said at last. “You remembered me just as much as I remembered you, did you not?”

Orion’s smile faded from his lips as his eyes widened ever-so-slightly. Then his expression slowly relaxed.

“...Perhaps...”

His black eyes trailed over her arm around his shoulders and her hand rubbing up and down his arm hesitantly. His arm beside her chest twitched slightly -- then, very, very tentatively, he tried to wrap his arm around her shoulders in return. It was a bit awkward, with the shawl wrapped around him...but once Carewyn sussed out what he was doing, she adjusted enough to give the shawl enough slack that he could successfully hold her in return. Once he had gotten his arm around her, he seemed oddly proud of himself, his smile spreading and his eyes closing again as he leaned into her, his head beside hers on her shoulder. 

They stayed that way for several blocks, walking in silence and simply enjoying each others’ company. Orion felt his center of balance returning to him. It was like having this stable place, with his arms wrapped around Carewyn’s shoulders and hers around his, was the earth he needed under his feet to launch himself back up into the air. He felt like he might even be able to fly again at some point...maybe not yet, but soon. Time always moved more slowly in Neverland than in London anyhow, so no one would mind if he took his time...

“...Carewyn?” 

“Hmm?”

“I...don’t know if I can make it back to Neverland,” he confessed. 

Carewyn looked at him, her eyes once again flooding with concern. 

“I fell, when I failed to open your window,” Orion explained. “I’ve only ever fallen like that once before...when...”

“...When Grandfather made you think unhappy thoughts,” Carewyn finished grimly. She turned away from him, facing the road again. 

Orion nodded. His black eyes flickered across her face, even though she was no longer looking at him. 

Hook had taunted him then that Carewyn had no reason to stay in Neverland -- that she preferred the thought of growing old and dying to staying with him -- that he could never meet her high standards. He’d taunted that one day, Orion would go back to find her window locked and barred -- a grown woman who’s forgotten all about him, about Neverland, about how to fly...who’s replaced all of it with adult things Orion could never understand. Ambition. Family. ...Husband. 

Carewyn wasn’t an adult yet, but she certainly wasn’t a child anymore either. There was a practicality to her posture -- a steadiness and gravity to how she walked. There was a neatness and meticulousness in how she handled her appearance. And yet even so, her hands were still so warm and her eyes were still so soft...and the sincerity in the little wrinkles that creased her brow and eyes and kissed at the corners of her lips was just the same. 

Carewyn raised her head in Orion’s direction, but her eyes couldn’t quite reach his. Instead they landed vaguely on his shoulder. 

“...I never told you...Grandfather was wrong, did I?” she asked quietly. 

Orion tilted his head. “...I suppose it depends on which thing he said that you’re thinking of. You did say you’d never forget me, or Neverland...or how to fly.”

“Yes,” said Carewyn, “but I didn’t say that he was wrong, that you’d never understand ambition or family. That’s definitely not true. Ambition isn’t just an adult thing -- you dream of never growing up, of never losing your freedom or your independence...your spirit. That’s a wonderful ambition. And you have a wonderful family too, in Neverland. The centaurs and mermaids -- Merula and the fairies -- the Lost Kids! You take care of them as if they were your family.”

Orion stared at her for a moment, his face very unreadable, but his black eyes rippling with a strange emotion. Then he curled his fingers into the puffy white sleeve of her shirt. 

“...And...the last thing?” he asked softly. “‘Husband?’”

Carewyn frowned deeply. “Is marriage something you even want to understand?”

“No!” said Orion instantly, looking revolted. “No...but...well...”

He swallowed, his own gaze drifting away. “...If you grow up...you’ll eventually want one, won’t you?”

Carewyn cocked her brows coolly. “It’s possible. But honestly, marriage seems like a bit of a bother. I’ve had to answer to plenty of adults in my life: I’d hate to have to answer to one more by choice. Especially if it means I have to give up Jacob, my friends, and my dreams just to make him comfortable.”

She said this so huffily, and yet it comforted Orion more than he could ever properly express. His own chest seemed to lighten and he felt better able to breathe again. His eyes softened upon Carewyn’s face. 

“...I see.”

The two finally reached the Weasley home again. Orion noticed the house across the street that Carewyn had once pointed out was hers and Jacob’s had been boarded up. 

“It’ll get torn down soon,” said Carewyn, noticing Orion’s gaze. “The family that lived there had their house ransacked, just because they were German...”

Her eyes narrowed. 

“...It’s disgusting, how they were treated,” she added to herself. “They were very nice to Jacob and me, when we first came home...”

“Where is your brother?” asked Orion. 

Carewyn deflated. 

“...The war front,” she said sadly. “He’d been saving up so we could move into our own place, but...well, the army needed soldiers, so both he and Mr. Weasley signed up. Mrs. Weasley let me stay here, so I wouldn’t have to struggle to find a place to stay myself.”

Orion felt something oddly like pity prickling at his chest. “You mean you’ve lost him again, after only just getting him back?”

Carewyn didn’t answer as she opened the door of the Weasley home and bustled him inside. Once the door was closed, she guided him over to the main room and into an armchair, wrapping several more blankets around him. 

“Wait here,” she said. Her lips spread into a fuller smile. “I’ll make you some hot cocoa -- that’s sure to help you fly again.”

Orion felt his heart give a somersault. 

“Do you remember?” he said very quickly, before she could leave the room. “...Do you remember how to fly?”

Carewyn beamed. 

“Of course. All you need is faith and trust, and to have been brushed with fairy dust. Then you think happy, wonderful thoughts, and...”

She spread her arms, and -- amazingly -- her feet actually came up off the ground.

Orion’s black eyes widened. Then his mouth slowly spread into the fullest, brightest smile as he found himself coming up off the ground himself. He floated just below her, spreading both of his arms too so as to take her hands and hold them out on either side of them.

Even when the world was so miserable -- even when she had so much reason to forget...Carewyn still knew how to fly. 

“You’re flying,” said Carewyn with a warm smile. 

Orion’s eyes sparkled as he guided her around in a circle, just as he had when they danced with the fairies. “I found a happy thought.”

“Did you? What is it?”

“A person whose company makes you feel stronger, when you’re at your worst.”

Carewyn smiled. “I believe that’s what’s called a ‘friend,’ Orion Amari.”

Orion’s midnight-black eyes gleamed.

Yes. A friend. Not just someone to go on adventures with, or look after, or play make-believe with, or give direction -- but someone to be your shoulder to lean on. To listen, to comfort...to love. That was a friend. As much as he cherished the Lost Kids, he was the one who had found them -- they answered to him, seeing him as leader, since there was supposedly no one else who could. 

This friend...he wanted this friend by his side forever. “Forever,” as Carewyn had once reminded him, was an awfully long time -- but he didn’t hesitate in this thought at all. 

And so, not long after, the Boy Who Never Grew Up returned to Neverland. He passed his mantle of leadership onto Lost Boy McNully, said a quick goodbye to all of the members of his Neverland family...and decided to leave for good. Even his short trip back to the Second Star to the Right took up a few weeks, but when he returned to London, his friend was waiting for him. And Orion and Carewyn grew up together, as close of friends as teenagers and later adults as they were as children. Orion grew more than just a fraction of an inch -- he soon towered a good head over Carewyn once more. He even grew a mustache, and a beard too! And yet even with this, it was never beneath his dignity to climb a tree, nor to engage in food fights, nor to read adventure books about pirates, nor to crow like a rooster upon winning a game. No matter how much his other classmates at school would frown, and no matter how much the adults would disdain and scold him, Orion never cared -- and neither did Carewyn, or Bill or Charlie, or any of the other friends he made over the years. 

So you see, even if Orion grew older, he never truly grew up...for all children grow up, except one. And one day -- many, many years down the road from when Orion first made the choice to stay -- he looked at Carewyn and realized that his first and dearest friend had become something even more precious: a friend he wished to love, cherish, and live beside far longer than forever. A friend he would call “lover.” 

#hphm #hogwarts mystery #peter pan au #my art #my writing #orion amari #carewyn cromwell #damn it I didn't mean this to be so long but I just couldn't stop XD #my two favorite peter pan adaptations are peter pan (2003) and hook so that DEFINITELY influenced this #I'm sorry but I think peter finding a reason to grow up is sweet #I know there's the whole fan interpretation of peter guiding dead children to the afterlife and all but... #well we see kids leave neverland not just the darlings but the lost boys #and honestly hook is right in the 2003 version -- peter IS a tragedy as he is! #in the end he'll always end up alone #so really eventually every child *should* grow up...it's a scary thing but something that must be faced anyway #because through that hardship one can find even more fulfilling happiness #because it's happiness that's fought for #that's my two cents anyway XD; #geez orion looks so different without his facial hair LOL

[adelia-maquiavelica]

The Lesser Evil: Chapter 1

- WARNING: GRAPHIC VIOLENCE AND GORE AHEAD! -

It was dark in the woods, with light seeming to disappear despite the full moon held aloft in the night. The air was humid with the reminder of the day’s strange and unexpected rainfall, and the ground lay moist and waterlogged. 

The herbs and weeds rooted to the ground groaned with the drowning they were forced to endure. With silence overwhelmingly loud among the trees, the night seemed to grow drearier as lack of noise in the area formed a void where nature’s call used to sing. The dismal gloom in the woods was such, that even the owls restrained their calls, and the crickets halted their music, for even these creatures knew that there was a monster afoot.

Even the wolves hid in their dens for fear of retaliation from the great, giant, hulking beast. A creature far larger than even a bear, that lumbered and sniffed the ground. The creature pawed near the trees. 

A large snarling mouth filled with blade-like and jagged canines, cracked open. Drool and blood from a victim not even an hour before, dripped onto the already waterlogged grass. Its skin was a sickly gray, covered in patches of rusted red and coal black. Spikes covered with decaying gore emerged from its humped back, its sour stench noticeable even several yards away. The creature walked on all fours, yet its movement suggested the ability to walk on two. The hands were brutish and dirty, fingers ending with tapered and deadly claws, almost longer than the individual fingers. All in all, it had the appearance of a hellish beast. A mix between a man and a corpse.

Its face lifted occasionally, scenting the air. Once assured of the lack of any threat in the gentle breeze, it released a tremulous wail, its sound echoing far longer after it ended. The gentle wind kept blowing, bringing the scents of rain and earth, completely hiding any scents hidden downwind. The Alghoul continued to sniff the ground, completely unaware of any presence due to the shielding of that gentle and calm wind. Complacent in its safety, it never paused to scent the air again after the direction of the wind changed. It simply lumbered around, far too distracted in the new scent of old blood, its desire for a new victim and meal occupying its sole attention into distraction

A distraction, that Geralt was counting on.

It was an ugly beast, he admitted. Its description by Marian doing it justice.

At the time he and Jaskier arrived at the village, it had seemed abandoned. Its only life appeared to be the quivering forms of the few villagers that braved to look outside at the visiting Witcher, and colorful bard. Yet even that bravery had limits, for once their curiosity was satisfied, they retreated back to their homes, locked the doors and drew their curtains closed, till the village seemed abandoned yet again.

From the corner of his eyes, he could see Jaskier abortively lower an impatient hand, originally intent upon greeting the villagers, but unable to as they disappeared on sight. Jaskier snapped his mouth shut, paused, and then smiled shakily up at Geralt.

“Well, that’s not strange at all Geralt!”

He smelled of wariness and curiosity, his scent growing heavier in the air in comparison to his natural clean chamomile and primrose.

He smelled of wariness and curiosity, but not fear. Never fear.

Geralt grunted in response atop Roach, not interested in providing an opinion and giving invitation for the talkative bard to start his endless squawking. Although now slightly more resistant to constant noise compared to before Jaskier, it was still a difficult thing to become accustomed to. The constant walking beside him, steps crunching alongside the dust under Jaskier’s boots. The gentle breathing that Geralt was sure he could hear miles away. And the never ending chatter that the bard seemed to consider a competition against silence. All of those things were a shock compared the total silence that used to accompany him before.

(And Geralt felt himself go back to that categorization. Everything in his life seemed to sort itself into before and after. Before Jaskier, after Jaskier. Even when he was loathe to give Jaskier such importance in the organization of his life, he was helpless against it.)

Before Jaskier, the world had been an endless list. Travel to a village, go to said village’s pub, ignore the overwhelmingly sour stench of fear emanating from surrounding villagers at the sight of him, search for villagers more afraid of hidden monsters than him, for death, accept a contract, fulfill the contract, collect the bounty, and continue the cycle all over again.

That was the before, and that was the way things should be for a Witcher. It was long and painful, quiet and lonely. It was a life with no companionship aside from that occasionally found in the arms of faceless whores. For any concept of company during the before had been unthinkable. No one would want to follow Geralt. No one would want to subject themselves to such an unstable way of life. No one would want to subject themselves to the company of an emotionless Witcher. And for the most part, the before Geralt had peacefully accepted it. Used to the silence, he learned to find it comforting. Forced into solitude, he grew to find the presence of others bothersome.

The before Geralt liked the way things were supposed to be. The before Geralt understood his place in life, and why it had to be that way. The before Geralt remembered the last time he sought for something more,

(The memory of the girl in the woods still haunted his dreams)

And the disastrous consequences of his foolish desire. So the before Geralt had made peace with his life, and had no plans to change.

And then Jaskier happened.

—————————————————

Posada was a strange little town, filled with strange people and creatures, who all had the strange pastime of fucking hating each other. The elves hated the humans, the humans hated the elves, the elves and humans hated the monsters. And surprisingly enough, Posada was the kind of shit town where even the humans hated other humans. From where Geralt was seated in the back of the pub, he could see the patrons sitting, hunched protectively over their food like beaten dogs, as though afraid someone would snatch it from under their noses. Tense in their seats, the people in the pub sent wary glares and glances to their fellow humans from the corner of their eyes. Untrusting even amongst their own. The sour scent of fear and distrust had been there long before Geralt arrived to search for a contract, and present in each and every one of the pub’s residents.

So Geralt was not surprised when the tavern remained solemn and glum, despite the colorful bard’s every effort.

He was a young thing. Light brown hair, with eyes that were a deep blue, shimmering with mirth. He was dressed in blue and red, prancing around the dull room as though unaware of his less than happy audience. He was not the first bard Geralt had encountered. Bards like him were one among hundreds. So common, that a man could not throw a stone and not hit one of the them. This one was no different. Same gaudy clothing. Same raunchy shitty songs.

After a cursory glance over him, Geralt tried to pay him little attention. Once you’ve seen one bard, you’ve seen them all.

Geralt would not have paid him more attention. Not at all, had it not been for the clean warm scent of chamomile and primrose emanating from him.

Geralt’s mutant enhanced senses were so acute that he had the ability to discern the particular smells that made up people’s individual, and unique scents. Yet fear turned even the most lovely of scents sour and strong, altering it into something completely different. After years of becoming accustomed to his enhanced senses, Geralt had grown used to the smell of fear and hatred, present in every human that cared to be near him.

In a town such as Posada, fear and distrust seemed to seep from the floorboards, even without his presence. It overwhelmed even his resistant nose. But stranger still in the shit town of Posada, where every fucking person seemed to have and fear rooted in their scents, the bard’s scent remained clean and warm. The only one in that tavern free from the sour stench of fear.

Geralt could not remember the last time he had caught a scent lacking in fear. It surprised him to where he actually turned his head to glare at him, instead of keeping a tab on him out of the corner of his eyes. Geralt’s fear induced headache grew worse due to the movement of his head. After long consideration, he forgave himself for shifting in the way of the gentle breeze coming from the open window, carrying that fearless clean scent from the bard towards him to ease the pulsing pain behind his eyes.

The bard kept playing and singing, seemingly unaware of the relief he brought to the suffering Witcher sitting in the corner of the tavern.

Geralt continued to watch him, the bard growing somehow more dramatic, as he placed a foot on a chair with flourish and delivered another verse.

“Meet old nan the hag, to stir up a potion, so that your lady might get an abbborrrtioon-“

Cut off from finishing the song, the bard dodged pieces of bread thrown at him as a particularly angry man screamed,

“Abort yourself!”

Geralt tuned out the protest of both the angry tavern patrons and insulted bard, staring at the rim of his cup of ale until he noticed that the smell of chamomile and primrose had grown stronger. No, not stronger, nearer.

“I love the way you just sit in the corner… and brood.”

Geralt made the mistake of raising his head to look at the bard, casually leaning against a wooden beam, eyes clear and unguarded, and expression warm and inviting with a gentle smile upon pink lips. His scent, despite his eyes gazing directly at Geralt, remained free of fear and clean.

Geralt regarded him warily.

“I’m here to drink alone.”

Not at all deterred, the bard ignored him and pressed forward.

“Good yeh, good. No one else hesitated to comment on the quality of my performance,” the bard said, pausing his words as he fumbled for the first time, fingers unable to settle on the mug in his hands, “… except you.”

And yet, Geralt could not smell any fear from him at all, despite the obvious awkwardness coming from the bard.

“Cmonnn,” the bard whined, brow furrowed while the smile remained on his lips, in response to the lack of reaction from Geralt, “you don’t want to keep… a man with… bread in his pants….waiting.”

At that last line the bard’s smile disappeared only to be replaced by an embarrassed wince, but that was short lived, as the smile stubbornly returned to his face.

Had Geralt been eighty years younger he would have snorted.

The bard’s gaze remained glued to Geralt, doe eyes innocent and open, the color of the sky as it acquiesced to the night. His expression remained hopeful, smile never wavering, and his scent as stubborn as his smile, remained cheerful and fear free.

Geralt had encountered many humans in his long existence. They liked to call him monster, with his yellow eyes, and strange white hair. Yet in his experience, most of the monstrous acts he saw in his long life tended to come from humans more often than not.

A man slapping and beating his wife in front of him for giving him a daughter instead of a son, while ordering Geralt to kill a Kikimora.

A child begging on the streets homeless, after his parents were executed by an indignant lord, for not paying adequate taxes.

A girl, beaten and raped for being born on the wrong day.

Geralt had encountered many types of humans. Angry humans, tense humans, greedy humans, monstrous humans.

Their scent always gave them away. They all try to hide it at first, but their true intentions were always given away by the beat of their hearts, and the panic scent of a lie.

But so rarely had Geralt ever encountered a human with such a pristine aura, with a clean and honest scent. With eyes that were unguarded and trusting. His heartbeat remained steady, without a hint of dishonesty.

Geralt reasoned that it had to be attributed to his youth. His eyes must not yet have truly seen all the horrors available in the world. His soul must have not yet blackened by the tragedies of others. So inexperienced with the true cruelty of the world. Too inexperienced to know of the strength that Geralt possessed, because surely if he knew, he would not be so generous with his smiles. So inexperienced and trusting, he did not suspect ill of anyone, not even the man who had yelled at him earlier, who was also incidentally hiding a knife under his coat, while his eyes tracked the bard discreetly.

And thus as the bard continued to fearlessly pester him for comment on his fucking awful song, blissfully unaware and uncaring of a monstrous Witcher, and the bloodthirsty thief, Geralt realized,

“This fucking naive shit is going to get himself killed.”

And Geralt was disturbed to realize that the very notion of harm coming to this obviously young human, bothered him.

Unaware of Geralt’s internal dilemma, the bard slid into the seat in front of him, hands gesturing as he said,

“You must have some review for me! Three words or less.”

Annoyed at the bard completely disregarding all the signs pointing towards him not being welcome, Geralt kept his gaze impassive, hoping it would finally deter the bard and allow him to continue with his peaceful silence. It worked with everyone else.

And never mind the fact that the moment he left the tavern, he would probably be mugged and possibly murdered.

You’ve seen countless humans die, it doesn’t matter, he tried to convince himself, What is one more to the list?

After a pause, Geralt grunted,

“They don’t exist.”

The bard’s brow wrinkled, tilting his head slightly to the right as he appeared puzzled.

“what don’t exist?”

Geralt schooled his face into remaining cold and inexpressive.

“The creatures in your song.”

The smile turned into a smirk, as the bard scoffed, voice deepening, full of confidence.

“And how would you know?”

Geralt remained silent, sure that the conversation had ended, only to be surprised when the bard’s eyes brightened with understanding as he licked his lips. He rapidly tapped the table with his finger, seemingly unable to contain the glee from showing in his hands, as excitement flooded his scent.

And again, Geralt was surprised with this human, because so rarely had any of those emotions ever been directed towards him.

“Oh fun! White hair, big ol’ loner, two… very very scary looking swords-“ the bard’s face twisted, pausing too long on his swords, before his mouth returned to that cocky grin.

And at this Geralt stood up, because obviously he had been wrong. This bard was not naïve enough to be unaware of Witchers. And as the bard continued with his elbows resting on the top of the table, excitedly about to remind everyone in that shitty tavern of Geralt’s existence, Geralt could not help but feel cornered. And how ridiculous that was. That it was the monstrous, hulking Witcher, feeling panicked due to a strange, young, thin looking human, who spoke to him without a hint of fear in his chamomile and primrose scent.

“I know who you are,” the bard said, with the same expression of a cat that had just gotten the cream, mouth pulling into a crooked grin. “You’re the Witcher.. Geralt of Rivia.”

Geralt walked away, but paused slightly as he caught the gaze of the man with the hidden knife in his coat, eyes still tracking the bard. Geralt debated dragging the bard out with him before abandoning him in some ditch. A ditch, but a safe ditch at least, free of murderous humans.

“Called it!” the bard exclaimed behind him triumphantly, the annoyingly cheerful and sunny smile obvious in his voice despite Geralt not being able to see his face.

Geralt promptly left the tavern.

The pompous little shit could get himself killed for all he cared.

——————————

The pompous little shit did not end up getting himself killed, because after that scene in the tavern, the bard stuck to him like a leech.

No matter how much he glared, or growled, Jaskier (as he learned was his name) remained cheerful and sunny, seemingly undisturbed by Geralt’s gloomy disposition.

Not even after punching the little shit, did he become afraid. He took it in stride, coughing and wheezing as the force of the punch pushed him backwards. Geralt kept walking, but as the wheezing for breath failed to abate, Geralt felt something like panic strangle his heart, and worried whether perhaps he had put too much force into the blow.

Geralt had never intended to truly hurt him, but the thought of Blaviken, the mere mention of what had occurred there, broke through the thick lock of control he kept over his anger. Not only that, he had a pattern in his life, silence and solitude. It was something that the chatty human still wheezing behind him, did not appear to understand.

But just as Geralt was beginning to fret, Jaskier recovered, caught up with him, and continued on as if nothing happened. He talked about making songs for Geralt, and changing how people viewed him and other such nonsense. And despite Geralt’s best attempts, he could not glare him, growl him, threaten him, or ignore him, into running away. He continued talking about devils and hands and reputations, not once caring when Geralt in his absolute fury at the human not leaving him in peace, threatened to murder him for touching Roach.

And yet despite his fury, Geralt promised to himself to never hurt him again. After he regained control of his emotions, he thought about the way in which Jaskier had mentioned Blaviken. His eyes had lit up with the prospect of writing Blaviken into a song, arms spread wide and his voice raising in pitch with excitement. He was young, Geralt had to remind himself. More likely than not, Jaskier had no idea what had occurred in Blaviken. He had meant no harm in his statement, which left Geralt feeling foolish for being baited by an 18 year old whelp.

——————————

“Umm hello? Geralt? Did your crotchety self suffer an aneurysm?

Brought back to the present, Geralt turned to look down where Jaskier stood to the left of Roach, lute in hand, the instrument practically cradled in his arms like a child. It was a peculiar object, given to Jaskier after their first adventure. Jaskier never let that lute out of his presence.

The subtle, swirling chaos weaving around Jaskier, that made Geralt’s medallion vibrate gently above his chest, also never left his presence.

—————————-

Geralt could only assume that the lute was enchanted. After all, it was given to Jaskier by elves, and he would not be surprised if Filavandrel added any extra protection or wards to such a precious instrument.

Jaskier seemed completely unaware of it. In the beginning, Geralt had been wary of Jaskier, chaos gently twirling around the human’s form, to the point where Geralt had begun to doubt his Witcher training, since he had not noticed the chaos around Jaskier when he met him at the tavern. However, he eventually connected the dots and came to the conclusion that the chaos originated from the lute, and not the bard. It made sense as well, considering how infectious most of Jaskier’s tunes were.

Jaskier would perform in every tavern and inn that they travelled to, and the bard never failed to have them all in a drunken stupor, the masses readily and happily tossing their well earned coins into his lute case. Geralt would have been impressed, were it not for the gentle vibrations from his medallion morphing into a stronger hum whenever Jaskier performed.

After much observation, Geralt concluded that the bard used the lute’s chaos without meaning to. Geralt could not come to any other more nefarious conclusion. The man hated any sort of violence. He was absolute shit with any kind of weapon, and screamed shrilly whenever some monster or another made it past Geralt and launched itself at him despite Geralt having told him hundreds of times to stay behind because it was dangerous.

Just to be completely sure, Geralt purposefully let a monster past him during his second contract with the bard. It had not been poisonous, and was rather small. However, it had a nasty bite and smelled worse than the pig pen inside a barn. Jaskier had scrambled in a mad frenzy, his first instinct to run away. Just as the creature was to bite through Jaskier’s jugular, Geralt speared it from the back. The monster had twitched on his blade, before stilling in death.

Someone with a hidden power, would have no doubt revealed it by then to defend themselves against any near death experience.

But all that came from Jaskier was the quickened pitter patter of an accelerated pulse, and the weak scent of panic in the air.

Jaskier had clutched a hand to his chest, fist gripping the front of his doublet, as he gasped breaths in and out, staring at Geralt in surprise. Geralt had dispatched the corpses, intent on ignoring the bard, and tied them to Roach, while he tried to extinguish the traitorous, guilty thoughts burning through his mind.

No, Jaskier was no monster or mage. He was simply a human bard with absolutely no sense of self preservation, and an enchanted lute.

————————————————

Geralt hmmed back, gently urging Roach forward to the desolate town.

“It must be glorious to look inside your head Geralt,” Jaskier continued, subconsciously moving along with Roach as she trotted forwards, head raising and hand gesturing in a circular motion towards Geralt’s brow, as he continued to talk to Geralt. “

“And I only say this because I hope you know I actually can’t read your mind Geralt!” He exclaimed, his voice going higher the way Geralt had learned was his way of showing mock frustration. And it was easy to see that he was not truly bothered by Geralt’s lack of response, for the easy smile remained on his face, as the words left his mouth.

“Sometimes I think you forget I cannot read your mind.”

Geralt only grunted in reply, not caring at the sigh from Jaskier in response to his answer.

“Ugh Geralt please! I am in need of social interaction, on the road for five days, no bath, no bed, and only you for company,” Jaskier waved his arms over, his voice growing louder the more he gestured, while his mouth morphed into a pout.

“I’ve even started talking to Roach out of desperation, its absolutely not fair Geralt! I mean, she is a perfectly gentle and decent lady, but please, have mercy on the poor human bard following you, and please deign yourself to speak to me in complete sentences at least.”

Geralt could feel Jaskier’s gaze boring into the side of his head, and yet Geralt stared straight ahead, straining hard to hide the grin attempting to emerge due to Jaskier’s dramatic tantrums. At being ignored, Jaskier squawked indignantly, waved his arms above his head again, and went on another tirade having to do with boorish dull Witchers, and how terrible they were to keep as company.

Geralt would like to think he teased the bard because he hoped it would give him the incentive to leave, but the more he traveled with the Jaskier, the more effort he had to put into not grinning at every ridiculous thing that seem to spew from his mouth. But the mere difficulty in keeping a straight face, at enjoying something other than the loneliness, terrified him until he shoved his amusement into a box, locked it, and threw it into the furthest corners of his mind.

“Gerraallltt, come on, you have got to be joking at this point, even you aren’t this quiet. Geralt, please tell me we are going to be able to stay at an inn tonight? My poor feet can’t handle much more of this road.”

At that remark Geralt focused his senses on the bard, turning his head to look at him and well as check his scent. His sudden movement stunned Jaskier, who blinked in surprise at having the Witcher’s full attention. Despite being startled, smiled back and stayed silent as Geralt quietly observed him.

Weaker men before the bard had quivered at having the Witcher’s complete gaze, but not Jaskier. Geralt was not sure whether he was brave, stupid, or was just lacking in self preservation, but the bard held Geralt’s gaze calmly and easily, for some reason not questioning why Geralt so abruptly focused all his attention on him.

He quickly checked for the smell of any blood from blisters due to the road, and was relieved when all he could catch was the good natured humor coating the bard’s natural chamomile scent. There was no fear, no pain, the bard was only teasing. Geralt relaxed, content and sure that Jaskier was only exaggerating.

Geralt allowed himself a snort of amusement.

“You have only yourself to blame. When we were over at the merchants square, I told you to buy the hiking boots, and what did you do? You bought those flimsy dress shoes.”

Geralt returned his gaze to the front of the path, silently noting how abandoned the village seemed. There was the scent of old fear in the town. Yet, it only seemed old because few villagers ventured out of their homes, for the scent of fear was strong and new near the doors of the villager’s houses.

So focused on the strangeness of the village, that he barely heard Jaskier’s shocked gasp.

“The Witcher speaks!” Jaskier grumbled, “My dear Witcher, you cannot expect me to wear such monstrosities!”

In his hurry to get the words out, Jaskier nearly tripped on a lose pebble in front of him. Geralt’s left eyebrow rose in response, the only sign of how amusing he was finding the whole conversation.

After regaining his balance, Jaskier continued.

“They were Black Geralt! Black! Ask me what outfits I have that match with black! Well for your information, absolutely none.”

With a dry drawl, Geralt replied,

“It might surprise you to know Jaskier, that I could care less about how shiny and colorful your shoes are, if they wear quickly and slow us.”

Jaskier huffed indignantly, “Well of course you wouldn’t care,” putting special emphasis on the you by deepening his voice, “You have absolutely no eye for clothing, At the beginning of our glorious joint travels, I thought Witchers were colorblind.”

Geralt only grunted back, eyes straight ahead, while Jaskier went off on another monologue. The bard’s scent remained clean chamomile and primrose, heart beat steady and strong.

Yes, Geralt found that the constant noise that now accompanied him on his travels, was difficult to grow accustomed to. The sound of steps, the whisper of breath, the thrum of a pulse, and the endless lilting tones of a voice. These all disturbed his precious silence, and if Geralt tried hard enough, he could convince himself to try yet again to get the bard to leave. To let him return to his list of a life, since the bard disturbed his peace so much. It would be for Geralt’s benefit, to leave this fool of a bard somewhere far behind.

And he ignored the way his heart would race into something near panic, whenever he could no longer discern the gentle sound of the bard’s breathing next to him.

The bard at is side quieted, steps growing closer to Roach a he leaned towards Geralt, eyes eyeing the town as he muttered,

“What desolate, and miserable presence this town has Geralt. I would write it into song, if it were not guaranteed to get us thrown out of every tavern on this side of the continent for being absolutely depressing.”

Geralt hmmed in agreement, “These people are suffering,”

And it was true, the heavy cloud of anguish and fear hung over the village like a shadow over a man.

“Well no doubt Geralt, there’s no one outside. Which begs the question, what do they fear?”

Their slow and gentle meandering had brought them to the entrance of the village’s inn, a lacking and bereft building with peeling walls, and a sun bleached roof. The dirt around the inn was so dry, that the dust seemed to stay heavy and present in the air despite the lack of movement from recent of arrivals.

“I imagine we’ll find out soon enough.” Geralt replied, dismounting and handing Roach’s reigns hesitantly over to a thin and sickly looking stable hand. He reeked of anger and frustration, despite the lack of expression on his face.

As they entered the inn, Geralt endeavored to not stay there too long, despite Jaskier’s pleading. No amount of contract money was worth a stolen horse.

—————————————-

The mood inside the inn was morose.

Where inns such as Posada were inhabited yet uneasy, this one was bereft of people, and the few employees inside the inn were dusty and dirty. Their eyes were empty as they stared at the swirl of the wooden tables in front of them. It was eerily silent, for despite it being clear that they were all neighbors, they held no conversation with each other. The only sound coming from a thin woman in the corner sweeping the endless dust that drifted through the door when Geralt and Jaskier entered, with a crooked and shabby broom.

So strong was the silence, that even Jaskier was over-whelmed for a moment. Mouth remaining shut despite his obvious desire to state the obvious.

Geralt turned to tell Jaskier to ask for a room for the night, only to be see a somber look upon the bard’s face. It was so out of character for Jaskier, that Geralt could not help but pause for a second. His lips became a thin line. His gaze was unfocused, as though staring at a distance far away. His eyes were a darker color than his usual sunny sky blue. Jaskier abruptly caught Geralt’s intrusive gaze, and just as quickly as Jaskier’s somber face appeared, it was gone, an easy smile returning to the bard’s face.

“I’ll go ask for a room for us Geralt,” Jaskier beamed, smile frozen on his face as his hands tightened their grip on the strap of his lute case. He hurriedly turned his back to Geralt, and quickly stepped away to speak to the inn keeper.

Geralt followed behind, but did not intervene. It was always easier to buy food and lodging if he let Jaskier do the talking

Jaskier put his hands on his hips as he addressed the bone thin crone at the head of the tavern.

“Well hello there madam! I’m here to purchase food and drink from this fine establishment, for my friend and-“

“There is only stew, no ale, and one room,” the inn keeper croaked.

“Well that won’t be a problem, will it Geralt?” Jaskier turned around and sent Geralt a grin.

Geralt stayed silent, keeping his gaze focused on the old woman in front of him. She was weathered, skin the texture of leather, with a hunch on her back. He mentioned nothing of how strange it seemed, that the inn was bereft of people, and yet there was only one room available.

“Are there any monsters causing problems nearby?” Asked Geralt, as he accepted the room’s key, and shuffled forward some coin as payment. While he watched the old woman search for something along a dusty shelf, Geralt heard a slight creaking in the floor boards, behind a closed door that the withered woman seemed desperate to keep hidden with her body.

“There is nothin’ here for you, Witcher,” The crone returned with a rag and a jug of water, which she used to wipe down the table aggressively, avoiding Geralt’s gaze while not even collecting the coin in front of her.

The heavy scent of a lie permeated the air.

Jaskier shuffled his feet and picked at his nails, staring at them before looking back at the old woman, “Well, it’s only that everything is so quiet around the-“

“There is absolutely nothin’ here for you!” The crone banged the jar of water harshly, with enough force to spill some along the sides, as she glared at the Witcher and bard.

“Nana, I’m ‘ungry, and so is Munty.”

Eyes widening in fear, she abandoned her task and dashed to the door behind her. Geralt remembered the creaking floor boards he heard earlier, not surprised to spy a child through the newly open door. The weathered inn keeper lowered herself to kneel to the height of the child, a movement that wore on her knees and made her wince in discomfort. She steadied herself before gripping the child’s shoulders tightly.

“What did I tell you about leavin’ your room!”

The toddler’s brown eyes watered, and he brought the bunny stuffie clutched in his hands up to his chest, cradling it protectively while he avoided his nana’s gaze.

“But we were getting lonely, and we wanted some suppa’.”

The innkeeper’s stiff lips and stone eyes softened. She took one hand off the toddler’s shoulders, and ruffled the child’s hair fondly.

“Oh don’t you worry now sweet child, no crocodile tears here. I’ll bring some warm stew to your room before long, now go back inside.”

“Ok,” the child muttered, reluctantly walking back to the open door, until he caught sight of Geralt.

“You’re a Witcher…” he said in awe, eyes wide and far too large for such a small face.

Geralt blinked in surprise at the lack of fear in the boy, and nodded.

“Lucas go back to your room now!” The woman snapped, patience running out. “This here Witcher has no business here.”

The little boy struggled in his Nana’s grip, determined to stay where he was.

“But he’s a Witcher,” Lucas stomped his feet, face scrunching up. “He can ‘elp us.”

“Indeed, he is a Witcher,” Jaskier soothed, cutting in before the old woman could say anything else, and the toddler’s sudden tantrum worsened.

“And you wanna know something else Lucas?” Jaskier asked, a small smile on his face, his voice gentle as if he were talking to a spooked animal. It was the first time Geralt had ever heard him be that quiet, the Witcher used to him talking as if he were belting out every word.

“What?” Lucas replied shyly, momentarily distracted, his voice slightly distorted over the rabbit ear in his mouth.

Jaskier walked over to Lucas, until he too was crouched beside him. Then, he turned his waist and pointed one hand over to Geralt as if presenting him before some grand audience, while the other cupped over his mouth to whisper into the boys’s ear conspiratorially. All the while, ignoring the death glare the old women sent him.

“Yes indeed, he is a Witcher, but not only is he some regular Witcher, he is also the best Witcher in the world.. he’s fought dragons and trolls, pixies and wyverns, and prevailed against every one of them.. all the while saving soo many people..but you must keep it a secret, only between you and I.”

The child gasped and looked back at Geralt in wonder, before hiding back behind Jaskier’s hand and asking, “but why must we keep it a secret?” His eyes focused on Jaskier.

Jaskier swiveled his head, looking around despite there being no one else near except Geralt and the crone. He then turned to look at Geralt suspiciously, but his grin gave him away. He then motioned with his finger for Lucas to come even closer.

As soon as Lucas drew nearer, Jaskier covered both his mouth and boy’s ear with his hand before whispering in mock seriousness, “because if we ever told him, his head would grow far bigger than it already is, and become far too large for the rest of his poor body to handle.”

Geralt mentally rolled his eyes. Jaskier knew well enough that no amount of whispering would be able to hide his mutterings from Witcher ears. Besides, if anyone was in danger of developing a big head, it was Jaskier.

But the effect was immediate, the boy’s face lighting up with mirth as he giggled

“So Lucas, if you’re having any problems around here, any at all, you know our Witcher is up to the task,” Jaskier appeared to still be speaking to Lucas, but his eyes sought out the old woman’s and stayed there, until he wore her down. Her stubborn scowl relented, and her shoulders slumped in defeat.

“We ain’t got no coin Witcher,” she admitted, all the fight gone from her, “like I said, there is no job for you here.”

“So there is a monster here,” Geralt grunted, voice rough and gravelly.

Lucas bit his lip. He eyed his nana, the Witcher, and then his nana again, before escaping his nana’s hold and rushing towards the Witcher, small fists grasping Geralt’s trousers along with his bunny.

“Please Lord Witcher!” Lucas screamed, voice shrill and high.

“Lucas!” The crone roared, but not in anger. Her eyes swam with fear as eyed the imposing form of the Witcher towering over her six year old grandson.

Geralt’s face relaxed, attempting to appear as non-threatening as possible, as he stared at the cherub face now lined with tears. He did not move to dislodge the child’s fists from his clothes.

“I’m no lord little one,” he said gruffly but gently.

The child’s brow furrowed in thought, before his eyes brightened.

“Then please sir Witcher! Please, you have to help us!”

Geralt was about to say he was not any type of ‘sir’ either, but was interrupted by the old woman.

“Lucas, get back here now!” The crone hissed, fists clenched at her side. Her tone urgent, and her gaze panicked, yet she herself clearly unwilling to draw any nearer to Geralt.

“Please Witcher sir!” The boy’s voice was desperate and pleading, completely ignoring his nana.

Geralt eyed the child’s trembling form, watery eyes gazing at him stubbornly, despite the sharp new scent of fear coming from him.

It was easy at first for Lucas to be lulled by Jaskier’s words of a courageous Witcher, defeating dragons and fighting trolls, but up close, Lucas could see Geralt’s pale skin. He could see those slitted golden eyes, and snow bleached hair. He did not mean to be afraid, but Lucas could not help it.

“Please,” Lucas whispered, at seeing no reaction from Geralt.

The boy swallowed, as his eyes filled with even more tears and he pulled at Geralt’s clothes beseechingly.

“It killed my sister,” he choked, a hiccuped sob escaping him.

Jaskier stiffened.

“It left none of her!” the child wailed, “nuthin’ except Munty!”

Geralt froze, unsure and completely inexperienced at how to soothe the wailing child in front of him. He turned to Jaskier, because between the both of them, the colorful, affectionate bard was by far the best at soothing children. He turned, only to have his world shift on its axis.

He was hit with an overwhelming wave of fear. At first Geralt was confused. He searched for the old woman, because surely the fear was coming from her. At finding her still frenzied but not the source of the smell, the emotion roiling in his gut turned to disbelief. The overpowering, sour stench of fear was coming from the bard.

Jaskier’s wide unfocused eyes, so blown that there was almost no blue left, stared off into the distance, as though seeing some vision visible only to him. His hands let go of his lute strap, only to tremble spastically in front of him, not quite at his sides. His breath seemed frozen in his chest, unable to make a sound, yet his mouth gaped open as though about to scream in reaction to some hidden enemy.

Geralt didn’t think, he didn’t have a thought in his mind that told his legs to move. They did it on their own. Because Geralt recognized that look. Empty troubled looks that spoke of loss and bloodshed, spastic trembles that never seemed to end. He’d seen those looks before, but never on a bard.

Never on Jaskier, who always smelled of sunshine after a long winter.

Never on Jaskier, who always took the time to braid the springtime flowers into Roach’s mane, because he said “Oh away with the scowl Geralt, Roach is a lady, and a lady deserves to have her gorgeous locks in order.”

Never on Jaskier, who let the local children of whatever town grip and tug at his lute to entertain themselves, despite the hours of cleaning and tuning he would have to do afterwards.

Never Jaskier, who was gentle and kind, and who barely knew how to hold a knife “pointy part away.”

Never Jaskier, because in a land of shit and piss, Geralt already missed Jaskier’s clean and warm chamomile and primrose scent.

Never Jaskier, because out of everyone in the world, his face was the last one that Geralt wanted to see frozen in the memory of sorrows past.

Geralt did not remember how or when he got to Jaskier, only that once he did, he grasped the bard’s shoulders, panicked, and angry, and unsure, because he didn’t know a damn thing that could help. He could not slay the monsters in Jaskier’s mind, not matter how much he wished to.

“Jaskier,” he murmured, hoping to draw him back to the present.

“Jaskier,” he said, louder and more insistently, gently shaking his shoulders. If Geralt were panicking before, then he lost his mind when the only result of his jostling was Jaskier’s head lolling limply atop his shoulders.

Geralt was so lost in this worries he did not notice Jaskier’s eyes focusing. Only when Jaskier’s fingers gripped his forearms, did Geralt notice that the bard’s gaze was once again in the present.

Jaskier grabbed Geralt’s wrists, and with more force than expected, Jaskier pried Geralt’s hands from his shoulders.

“Geralt,” Jaskier hissed, hands still trembling slightly, “let me go.”

Geralt jerked his hands back as if they’d been holding burning coals.

Jaskier took a couple steps away from Geralt, trembling slightly and hugging himself, quickly putting distance between him and the Witcher. He took a breath and closed his eyes.

A second later and they reopened, calm again, staring resolutely at anything except the Witcher.

“Geralt,” he said, voice cold as ice, “I do believe you are long overdue to have a little chat with this woman.”

It as wrong.

It was like a stranger was moving the bard’s mouth stealing his voice. If Geralt hadn’t known better, he would have thought the person in front of him to be some imposter, a Doppler.

And there was no fear left in Jaskier, but his scent was wrong, it was still wrong. There was no sunshine, no chamomile. The sense of wrongness just would not go away. Because Jaskier never smelled afraid. Jaskier never smelled angry. And most of all, Jaskier had never avoided his eyes before, the way he was doing now.

Geralt couldn’t smell the chamomile, or the sunshine… Jaskier didn’t smell like Jaskier. It was all wrong.

Geralt’s heart dropped to his stomach.

It was as if the sun had stopped shining.

“Marian,” the old woman muttered, sees shifting between Geralt and Jaskier, “My name is Marian.”

While Geralt’s attention had been occupied by Jaskier, Marian had rushed over to her grandson and pulled him back into her grasp, stifling the child’s sobs.

“Again,” Marian croaked, “We have nothing to pay you.”

“I’ll do it, “ Geralt grunted, ears still trained on the quickened pulse of the stock still bard staring at his fingers four feet from him, utterly silent in the appearance of calm, yet his thundering heart giving him away.

“We don’t take charity, never have,” Marian scowled, the wrinkles on her face deepening, “especially not from mutant monsters like you.”

“This isn’t charity,” Geralt growled, ignoring the insult, “If left alone, whatever monster it is will continue killing, till someone becomes desperate enough to ask for my help. If I don’t kill it now, I will be forced to kill it later, when it’s stronger and smarter and far more dangerous to slay. If it is able to reproduce, then the resulting creatures will not limit themselves to this town, and spread to surrounding villages until not even an army of Witchers will suffice.”

The woman’s face paled at the thought.

“It will keep killing,” Geralt continued, face stern “I’ve yet to meet a monster that leaves after a few meals. It’ll continue feeding till all that is left of this town is a trail of corpses, and all because you would not accept help for the sake of your pride”

“So Marian,” Geralt asked, voice grim and tired, “Which monster do you fear more, the mutant in front of you, or the man eater out there,” Geralt pointed to the nearest window, “picking you off one by one?”

Marian swallowed, the silence in the inn deafening as neither Witcher nor grandmother backed down. The few workers in the inn had fled to rooms upstairs, wary of any encounter with the Witcher. Eventually Marian looked away, frustration evident on her aged and weary face.

“We don’t know what it is,” Marian warned, still consoling the now silent child at her side, “None of us have seen it and lived to tell the tale.”

“What does it leave of the bodies,” Geralt asked patiently, “How many creatures?”

Marian moved to answer, until a whimper interrupted their conversation.

Marian glanced down at her trembling grandson, sighing in understanding.

“How bout’ we continue this conversation in private?”

Geralt glanced down at the child shivering in Marian’s arms. He was pale and jittery, crying silently, no doubt reliving his sister’s death.

“Dearest Lucas,” Jaskier said with far too much liveliness for a man that not minutes ago had been reduced to a quivering ball of fear.

“How about you and I go get ourselves a meal? Aren’t you still hungry? I know I’m famished!”

The child nodded, face partially hidden behind his bunny stuffie.

Lucas glanced up at his nana, “Nana, can I go?”

Marian glared at Jaskier suspiciously, grip tightening on her grandson’s hand.

“We will just be going to that table over there,” Jaskier assured her, pointing to the furthest table in the inn, “He’ll be in your line of sight.”

Marian hesitated, torn between having her grandchild leave her side, or letting him overhear the gruesome details of his sister’s death.

At her continued distrust, Jaskier’s back straightened.

“I promise.” Jaskier said, tone changing, his voice harder than Geralt had ever heard it before.

“I promise” he asserted, eyes like a frozen glacier rather than a summer sky. “no harm will come to your grandchild, certainly not while he is with me, you have my word.”

And there was no way Jaskier could promise such a thing, Geralt thought. He couldn’t even defend himself, much less a child. And yet there was no doubt in Jaskier’s voice, or any falsehood in his scent.

In his strange, empty yet present scent.

Marian paused, searching for something in the bard’s face. After a moment, she nodded slowly, having seemingly found it.

She turned to her grandson, “Lucas, you’re going to go with…?” Marian turned to the bard, waiting for his name.

At this, Jaskier grinned, eyes filled with instant cheer, as if someone had flipped a switch.

“Jaskier is the name, fine madam!” He turned to Lucas with a flourish, tilting his head slightly at the youth before launching into an intricate and court worthy curtesy “and fine sir, at your service!”

The boy’s face remained somber, the thought of his sister’s death still too heavy in his mind to be distracted by even Jaskier’s antics.

“You’re a bard?” The boy asked.

“My poor, sweet, unaware, dear child,” he mockingly despaired at the heavens, hands gesturing towards the ceiling, “you are only in the presence of the most decorated bard in all the continent!” Jaskier bragged, head high and eyes beaming, both hands now at his waist, “praised by kings and queens,” he continued, “voice complimented by sirens themselves!”

“We get it bard,” Marian grumbled dryly, exasperated by his theatrics.

But boy’s mouth hung open, not yet cheered but successfully distracted, “What’s a siren?”

“Come with me,” Jaskier held a hand out to Lucas, “and I’ll tell you.”

Lucas bit his lip, and looked up at his grandmother, silently asking for permission again without uttering a word. Marian mouthed a gentle go, and it was all the prompting the youth needed before he hesitantly took Jaskier’s hand, letting himself be led to a distant table, the bard rambling about nonsense all the way.

Geralt stared at the bard’s retreating back, still distracted by Jaskier’s scent. It was no longer covered in fear, or anger, but it was also devoid of… well..everything that made Jaskier, Jaskier. And despite the joy the bard exuded while talking to Lucas, no accompanying joyful scent had emanated from the bard. He had been empty.

And if Jaskier’s pulse was sedate and far too calm for the emotions passing through his face, then Geralt’s heartbeat soared, elevated far beyond what was normal for a Witcher. And Geralt realized that this was what if felt like to be worried. After ages being devoid of worry, for himself, for anyone else except his brothers, it had become difficult to recognize it. Witcher potions diluting the emotion till it was nothing but an echo in his mind. Yet the fiery hot tension pounding through his veins could not be confused for anything other worry for the bard.

And he was annoyed, because without Jaskier’s comforting chamomile and primrose scent, the world had gone back to smelling like the shit hole it truly was.

And he was annoyed by how much he’d come to rely on the human’s calming scent. It was ridiculous how he was annoyed at how annoyed its absence made him.

Whatever was going on, it needed to be fixed, soon.

“I believe we were talking Witcher,”

Geralt blinked, and tore his gaze away from Jaskier’s back, towards Marian.

“How many?” Geralt asked.

At this Marian grimaced, glancing to the side, pulse accelerating at the thought of the beast, “one, of this I am sure.”

Geralt frowned, “How are you so sure?”

“It leaves tracks,” she explained, “Only one set of tracks, though none of the men are stupid enough to attempt to hunt it down. And its doubtful if those tracks will ever disappear, with the rains lagging as much as they are.”

“Hmm”, Geralt grunted, acknowledging what she said.

“You’re in a dry spell?” Geralt asked.

Marian wrung her hands, “Worst one in twenty years. Crops won’t grow, and the soil rises from the ground at the gentlest of winds. If it doesn’t rain soon, then the monster might be the least of our worries.”

She continued explaining anything she knew about the monster. Geralt listened, but he also couldn’t help but overhear the conversation between Jaskier and Lucas, the distance doing nothing to muffle their voices against his sensitive ears despite his inability to see their faces.

Jaskier spun tales of sirens and fairies, obviously attempting to distract the child, yet it seemed in vain, as Lucas uttered not a single question or word.

Jaskier finally went quiet, and just as Geralt was beginning to think he’d given up, he spoke.

“I had a sister too, once.” words hesitant and slow coming from Jaskier’s mouth.

Geralt’s heart froze in his chest, barely hearing Marian in front of him.

Geralt heard Lucas squeeze his bunny, beads scraping against each other inside the stuffed animal.

“Where did she go?”

“Well,” Jaskier’s voice was breathless, raspy and weak as Geralt had never heard it.

“she’s gone, like yours” the admission from bard sounding as though someone had punched it out of him.

Even from that distance, Geralt could hear the bard’s nails scraping the soft dry wood on the table’s surface.

“Oh” Geralt heard Lucas hug the bunny to his chest.

“Well, maybe they’re together now.” Lucas whispered.

Geralt heard the boy’s heart beat start to race, and the scent of tears began to permeate through the inn.

“Do you” the boy’s voice trembling from the strength of holding in his sobs, “Did you ever stop missing her?”

Geralt heard Jaskier’s heart skip a beat.

He heard it begin anew in a broken rhythm. A rhythm Geralt knew well from others.

Anger.

After a long pause..

“Never.” Jaskier said, voice frigid and steady as a mountain in the wind, fear completely gone from his scent.

And Geralt could only rage at his inability to fix this, fix all of this, because for all of Jaskier’s talking, he never even knew the bard had a sister at all.

—————————

After gathering any important details from Marian, Geralt watched her collect her grandchild, while the bard was as cheerful as ever, telling her how well Lucas had behaved. The bard clasped his hands, a grin from ear to ear, promising to sing for Lucas later. His voice was kind and calm, far too calm for a man admitting to his sister’s death only moments earlier.

And Geralt wished everything were fine, but his heart still beat two paces too fast (Geralt didn’t let himself think when and why he’d learned the bard’s resting heartbeat), and his eyes lacked a strange light they’d had before, leaving them looking bereft. And Geralt felt the world was upside down, because everything was still wrong, and yet it still seemed fine as ever at the same time. Because Jaskier was still the same as ever, but different at the same time.

Jaskier still clasped Geralt’s shoulder and told him he’d be going to their room to get some rest, just like in every hunt before.

And he still held Geralt’s gaze with a calm smile despite the Witcher’s yellow slitted eyes, just like in every hunt before.

And he still ran up the stairs, taking two at a time while making a racket that Geralt used to find ear splitting, but now only left him fondly exasperated, just like in every hunt before.

But it’s not ok, not alright at all, because the comforting scent of chamomile and primrose, was still gone, unlike every hunt before.

And Geralt, for all his strength, and mutations, and training, has no idea know how to fix it.

No idea at all.

————————————

Geralt checked on Roach soon after. He focused on brushing her down, all the while ignoring the suspicious glances the bone thin stable boy kept shooting him. Geralt had bigger worries. Worries such as finding out what kind of monster he was hunting. Worries such as, how to fix whatever was wrong with Jaskier, because Geralt couldn’t imagine a world where the bard’s gentle scent was absent.

The stable boy muttered an insult that Geralt still caught, and all but stormed outside.

Geralt ignored him, Focused on brushing Roach down. Once he finished with that, he poured her feed into a trough, watching her have her meal.

Geralt relaxed into the routine of it all, until he smelled a gentle but sharp scent of moisture in the air. It coiled through the stable gracefully, till the humidity reached Geralt’s nose.

Geralt’s eyes widened.

It couldn’t be.

Outside, Geralt heard the stableboy shout in surprise, along with suspicious sounding plip plops rebounding on the dry ground.

Geralt rushed his way out of the stable, steps heavy yet hurried, only to have his face be assaulted by heavy droplets of water once exposed to the outside.

He found the source of the shout, only to be met by a waterlogged stable hand. Although completely drenched, the stable hand seemed not to care. His arms were held out, catching stray droplets, as an incredulous smile adorned his face for the very first time since Geralt had seen him.

“The rains are here! The dry spell is over everyone!” the stable hand screamed, “It’s over! THE DRY SPELL IS OVER!” He roared.

And outside, Geralt could see all the townspeople leaving their homes, the same look of wonder and relief on their faces as on the stable hand, as they held their hands out, letting the long hoped for rain fall onto their welcoming palms.

Geralt watched the town come alive, until Marian came running outside as well, her face twisted in disbelief. She held her hand out as well, and watched the droplets run through the deep wrinkles in her palm before returning it to cover her mouth.

Tears began to glisten at the corners of her eyes.

“It’s a miracle,” she choked out, struggling to maintain her composure as the rain turned into a downpour.

——————————————

Geralt walked back to the inn, eager to dry himself after the surprise rainfall.

Sadly for him, the townspeople’s luck was his misfortune, as any tracks left by the monster would have no doubt by then been erased.

Geralt heaved a sigh as he walked up the steps, only for his calm to be broken by the scent of blood.

Jaskier’s blood.

Geralt ran up the stairs, his mind rushing through successively more horrible scenarios as to why his bard was bleeding.

Did he fall from his bed?

Did he cut himself on accident?

Did some angry viscous villager break in and attack Jaskier, just from associating with a Witcher?

At that thought Geralt doubled his pace, not thinking as he slammed the door open while simultaneously pulling out his steel sword.

It wouldn’t be the first time Jaskier was attacked due to his association with the Witcher. Geralt recalled one such occasion when he’d been out on a hunt, only to return to their inn to find five men outside, completely unconscious. He’d gone in only to find Jaskier sporting a black eye, and a story.

“You wouldn’t believe it Geralt!” the bard had exclaimed, words rushing out of his mouth, “Those men attacked me, but that knight over there,” he’d pointed to some dazed looking knight in the corner of the inn, “ saved me from certain death, this poor face, imagine Geralt, could’ve been damaged forever!”

And Geralt didn’t need to ask why they’d attacked Jaskier. He’d heard them earlier, moaning about emotionless, evil, witchers, having no business in an inn. He’d simply thought they didn’t have the balls to do anything about it.

He’d been wrong.

And the thanks he’d given the strangely dazed knight had tasted like shit coming out of his mouth.

Because Geralt had failed.

He’d failed at protecting the bard, and instead, Jaskier had to rely on some two penny knight to save his hide.

At a slurred response from the knight, Geralt had frowned, and asked Jaskier what was wrong with him.

Jaskier had rolled his eyes, “Oh Geralt, don’t you worry. While courageously defending your companion, he took a blow to the head, but he’s fine now, aren’t you?” Jaskier had asked the knight forcefully, smile pasted onto his face.

The knight had looked at the bard, and then mumbled some response, incoherent to even Geralt’s sensitive ears. Geralt’s left eyebrow rose.

However, Geralt had left it at that.

The important thing was that Jaskier was safe.

But Geralt refused to fail again.

When the door banged open, he was met by the sight of Jaskier attempting to staunch the flow of blood coming from somewhere on his face.

At the sudden noise, the bard inside the room jumped, the hand over his nose shifting as a result, allowing some droplets of blood to coat the floor underneath.

“Melitle’s tits Geralt!”

Geralt growled at the sight, and listened as well as scented the room for any possible intruders.

His anger turned into confusion as he found both of them to be the only occupants of the room.

“Oh my word Geralt!” The bard screamed at noticing Geralt’s sword in hand, “It’s just a nose bleed!”

Not at all comforted, and heart still racing from panic, Geralt sheathed his sword and approached the bard.

“Let me see,” Geralt grumbled, reaching for the hand staunching the blood in Jaskier’s nose.

What proceeded was a rather vicious tug of war between Jaskier and Geralt. Geralt’s goal was to remove the hand and check for damage, while Jaskier’s goal seemed to be attempting to be as difficult as possible.

“You impossible oaf! I’m fine, let go of me!” Jaskier shrieked, almost hysterical.

The resulting struggle only added to the small but growing puddle of blood on the floor.

A fucking puddle on the floor, from a fucking nosebleed.

“Stop being so difficult!” Geralt snarled, worry at the amount of blood exiting the human’s body overcoming his already thin patience.

Were nosebleeds supposed to bleed that much?

Jaskier continued to struggle, heart beat racing, still sounding wrong to Geralt’s ears. However, the bard’s strength soon ebbed, and Geralt ripped his hand from his face to get a clear view of Jaskier’s nose.

Jaskier whined at his hand being ripped away, but Geralt ignored him.

Geralt cupped one large hand over Jaskier’s check, this thumb brushing over the top of his upper lip while accidentally smearing the blood there over one cheek. All the while Jaskier’s eyes never left Geralt’s eyes, while his hand remained clasped over Geralt’s wrist. His face was pale, his eyes wide, breaths quick and gasping, reminding Geralt of earlier when Jaskier had seemed far away and in a nightmare. Except now, it was clear Jaskier was looking at Geralt.

His nose didn’t appear broken, but it was bleeding far more than what seemed normal. The blood left a thick trail down the front of Jaskier’s doublet, the resulting path coating the bard’s mouth and chin.

“Fuck” Geralt grunted, his heart still racing as he replaced Jaskier’s hand and gently pinched the bridge of the bard’s nose, attempting to staunch the bleeding.

He was so focused on staunching the blood, that he barely noticed the bard’s eyes losing focus, and his heart starting to race like a hummingbird’s.

Geralt could only utter one loud and vicious, “Jaskier!” Before the bard swayed on his feet, legs collapsing as he began to fall towards the floor.

Geralt caught him before he hit the ground, now completely panicked at what the fuck could be going on.

Geralt pulled Jaskier’s completely limp body closer to him, sliding one hand under the bard’s shoulders, and the other under knees before lifting him completely, Jaskier’s head lolling disturbingly on Geralt’s shoulder.

Geralt made a beeline for the bed, only for him to notice the way his own hands were shaking as they gripped Jaskier’s limp body closer.

Stunned, Geralt could only stare as his hands refused to stop trembling.

His hands never trembled.

Trembling hands meant hands that were unable to wield a sword.

Trembling hands meant the inability to defend himself.

Trembling hands meant death for a Witcher.

Vesemir had beaten the shaking out of hands ages ago, only for it to return now.

At the sound of more blood hitting the floor, Geralt shook his head and slowly laid Jaskier over the bed.

Geralt felt around the bard’s body for any sign of collision, any sign of damage, that could lead the Witcher to understanding why Jaskier was hemorrhaging from a simple nose bleed.

But Geralt found nothing.

Geralt was startled out of his escalatingly more terrified thoughts, as he heard Jaskier choke, liquid that could only be blood gushing out of his mouth and nose.

Geralt’s eyes widened and he rushed to turn Jaskier’s motionless face to the side, opening his mouth to allow the buildup of blood to exit his mouth. In his distraction, Geralt had almost let Jaskier choke to death on his own blood. Jaskier gagged, and Geralt worked to clear the bard’s mouth of blood.

Somewhere in Geralt’s mind, numb amongst the horror he was living through, he noted how stained the bed covers were becoming. How stained his hands were becoming. Stained with blood.

Jaskier’s blood.

Geralt felt ice pierce his chest.

Geralt began pawing desperately at Jaskier’s head, breaths quickening with dread, trying to find any sort of bump or bruise, anything that could cause this.

He couldn’t lose Jaskier over a nosebleed.

He wouldn’t lose Jaskier over anything, not while he could help it.

Just as Geralt was prepared to gather Jaskier into his arms again and demand to see the town’s healer, the blood flow ebbed, only a slight trickle to what had previously been a torrent of crimson.

Geralt held his breath and pinched the bridge of Jaskier’s nose again to try to stop the nosebleed completely.

After a terrifying couple of seconds, Geralt lifted his hand, praying to all the gods he had previously cursed at, and begged to all the heavens, for the bleeding to have stopped.

To his utter, bone weary relief, the bleeding had stopped. Geralt let his shoulders slump in exhaustion, more worn from this haunting experience than from any hunt in recent memory.

Geralt allowed himself a moment of calm before he began checking Jaskier over.

Geralt placed two gentle fingers underneath the bard’s jaw to the side, feeling for his pulse.

The calm and steady, if slightly thready pulse comforted him. And as Geralt let his fingers rest over the pulsing artery, he could feel it picking up strength.

Satisfied with the knowledge that Jaskier’s heart wasn’t about to fail from blood loss, he continued checking him over.

He looked a fright, his lower face completely covered in red. But his eyes were closed, and his face relaxed.

He was still far paler than normal, but his cheeks were beginning to regain a healthy blush.

Before doing anything else, Geralt reached for Jaskier’s legs, bunching up the covers so his feet were higher than the rest of his body. After, he moved Jaskier’s head into a more comfortable position, while he adjusted his arms to lay at his side. Geralt finally reached for the thickest of the blankets and covered jaskier with it, tucking it in at the edges to makes sure the warmth wouldn’t escape.

Geralt then placed a hand over the bard’s nose and mouth. His breaths were regular and easy.

He placed a callus worn palm over the bard’s brow. His temperature was fine, not too hot, not too cold.

Breathing out a sigh of relief, Geralt covered his face with his hands, before gathering the strength to fetch a rag and a bucket of water.

When he returned with the desired items, Jaskier was still lost to the world, eyes closed and chest rising steadily.

He began the laborious task of cleaning the blood off Jaskier’s face by dipping the rag into the bucket, excess moisture squeezed out by strong hands, before being applying it carefully over the bard’s upper lip.

Blood looked wrong on Jaskier’s skin, Geralt thought, as he worked to clean the crimson liquid off of him.

He moved the rag back and forth over Jaskier’s soft skin, working to rid the bard’s soft skin of any remainder of blood.

Just as he was near done, the bard jerked, coming awake with a horrified gasp. His eyes focused, and an angry snarl came over his face at seeing Geralt.

“Get off of me!” The bard shouted, eyes furious as he ripped the blanket off him.

Geralt grunted in surprise, before backing away and lifting his arms to show he had nothing in his hands except the bloodied rag.

Geralt could only watch Jaskier, stunned, because Jaskier did not tremble in his presence. Jaskier was never afraid of him. He was the only one to never be afraid of him, and so why was Jaskier staring at him as though he’d murdered his mother?

Trembling gasps continued to pass through Jaskier lips, as he stared at the Witcher like a spooked horse, hands gripping the sheet tangled around him.

And the smell was back. The wrong, sour, scent of fear.

Geralt wanted it gone, because that smell, the smell of terror, was not meant to be coming from Jaskier.

“What the fuck was that!?” Geralt roared, his anxiety morphing into fury despite his mind cautioning him to be gentle.

“Nothin,” Jaskier breathed, his scent calming, yet still different, “Nothing.”

“That was not ‘nothing’,” Geralt growled, “I’ve never seen a nose bleed like that! Was that even a nose bleed? What the fuck happened?”

“It’s just a nose bleed Geralt, nothing happened!” Jaskier shouted, voice bordering on frustrated.

Geralt looked at the bard’s still trembling form, and started to walk back towards him to finish cleaning off the rest of the blood, only to see Jaskier’s mouth turn into a grimace.

“I’m fine,” Jaskier bit out.

Geralt glared, fury threatening to overwhelm him as the vein on the side of his head bulged, and the day’s events began to weigh on him.

The stupid fuck was not fine. He was so completely not fine, and Geralt still didn’t know what the fuck had happened. If it happened again, Geralt still wouldn’t know what to do, because the fucking bard wouldn’t tell him.

Biting the inside of his cheek to restrain his temper, he tossed the bloodied rag towards bed. It landed to the left of Jaskier.

“You can wash your own damn face off then,” Geralt snarled, frame shaking with the effort of reigning in his worry and fury.

Geralt left to wash the fucking human blood off his hands and under his fingernails, while Jaskier stared at his retreating back, hands feeling his mostly clean face in disbelief.

Geralt scrubbed his hands harshly, making sure to rid himself of blood underneath his fingernails.

The rusty drying liquid made him nauseous.

He couldn’t stand the smell of blood.

Jaskier’s blood.

——————————————

Things were quiet after that.

They avoided each other, sticking to opposite corners of the room. Geralt set out to prepare his swords for the night. Sharpening them as he counted the number of potions he would need, just in case.

Geralt refused to look at Jaskier, whose scent was still wrong. No, he could not look at him, because if he did, he might see the horror filled images of earlier. Jaskier limp and dead looking. No, he would rather not look at the bard at all.

However, as the sounds of Jaskier cleaning his face and changing his shirt passed, so too did Geralt’s anger. Instead, it was replaced by concern.

Geralt had reacted harshly in his worry, and he only grew to regret it as the hours passed.

Jaskier had just relived his sister’s death, and suffered a strange nosebleed, all in one hectic afternoon, only to come to a furious Geralt.

Geralt didn’t even know if Jaskier had watched his sister die in front of him.

He shuddered at the thought.

That would certainly explain the terror filled episodes. Perhaps when he looked at Geralt as he was waking up, he saw what killed his sister.

The thought only made Geralt feel guiltier at his reaction, as Jaskier worked to pull the bloodied bed covering off the frame.

It was unlike Jaskier to remain quiet for so long, and Geralt found himself missing the bard’s nonsensical drivel.

His scent was still wrong, and Geralt found he missed that too.

Geralt wasn’t good at gentle. He wasn’t good at comforting, not like Jaskier. But he had to try.

“I’m sorry,” Geralt choked, words tasting like dirt.

And the ones after were even harder to get out.

“I was worried,” Geralt grimaced, his mouth twisted in disgust.

Geralt heard Jaskier’s hands freeze where they were tugging a top over his head.

Geralt held his breath, waiting for the verdict.

Jaskier snorted gently from the other room, humorless laughter following it.

Geralt relaxed. He was forgiven.

“How hard did you have to smack yourself to get those words out,” chortled Jaskier.

“Almost as hard as you must have, to nearly bleed to death from a nosebleed,” Geralt responded dryly.

The laughter ended abruptly.

“Geralt..” Jaskier said hesitantly, as the bard moved closed to the Witcher finally in his line of sight, and placed a gentle hand over the others’ shoulder. “I really am fine.”

Geralt let the contact happen, strangely comforted by the warmth from the bard’s hand.

If Jaskier was touching him, it meant he wasn’t afraid of him.

“And thank you,” Jaskier squeezed Geralt’s shoulder, “for taking care of me while whatever that was happened,”

“I don’t know what that was,” continued Jaskier, “but I feel fine now,” he said reassuringly.

After a long pause, Geralt grunted, accepting the answer and gratitude.

“If it happens again,” Geralt warned, “You’re going to a healer.”

“Duly noted,” Jaskier answered, a gentle smile on his face.

Jaskier went back to unpacking his bags, checking that all his things were in order.

Everything was apparently back to normal. Except it wasn’t. Because Jaskier still didn’t smell like chamomile, still didn’t smell like primrose, still didn’t smell like Jaskier. He wasn’t talking nearly as much as he should be. Something was still wrong.

And drawing upon his already severely strained and diminished conversational ability, Geralt forced himself to try and fix things once again.

He searched for the right words to both comfort Jaskier, and have his own curiosity answered, but what left his mouth had absolutely no tact.

“I never knew you had siblings.”

The bard froze again.

He turned to face Geralt, his expression struggling to remain soft and smiling, but his eyes gave him away.

“And I never knew witchers were so nosy,” Jaskier countered teasingly, pulling at an invisible stitch at his shirt seam, forcing humor into his voice.

At Geralt’s continued silence and pointed impassive stare, Jaskier sighed, knowing the Witcher wouldn’t let it go.

“You never asked,” Jaskier admitted, voice hardening.

Geralt frowned. His voice had gone cold as ice again. He couldn’t tell what Jaskier was feeling, what he was thinking. His scent was all but gone, and his face was expressionless, those usually warm eyes gone icy.

Words that Jaskier would normally offer freely, Geralt now had to drag and scrape for.

Geralt found it unsettling.

Unsettled, but not dissuaded, Geralt continued.

“What happened?”

The bard’s face did not change, but his fingers twitched on his lap.

“She was murdered”, Jaskier answered in monotone, not taking his eyes off Geralt’s.

His voice was made strange by his lack of inflection.

So unlike Jaskier.

“I’m sorry,” Geralt grunted, probably using that phrase for the second time in his life. This time, the phrase did not taste like dirt.

“Were they ever caught?”

At Jaskier’s continued stare, Geralt elaborated.

“The murderer?”

At this, Jaskier’s face did a strange little dance, muscles twitching, as though wanting to move yet being halted halfway through.

Finally the bard’s face settled on impassive again. But the heart inside the bard’s chest soared into a dizzying rhythm.

“No.”

Geralt tried. He tried so hard, but knew no words capable of consoling such grief. He was not gentle, or tactful, or apparently comforting. He didn’t know what to do, and his inability frustrated him to no end. He had to say something, but again, the words that came out could only be described as pathetic.

Geralt winced even as they left his lips.

“…Things like this, things like this have a way of righting themselves.. in my experience,” It was a pitiful attempt, and Geralt knew it.

But Jaskier’s gaze focused, his words seeming to have some effect as light returning to his eyes, but not like before. This was a different light, one that Geralt did not recognize. His staccato heartbeat calmed.

In an empty voice, with an empty gaze, face like stone and staring at Geralt eerily, he titled his head to the side like a cat.

“I think you just might be right about that Geralt.”

————————-

And so, after such a bizarre day, Geralt found himself downwind of an Alghoul. It was an ugly creature, pink drool dripping from its mouth. Despite the lack of a trail, tracking the monster had been a quick affair. He simply followed the stench of rot, strange and out of place in a forest.

Geralt prepared, his hand reaching for the hilt of his silver sword, briefly brushing on Renfri’s pendant. He held the hilt of his sword, readying himself. Just as the creature lifted its jaws to scent the air, Geralt burst for the thick foliage before the creature could sniff him out.

It screeched at the interruption, its face bulging in fury as it rushed to meet the oncoming Witcher. Geralt swung his sword, attempting to lop off its head with one smooth stroke. It was not to be, as the creature dodged to the side, lunging with its own blade like claws. Geralt danced away, focused on the monster in front of him.

Alghouls normally led a small to medium pack of lower ghouls, but this one seemed to be a solitary male, kicked out of its own pack by the reigning male for fear of eventually being deposed.

This one was probably in search of a pack to call its own.

Geralt swung again, clipping the Alghoul on its side. It gave out a hoarse howl, screech grating on Geralt’s sensitive ears.

The monster re doubled its efforts, blows coming quicker, and in a rare moment of distraction, it managed to swat Geralt, sending him flying onto a thick old tree. Geralt grunted, liquid trickling down his forehead.

Through the mess of blood Geralt saw the Alghoul rush towards him, and he only just managed to dodge what would have been a head separating bite to the neck. Instead, the creature got a mouthful of tree.

It’s jaws seemed stuck in the old and weather worn mark. Roaring at its body struggled to free its teeth.

The battle was over. Immobilized as it was, it would be an easy kill.

Geralt readied his sword, prepared to lop of the monster’s head for a quick death, when a sharp pain at his arm distracted him.

He hissed, sword flashing and cutting through what he saw to be a wailing ghoul.

His eyes widened.

He’d been wrong, the Alghoul was not solitary.

It was leading its own pack.

He had to the time to utter one, solitary, and desperate, “Fuck,” before he was flooded by a sea of Ghouls.

All screeching and yowling as they attempted to take a bite out of Geralt.

Ghouls were easy enough to kill, but hunting so many of them at one time was dangerous.

Geralt struggled to defend himself against the horde, killing many with one swing, but it was in vain as more rushed to take the fallen’s place.

One eventually broke through his defense, and bit through the arm not holding a sword. Geralt hissed in pain, his sword occupied in defending himself against Ghouls. Geralt swung his arm wildly, only for another Ghoul to jump at his back, launching him to the ground.

At having the Witcher down on the ground, the remaining Ghouls mobbed him, biting down with sharp jaws on anything limb they could find.

Geralt growled, and with a desperate surge of energy despite even more bites lining his limbs and torso, he struggled to his feet.

The Ghouls did not let go, hanging off the Witcher like macabre ornaments decorating a tree.

Geralt howled in throbbing agony, recognizing the battle was becoming deadly, before batting Ghouls off his frame, ignoring the way they took chunks of his flesh with them.

Geralt desperately swung his sword, trying to dislodge more of them, when a huge force hit him on the side, throwing him to the ground and knocking the wind out of him.

Geralt sucked in a ragged gasp, as the remaining Ghouls ravaged him. And past the wriggling squirming horde, Geralt saw the Alghoul, finally free of the bark.

Geralt’s heart thundered in his ears, barely noticing as the Ghouls continued to tear and butcher his body, blood flowing from him like water in a river.

Geralt knew he was done.

Geralt’s last memory before the blood loss overwhelmed him, was Jaskier’s nimble fingers braiding flowers into Roach’s mane, smile gentle, and sky blue eyes turning to look look at Geralt, fearless and sweet.

As Geralt’s vision tunneled, and his hearing faded, Geralt realized he had regret.

Regret that he would never see Jaskier again.

————————————-

Hidden from view, and silent as a mouse, Jaskier watched in the distance.

He watched as the the Ghouls overwhelmed the Witcher.

He watched as they tore into his flesh, ripping chunks of meat and skin as blood began to pour.

He watched the Witcher lose consciousness.

Jaskier watched it all, with the same emotionless, empty gaze, moving not a single finger to help.

He watched the horde of Ghouls part for the larger Alghoul, making way for him to issue the killing blow.

All the while, Jaskier kept watching, motionless, as the Alghoul stalked towards the unconscious Witcher.

His pounding, frenzied heart the only sign betraying his otherwise calm exterior.

------

If you liked this chapter, then you can head on over to my account on archive of our own, where you can find up to chapter 6 of this story. Feel free to comment and critique. (Comments are like cookies, there can never be too many.)

Have an awesome day!

https://archiveofourown.org/works/23842804/chapters/57298867

#geraskier #fanfiction #jaskier #geralt #writing #geralt/jaskier #godhelpmefinishthisstory #powerful jaskier #renfri #kindof #dark #thewitcher

[hadestownmodern]

Fight (1/?)

You said angst? Here’s part 1/? of pre-baby Orphydice angst for you!

This will probably get a title change too at some point....

-Danielle

--------------

Eurydice jiggles her key in the lock of her apartment door, clouded vision and faulty craftsmanship making the process twice as arduous. The lock seems to scream back at her in response; a refusal to enter, a why are you here? A frustrated groan escapes her lips. Eurydice jams the key back into the lock with force, jerking it side to side and pulling on the doorknob until it flies open under her strength. She slams it behind her, throwing her bag on the floor with a huff and setting up the long, pole-like master lock with a second-natured sort of unease.

             Turning to face the shoebox studio apartment, Eurydice feebly attempts to shake off the tears that now spill over, run down her cheeks and her chin without so much as a warning. It’s been so long since she’s been in this place for a night, so long since she’s had to settle herself on the lumpy mattress on the floor. She can’t bring herself to it, to the place she’d spent so much time wondering how her life would turn out-if she’d ever get out of the place she’d worked so hard to afford for herself.

             Being back is a slap in the face-a failure in more aspects than just a simple move.

             She treats the night as a permanent settlement not to add on to her pain, but to cut down any sort of possibility or optimism she might have. It’s easier this way, she thinks, to find finality in it all. Abandoning hope before it settles in her heart is easier than losing it unwillingly. She’d started this mess, tangled him in her web of doubts and insecurities, in the inner workings of her mind. She hadn’t been able to shut herself up, had been too loud-to sharp-too unforgiving. She’d been everything that her father had said to her all those years ago, everything her mother had tried so hard not to be. In an instant, Eurydice finds herself wishing that she weren’t so similar to the woman who taught her to ride a bike-who listened to her sing and brushed her once long, cascading waves of dark hair while whispering words of love. She wishes she weren’t like the woman who couldn’t be saved from herself.

She holds on to her rounded stomach. She wishes.

Shuffling around, Eurydice has to reach back into the not-so-distant depths of her muscle memory to recall where everything is. There are several smaller things in her bag, things she’d reached for with the vision of boxes outside of his door, of it’s over, of seeing him only while passing their child back and forth. The possible instability is the last thing Eurydice had wanted for the child she’s just gotten used to longing for, and now that shifting vision her anxiety had created is quickly becoming a reality.

He’d be the better parent. She knows this from the softness of his voice, the natural instinct to hold, to love, to nurture without so much as a thought. Orpheus is the one who’d helped her learn to love-not only him, or their child, but herself. Without him, Eurydice feels a shakiness she hadn’t felt since childhood-since her father had willingly let her go time and time again.

It’s better to run before being thrown out.

Eurydice sinks down onto her bed; the tiny mattress in the corner of her studio apartment can’t be classified as much else, but she’d been proud of it. Now, it feels inadequate. Tucking herself in , feeling the empty space beside her, the weight of her changing body feels much heavier than it had been. Thoughts of a baby lying beside her-tiny, fragile, helpless-in this space barely even suited for herself has her cringing. Being a mother isn’t something she’d planned for; it’s a thought that had grown comfortably on her as time wore on, as she’d become attached to the idea of a little family. Every vision in her head had included she and Orpheus as a team and then slowly, as two people that would grow together for as long as they’d live. She’d let herself succumb to those thoughts of undeniable comfort. She’d let herself feel too deeply.

She’d ruined things once again.

She can’t handle the idea of taking off her ring-the thin band with its tiny stone fit on her finger as if it were meant to be there. The thought of giving it back hurts more than anything, and it makes the bed cold, the apartment darker and more frightening. She coughs, a sputter through her choked back tears. Her body shakes as she lets her feelings consume her.

---

             Orpheus is a wreck; he walks into the bar ten minutes late for his shift, Hermes staring at the clock wondering where he could possibly be. His boy-responsible, hard-working, self-critical-had never been late to work before. Eyes red and puffy, lips forced into a shaky smile, he slips his apron from its hanger and ties it clumsily around his waist. He is a fumbling mess, cocktail shakers and ice scoops falling from typically skilled hands. Hermes watches him carefully-the way his long limbs trip over themselves, the way his voice is low and quivering as he talks.

             Persephone slides onto a stool near her pseudo-brother with one eyebrow raised, her eyes trained where his is. Their son slides her a glass of red wine with a quick greeting before focusing back in on his work. She whips her head around to Hermes.

             “What’s wrong with him?”

             “He was late today. On top of that he’s nearly broken three or four glasses and it’s only been half an hour. He’s not right.”

             “He hasn’t said anything to you?”

“I haven’t asked.” He shrugs, effortless, without excuse. Persephone straightens her posture, clears her throat. Hermes sighs. “Sister, he’s old enough for you not to go meddling. If he wants help, he’ll,”

             “-Orpheus, you look like shit.”

             Her blunt nature has her son turn around, caught with wide eyes like a deer in the headlights. It’s then that both Persephone and Hermes are able to see the line of puffy red skin beneath his eyes, the expression both vacant and overrun with thoughts.

             “’Rydice’s upset.”

             “She’s upset?”

             “We got into a fight.”

             “Is she upstairs?” Persephone stands up from her stool, stretching her shoulders and grabbing her purse. Orpheus moves quickly to the front of the bar, one hand out to stop her.

             “She went home-not home, not our home. She went back to her old apartment.”

             Hermes is hit with the passing sight from earlier in the day-Eurydice clamoring up the stairs, unlocking the door only to return a moment later with a bigger backpack, half-opened, her feet moving slowly back down the wooden stairs. She hadn’t even said hello to him as she’d passed, wiping fervently at her eyes and keeping her head low. He hadn’t thought much of the sight then-Eurydice had been coming and going from here to school to her multiple jobs since Thanksgiving weekend. He hadn’t let himself see the minor details the way he does so easily on his son. Where Persephone would have stopped her, he’d let her go.

             “Persephone,” his tone is gentle, but still warning. He puts a hand on her shoulder and she shakes it off. Younger, stubborn as long as he’d known her, Persephone stays true to form as she puts a hand on Orpheus’s shoulder.

             “What did she do to you?”

             “Persephone,”

             “She has your child, Orpheus. She has your child and she has your ring, she can’t just run off like this.”

             “She’s not running.” His words are laced with doubt but he stands his ground, as unsettled in his own truth as he is. Flying to her defense is as easy as loving her had become; her dark eyes filled with admiration, the way she laid lazy in bed with her head on his chest. She craved more than holding his hands, her body pressed close to his. She spoke softly to him and harshly in defense of herself. She kept her guard for everyone but him, it had seemed. She’d been so short with him then that he hadn’t known exactly what he’d done wrong. He’d been hurt by her quick, lashing words, the way her gentle demeanor had turned dark and cold, how she’d left him standing in the store by himself. The moment felt like one long, hellish nightmare. He thought he’d been doing things right for once. He’d been blindsided.

             “I can’t do it, Orpheus. I can’t.”

             “You can’t do what?”

             “I can’t accept her pity. I thought-I thought she was different, and now she’s throwing her money at us? I just,”

             “’Rydice,” He’s a soothing presence, his hand running up and down her arm.

             “We can do it on our own. It might be hard, and it might suck for a while, but we can do it. We don’t need handouts or pity.”

             “She just wants to get something for the baby.”

             “You see things through your own lens, Orpheus. She doesn’t think we can do it. She doesn’t think I can do it, and she’s probably right. People use their money to make their own futures and to manipulate everyone else’s.”

             “She’s not doing that.”

             “I didn’t grow up knowing what it was like to have money. I didn’t grow up getting new things every time I asked. I barely grew up with enough to eat. You need to understand that we can’t afford these things-we’re not going to be able to give this baby the life you had.”

             “The-the life I had?”

             “Orpheus,” She huffs, taking a frilly dress from his hands and holding it up to eye-level. It’s a beautifully crafted dress, a muted pink made from fabric that feels more like butter in her hands. There’s a matching diaper cover, all ruffles and frills, and the ensemble brings a pin-prick of mist to her eyes. “We can’t afford all of this.”

             “I understand.”  

             “You don’t.”

             “I do.” He stops then, eyeing the dress Eurydice had put back on the rack. The basket full of tiny dresses and bows and shoes is everything he’d been hoping for, everything he’d dreamed about since holding Junie for the first time. Eurydice has a far-away look in her eyes, a glassy cloud rolling over the adoration they’d had when she’d first held a newborn onesie.

             “We can’t keep pretending that this is normal-we’re not some thirty year olds settled perfectly into their little white picket fence marriage. I’m broke. We met a few months ago. We’re getting married and we’re getting to know each other because of this baby and I’m sorry that this is what you’ve got, but it is.”

             He stops short, unsure of how to respond. The information has barely registered, thrown at him all at once through a voice grown suddenly cold. He’s taken aback by her-the way she steps further from him, refuses to look in his direction. The air is thick between them, Orpheus slowly opening and closing his mouth as he attempts to craft a response that’ll bring her back to him.

             “That’s not why I asked you to marry me.”

             “Orpheus,”

             “-is that why you said yes? Because of the baby?” His voice squeaks at the last syllable, disbelief in his shortened breaths. Eurydice is not able to answer him quick enough-the hesitation in her thoughts is unbearable, a crushing blow to his heart. He’d been told time and time again that he moved too fast-fell too hard, loved too openly. A sweet boy-a kind soul- but a too much personality. Orpheus looks at the stack of clothes in their basket. A onesie boasting about the best dad ever stacked right on top, picked out by a grinning Eurydice.

             He pulls a handful of hangers from the basket and thumbs through them, swallowing back the lump in his throat.

             “I’m going to put these away.”

             “Orpheus,”

             “-It’s okay.”

“I didn’t,”

“-I have to go to work. I,” he hesitates upon the three words he’d said too soon, nervous about driving her further away. He can’t see the way she leans in subconsciously, the way her eyes close and her lips part slightly. When she opens them again he’s kissing her cheek, his hand on her hand. “Think about it.”

He’s not even sure what he means by the phrase, only that for the first time since meeting her, he wants to step away from Eurydice for a moment. Before he can get out of the store Eurydice’s sent him a text, and he stops short to read it over in hopes that the words might change.

“Staying at my place tonight. I’m sorry.”

#hadestown #hadestownmodern #orphydice #young parents orphydice #orpheus #eurydice #danielle writes #and posts to the wrong blog for the thousandth time

[ficsandcatsandficsandcats]

All Is Found:Anastasia!AU

Part I – At the Beginning

Fandom: The Witcher Word Count: 1,893 Rating: G Taglist: @heroics-and-heartbreak​ @whatevermonkey​ @mynamesoundslikesherlock​ @magic-multicolored-miracle​ @writingstudent​ @mlleecrivaine​ @coffee-and-stories​ @ultracolorfulnerdcollection​ @astouract​ @your-not-invisible-to-me​ @kemmastan​ @mycat-is-mylove​ @amirahiddleston​ a/n: A retelling of Don Bluth’s Anastasia (1997)

{prologue}

Your time at the Belhaven Foundlings Home ended as abruptly as it began ten years prior. You woke up to find the headmistress standing over you, hands on her hips, giving you that familiar, disapproving scowl she always had.

“Happy birthday. You have till noon to collect your things and get out.”

“I only need till 10,” you replied coolly, giving her that look you knew she hated. Whenever you conjured that imperious, disdainful expression she would tauntingly call you ‘Your Majesty’ and send you to do some odious chore. She had no power over you anymore, though. You were 18, a legal adult, and no longer hers to pretend to care about. Not that she’d put much effort into that anyway.

True to your word you readied yourself quickly. You’d been dropped off at the Home with only your clothes on your back and a necklace. The clothes you’d long ago outgrown and you’d given them to the House for other girls to wear and use, despite being advised to keep and sell them. The necklace was around your neck where it hadn’t left once in the last 10 years. You dressed yourself in the simple clothes you’d acquired since, relying on the charity of neighboring villages to provide for the little House. It was rumored that many of the children in it were bastards of the noble houses which sounded about right to you. You had no use for nobles. The little you’d seen of them had been during the annual holiday fundraiser where you were trotted out on display and they ooh’d and ahh’d and congratulated themselves on their generosity. As if a one-time donation meant anything over the span of a year with more children found abandoned or orphaned all the time.

“Are you really going to do it?” one of the girls asked as you said goodbye, “Are you going to find them?”

“I’m going to try,” you answered, brushing her hair out of her face tenderly.

“What if you don’t?” she asked. It would sound cynical to others but children of the Home knew better than to assume there was family waiting for them out there.

“Then I will make my own,” you answered.

“Are you really going to New Nilfgaard? I’ve heard there are monsters,” another child said, whispering the question and eyeing the closet suspiciously.

“Monsters aren’t real but tragically paperwork is so yes, I have to go there, try and get some notification papers drafted and then I can get a job and then I can save up money and go to Cidaris,” as you recited the plan your heart grew a little heavier. You were closer than you’d ever been but there was still so much time and money and work to do when all you wanted was to get a horse and ride until you were far away from Nilfgaard, New or Old. Still, you kept an optimistic face for the children. You knew you represented something that was rare around here; hope. If you could get out, maybe they could too.

“You have to stop by the palace! Oh Y/N, tell me you will!” a girl pleaded.

“Don’t be stupid, the palace burned down years ago.”

“No! Not all of it! There’s still some standing! A palace, can you believe it?”

“I will go to the palace,” you promised them, though you had no use for palaces or ruins or whatever was left now. You continued your goodbyes and by the time you left it was a bit past noon. You found it hard to leave the girls you’d become a bit of a surrogate mother to in your time there. You worried about them, too. You stood up for them, relentless in your protests against the callous way the headmistress treated them. These protests had caught you the long, lovely tresses you’d had when you arrived. They’d been cut in an attempt to humiliate you into submission but you just praised how light your head felt and vowed to never let it grow long again. You kept your word, your hair rested a couple of inches above your shoulder and you never let it get much longer. It was one of the many unnatural things about you, and therefore one of the many you exhibited with pride.

It was a bitterly cold winter’s day as you left, the snow crunching beneath your shoes which weren’t at all suited for walking through snow. There was still a determined courage in your heart as your fingers rubbed at the pendant, the familiar press of the letters against your skin a reminder of what you sought. Cidaris was far and you’d heard that New Nilfgaard was a brutal place full of conmen and tricksters. But you were a survivor, a girl found lying in the road by some docks with no memory beyond a name and no family though a necklace with clues of where some may be found. It was all you had but it was more than many you knew possessed so you faced the bitter cold and your soaking boots and you held your head up high as you began to trudge towards New Nilfgaard and your new life.

-----

New Nilfgaard was where hope went to die. Fortunately, it was where opportunism went to flourish, and none knew how to work an opportunity like Jaskier de Lettenhove. Separated from his family one fateful night a decade prior, Jaskier had woken to find himself in the company of a boy older than him (though, he reminded him often, not that much older). The boy, who begrudgingly introduced himself as Geralt, offered to aid Jaskier in tracking down any remaining family he may have but the boy took tragedy and turned it into a second chance.

“I’ve always been terrible at being noble anyway,” he’d argued, “Besides, no one is allowed in or out without identification.”

Geralt argued that the first point didn’t matter but the second had merit. Since Nilfgaard had “repossessed” the formerly independent duchy of Toussaint (a name no longer allowed to be spoken) they had become very concerned with identifying any who may spread word of what had occurred and bring attention from outside countries. Those who had fled the party that night found that trying to leave was akin to walking into a mousetrap and so many had chosen to either hide their identities and take that risk or start a new life in New Nilfgaard.

The first thing Jaskier stole was a lute. He insisted it was necessary as he could use the money he made performing to never steal again. This, as Geralt knew, was just the first of what would be a long and increasingly adept skill of thieving. They had a code, though, only stealing from the shops owned by Nilfgaard merchants who raised prices exorbitantly and tried to push out local merchants. And Jaskier did spend his earned (or pilfered) coin on those smaller places. Geralt offered his services doing bodyguard work around the country, a highly demanded occupation for those noblepeople who were hiding out and wanted to try and cross over to other places. He had invested in leather armor which Jaskier had decried as an extravagant expense until Geralt convinced him by increased earnings that the more intimidating he looked, the more business he got. It didn’t take very long for him to earn back what he’d spent. Jaskier didn’t have much room to criticize clothing expenses. He was forever coming back with a new doublet set and when Geralt glowered at him for it he just talked about The Local Economy and Helping Small Businesses. He didn’t mention the additional cost of importing the fine fabrics. Most of the time, like now, when they were just talking about plans, he tried to spare the nice clothes by opting for a simple undershirt. Geralt sometimes teased, reassuring him that they could afford to replace his buttons if they went and he could in fact use all of them but Jaskier merely scoffed and left his shirts half-unbuttoned, the soft thatch of dark hair across his chest always visible and whether or not Geralt liked to admit it, the scandalous sight made people a bit more generous with their well-earned coin after performances. All in all they made an odd-looking pair; the amber eyed, silver haired man in pitch black leather armor and the pale blue eyed, chestnut haired bard with his lute and jewel-toned doublets. Both wearing their own sort of camouflage, both trying to find ways to survive in this new world they’d been thrust into as children. Together they survived alright but Jaskier was determined that they find a way to earn enough money to secure their way out of New Nilfgaard forever. And he’d been working on a plan for 10 years, waiting for the moment to strike.

“Why now?” Geralt demanded, voice much lower and brisker than it had been when they’d met.

“Her grandmother grows desperate,” Jaskier answered, “This is our best chance.”

They spoke in hushed tones over cups of watered-down ale that made Geralt screw up his face in disgust and glare in the direction of the bartender with every sip. Jaskier was too focused on his plan to notice or care.

“Hmm… and you feel aright with this? Tricking an old woman into believing she’s found her probably dead granddaughter?” Geralt asked bluntly, giving Jaskier a look that wasn’t so much judgmental as assessing. He wasn’t against shady dealings but he did need to know that his partner wouldn’t back out if his sometimes romantic or sentimental nature got the best of him.

“Whatever it takes,” Jaskier said simply, reciting the motto the two of them had established when they decided to stick it out together. Geralt nodded.

“Whatever it takes.”

“And besides, you’re acting as if we have nothing to go in with! We have this,” Jaskier glanced around carefully and then produced the little music box he’d taken with him from the palace when Geralt rescued him, “We just need a woman.”

“Famous last words,” Geralt murmured into his glass, taking another sip and then wincing and glaring at the bartender again. “Where exactly will we get a woman who happens to look like this long lost princess? You expect her to just waltz into town? Perhaps we can summon her to the palace?”

He chuckled, amusing himself with his bizarre idea, and then looked over and found Jaskier’s sky blue eyes glinting dangerously. It was a look he got as he worked out an idea and Geralt already didn’t like it.

“Do you still know that mage?” Jaskier asked.

“She’s in Cidaris,” Geralt replied, “And no.”

“What about that other one?”

“No, Jaskier.”

“Very well. But the old palace is a good idea anyway. We should go there and see if we can find any more scraps of relics or information we can use to help build our case for when we find the right woman,” Jaskier said, already getting up from the table.

“Everything has already been ransacked and either sold or burnt. Jaskier, are you listening to me? Gods damnit…” Geralt slammed a coin on the table and hurried off after the bard who was already out the door and running headfirst into the unknown.  

#All Is Found series #Anastasia!AU #The Witcher!AU #Jaskier x Reader #fanfiction

[lady-of-endless]

Quit smiling at me (Trevor Belmont x Reader)

The relevance of thinking about something for an unnecessarily long time was and still is a mystery. From his mindset and previous experience, it was all just a waste of time that slowed him down, as useless as a blunt blade. The only exception was when he was thinking about his family. What happens with a family name when its members are gone except for one becomes a reason to fall into deep thinking from time to time. Does that name become a burden or an honor? When Trevor Belmont was thinking about his family he was only remembering the past and nothing else. His chest and back were marked by the family crest on his old shirt, a distinctive symbol that meant danger for some or salvation for others. He would never give up on that emblem even if it was capable to start random fights in darkened taverns of this place.

Wallachia was a damned land that offered both beauty and madness. With large tree trunks more than inviting for you to rest against, shadows that caress your face when the sun rays are too harsh, gentle wind that plays with your hair. Far away from the city, where the taverns are, it is much quieter, Trevor had to admit it. There was only one problem that was keeping him away from enjoying everything, only one dense cloud on his sky. As days went by, Trevor could always escape rapidly from that pointless state of mind that would cage him into his own thoughts either with alcohol, either with sleep or snapping his whip in the face of some disturbing looking beasts. All of these solutions, and he could not to use any of them now, knowing very well how none would work. Along the wonders of Wallachia, he found you, the source of those vexing feelings.

In the forest, sitting on the ground with his back against a tree trunk, Trevor took his time to sort things out alone or just bottle everything up if nothing worked. Today he was the day in which he will put an end to that overthinking, motivated enough not to leave that place until all those useless emotions were gone. Those were feelings he wanted to call unwanted even if it was difficult when those were bringing comfort, warmth and other things he lacked since he started traveling alone. You were exactly what he needed without him accepting this for even one second. Trevor thought how he was fine even before you, without those emotions and without your care and soft voice when you called his name. Focusing on what he had to do started to get harder during the day and night when thoughts about having you for himself appeared randomly in his mind.

He had to put this to an end today.

Spacing out with his eyes fixated somewhere in the distance, Trevor caught a glimpse of someone approaching him and almost groaned because of the identity of that someone. Instinctively, the man touched his empty flask and cursed. It was a shame how things where not like this from the start. The feelings he was fighting with grew stronger and inescapable in time when you helped him heal his injuries after some fights, when you napped together accidentally, when you planned attacks or drunken nights. With each step, your lips curved into a smile when you saw him, making Trevor ask himself why were you always so damn glad to see a disaster of a man like him. His head turned away.

“What do you think about some company?” You asked instead of greeting him, eyeing the spot next to him.

“A nap would’ve been better.” He responded crossing his arms in front of his chest and shrugging as a reaction to your voice. “But do what you want.” Trevor sighed when he could not decline your wish.

It was such an irony, to try to get rid of some emotions and exactly during the process, the source of it all sits down next to him. That cloud from his mind was looking heavier and now he was on the point to get caught in the rain of his own reasons of denial.

As no one dared to say anything, not even a usual bad joke, you looked over at him, not denying the worry for a second. Worry for him was not the only feeling you did not deny, unlike Trevor. You knew how you were feeling about him but decided to take things slow, sensing how he had something else more troublesome on his mind. Little did you know.

His attention could not be fooled but his understanding was something else. Confusion flowed through Trevor when he knew that your eyes were on him. If only he could give up on being stubborn and ask what were you looking at and why were you wasting your time with him even if he was also unsure about wanted to know or not.

Your company is something he never asked for and never thought it would grow on him so much. Every person who stayed got tired of him at some point and then left him out of something more than just plain annoyance and frustration. He would say that a lot of time passed since you two met so how come was not his behavior enough for you to leave his side? Even if the answer was unknown, Trevor did not want to stop something that offered him a well state of being, but he still did not want to recognize that fact as a truth.

From the first time you saw him, you had a feeling that you will always have to take a good look at his details. That was what you were doing now. Rough stubble but soft lips, blue calm eyes but a sharp scar traveling down over his left cheek, broad shoulders weighed down by a white colored, shabby, but comfortable fur. His hair was messy and somehow different today.

“Your hair looks weird.” You blurted out, squint-eyed trying to find out why but praying that he will not get the idea that you were staring.

“Haven't washed it.” Trevor simply stated in a flat voice wishing that his apparent lack of will to continue the discussion is going to make you leave as fast as you appeared.

The solution to his problem was just on the tip of his tongue but stubbornness and denial ran into the whole Belmont bloodline.

“Well, there’s a rivulet over there.” You said, pointing to somewhere in the distance, having something in mind. “Come on, I'll help you. What do you think?” You asked giving his shoulder a slight push to provoke him.

The constant desire to help him drove Trevor insane. From always being alone to always being helped when needed without him having to ask was still a divergence between the life he used to have and the one he has now.

“I bet that you can't handle it without getting your clothes wet.” Trevor said in response, raising one eyebrow.

“Why don't we try and see?” You went on with the teasing if he was the one to start it.

A long sigh was his first answer, followed by eye-rolling.

“You're a mess.” He said getting up from his spot as a pointless complaint.

“Your hair is.” You responded before starting to walk next to him.

Happily, in a short time you found a wooded bucket from a little cottage that looked abandoned. Coming back with the tool, you could see Trevor throwing rocks in the water, one by one, increasingly harder while sitting on the ground, waiting, his fur was off from his shoulders. You could tell that there was something on his mind that troubled him but knowing his ways of handling it, you decided that it will help more to distract him.

Once you appeared in his eyesight, Trevor stopped and watched your moves. Maybe the way to escape those thoughts of him will come if he took a better look at you.

Carefully stepping closer to the rivulet, you lowered yourself closer to the surface of the water, under his gaze. His eyes moved lazily over your body and how it moved when some skin was exposed in the process of lifting up parts of your clothing so that those would not get wet. The want for you to move slower made him clench his jaw. At that point in his haze, Trevor thought how if you caught him staring, he couldn't care less, not regretting anything. Finally, the thing that made him snap out of it was the sight of that bucket from your hands. Now your intention was clear, and he was not in for it anymore.

“Fuck no.” Trevor said watching you fill the bucket with water, only realizing what he accepted earlier almost mindlessly. You started laughing at his reaction and that froze Trevor once again. The bliss that sound offered him was able to both please and annoy him, being more capable to make him feel dizzy than any drop of alcohol. That thought made him stop in his tracks and forget for some seconds about everything around.

Those were precious seconds in which the bucket was emptied over his head.

Now his hair was wet and all over his face that was rarely as stoic as it was in this moment. Frustration came back like a wave when Trevor remembered how even if he wanted he could not get fully or seriously upset with you.

“I fell into a disastrous ruse.” He mumbled getting the hair away from his face.

“Don't get that grumpy, get ready for a second one instead.” You said smirking and feeling more motivated because of his reactions.

“Like I'm going to let you do that one more time.” Trevor said while getting up from the ground, drenched in water. “I think you have to cool off a bit.” He said at the sight of your smirk.

Without any rush, he stepped closer to you with a sudden illusion of composure on his face. As his chest touched yours, your smirk faded away gradually, and he tilted his head interested in what you were going to say next, from this position.

“Trevor, you’re standing a little too close to me...” There was a warning in your tone while starting to back away. Tricking you to maintain eye contact, he took the bucket from your hands and threw it away without even looking where it landed in the back. “Fine, fine, I give up, but don’t expect me to apologize.” You started to stutter while Trevor started to step even closer, pushing you closer to the water without even touching you.

“Mhm, whatever.” He said as your hands tried to push his chest away. “You had too much fun, I won’t go easy on you.” Trevor whispered into your ear after catching your wrists.

With an even faster move you did not expect, your feet lost the contact with the ground and your hands clung to his shirt instinctively, pulling his body along with yours.

You both closed your eyes in that short fall.

When you opened your eyes, exhaling sharply, your attention fell upon only one thing from above you. Indecision was creeping in when you tried to understand what was icier in that moment, the temperature of the water or the blue from his eyes that were wide open.

The water was not that deep, reaching only your temples as you were on your back. It was cold but the complaint immediately disappeared when you realized that Trevor was not just on top of you. His left arm was around your  body, protecting your back from falling right on some large stones and his right hand was giving him stability, stuck on the rocky bottom next to your face. Some drops of water that were desperately sliding to the ends of his hair fell on the base of your neck, your face was dewy, your lips parted, and your cheeks turned scarlet. Trevor had no idea on what to focus first, starting to blush as well.

A shiver ran through your body warming you up at the sight of him blushing. From the position you both were now, you were forced to look in each other’s eyes. Trevor’s eyes were half lidded and lost in the details of your face, a sight you never thought you will be lucky enough to see. Feeling his breath on your wet skin was also not helping you.

“Let's get out of this water already, Belmont.” You said rapidly trying to sound serious and not flustered, moving to get out of the water and out of his embrace.

This was not the usual Trevor who tried to annoy you with little things, smiling proudly when an exasperated sigh escaped your lips. Now it was the hushed version of him, trying to get something that was bottled up for a long time out, while looking at you.

“Wait.” He stopped you while he shut his eyes tightly, trying to focus on the sound of the rivulet one more time to ask his logic if letting it all out was the right thing to do. A droplet of water slid down his temple when he frowned.

“I'm cold, Trevor.” You said in a soft-spoken voice, clinging to his shoulders, sticking his wet shirt to his skin making your touch feel more prominent to him and making him feel you closer. That was the last drop, the single gesture that was able to make the decision for him.

“And I'm tired of holding it all in.” He finally said it, mirroring your complaining in his own way. You opened your mouth to protest but Trevor was fast once again. “Listen, I want you. But not just in the way you would think I do. All I know is that I want to have you closer to me.” The last few days were a hassle, a headache, and a mess for him, not being sure of how to handle it. You were always there and made things better for him, and he should have admitted that and not getting as drunk as he could to try to forget about his feelings.

“Is it my turn now or is there more that you want to say?” You whispered lifting your face closer to his, curious and already greedy for more of his words.

Trevor swallowed hard when his attention naturally fell on your lips. Taking a second to check if that cloud is disappearing along with the fog from his mind, his face got closer as well, chuckling in a low tone.

“Don't get ahead of yourself.” He murmured against your lips before pressing his lips against yours.

Unfortunately, the kiss was shorter than expected. He started the kiss before letting you really give an answer and as fast as that thought struck Trevor’s mind, he rapidly broke the kiss to catch a glimpse of your reaction in order to read your answer.

Your pupils were dilated, your breathing got deeper and more irregular and so everything was clear from him.

He looked into your eyes, sticking his forehead before jumping in another kiss, only hungrier for your lips and your taste.

Even if the water ran cold against your skin, Trevor's body that was also against you was warm enough to help. The relief the kiss offered him made him greedy with each move of your lips and it could be felt and heard by you because of his groans.

“If letting you wash my hair ended up like this, I wonder what will happen if I’ll let you wash my shirt.” He said after the kiss, voice sounding hoarse.

“Says the one who’s panting.” You tried to think of a better comeback but failed finding one.

After saying that, he helped you get up. Trevor felt you trembling in his arms and as much as he wanted to joke around and ask you if he is the one that is making you shiver, he had to take care of you not to get too cold. When you were both out from the water, Trevor lifted his fur from the ground and threw it over your shoulders without saying or expecting anything in return.

Looking from the corner of his eye, glancing casually at how you looked, he smirked to himself. That fur of his being impregnated with your scent was quite a pleasurable idea.

“Let's not tell Alucard and Sypha about this.” He said, crossing his arms in front of his chest but still being red in the face.

“You mean about us or about what happened?” Asking in a fake seriousness, you moved your shoulders under his fur.

“Both.” He said putting an arm around your shoulders pulling you closer to him lazily. “Let’s confuse them.”

“Agreed.” You decided while both of you started to laugh at the idea.

#castlevania #trevor belmont #castlevania fanfiction #trevor belmont x reader #trevor belmont fanfic #castlevania headcanons #trevor belmont headcanons #castlevania x reader

[adjure]

Chapter 1 - The Child Born of Rebellion Dedicated to @phen0l, thanks for being a constant Magi superstar. :D

This fine evening, you are a guest of the great Kou Empire. Honored in a wicked way, escorted into the throne hall by two guards within a palace you could get lost in; a place that is much too grandiose for the likes of you. 

Nothing separates you from the emperor ahead. Nothing except for however many steps it takes for your legs to carry you there. But they are shackled by chains and weights at the ankles, and your wrists are bound behind your back. The armored guards hold your arms, swords sheathed in a deadly promise. All that is left is for you to do is drag your sore, bare  feet along the clean, revered path of the dragon’s den. Aching body the least willing sacrifice to be made, defiance present in the very breaths you take.

You will never bow your head. Never.

The metal chains clack against one another while your chin cants upwards with careless abandon– or perhaps with the dignity you refuse to let go. Wavering neither when faced by the armored guards shoving you in, nor the moments you stood among the blaze of Kou’s ruined military outpost in the south, your limbs blackened by soot and ash.

Between clusters of clamorous rukh, red hot with unbridled anger, you are forced to kneel by the foot of the throne on scraped and bruised knees, wearing tattered clothes painted with mud and blood. You glare with fiery eyes, indignant enough to warrant your immediate beheading here upon the pristine tiles of Kou’s grand throne hall if he wishes for it.

If he so wills it, then your death comes in one simple gesture. That is what your life amounts to; the flick of a wrist, an order from a pair of lips that should not be different from any other. 

But it is. And what makes his words different from yours, or from the people his army has slain– what makes his words different from the ones born in the slums, the ones bent under his feet, the ones who cannot speak– is that he has robbed the power, the freedom, the rights and liberty of his subjects. Giving nothing but a wash of false security in return under the guise of crafty laws.

This existence of an unbending power looks down upon your ragged form, a man solely crafted to mock people like you; the one who holds the crown, the throne, the glorious warlord risen from what small country Kou used to be. His gaze is sharp and precise, expression betraying nothing.

A mockery to your inability under his overwhelming force.

You see him from behind disheveled hair, a figure wearing dark, silken robes lined with golden, soaring dragons climbing up towards the heavens. The headdress dangles over his face, casting shadows when he moves, a long beard resting on his chest. Two pillars erect on either sides, two generals stand to his left and to his right. They are the emperor’s arms and legs, fingers gripping their spears in unfaltering prowess. 

There is no warmth here in the middle of a merciless winter for you. Although the flames continue to burn, alighting this hall and all its glory, your breaths don’t fail to come out in puffs of fog from parted lips. Ones that curl into a dry, teeth-baring smile. Perhaps closer to a snarl of a cornered beast, whose fingertips are freezing and body trembling with neither fear nor apprehension.

It is raw, gut-wrenching wrath that seizes you when you try to scream, try to stand, only to be slammed down onto the floor. Your jaw and ribs ache, breaths trembling, yet you do not stop struggling. If your blood is to be spilled here– if your corpse will roll here and soil this sacred palace, then your rukh will stay as their reminder and it will be your victory.

At this moment, your voice is nowhere to be found. Hoarse and gone from the screaming, tied by a gag of cloth too fine for you and a knot too tight for comfort. You do not find solace here, as a young child barely thirteen of age, held beneath a man twice your size. And, in a twist of irony, granted an audience by the lord of these lands while being treated worse than a slave.

You are the seed of rebellion that needs to be trampled before your roots grow too deep and too strong.

Emperor Hakutoku is known to be wise and just, powerful and frightening, the perfect figure to stand as both a leader and a father to his citizens. He has conquered many lands, the man to topple Kai and Go and brought them all together. Hailed as a hero, a ruler beloved by all.

Only if they submit.

You? What are you but nothing more than a prize for the royal princes of Kou who have successfully quelled the rebellion of the south? Trekking even the most hazardous of the mountain ranges, maneuvering their soldiers with expertise that exceeds even the greatest warriors of your tribe. No, it was not raw power your people lacked.

It was the fealty Kou soldiers had for the glory of their empire. It was the perverted sense of justice that your tribe lacked as the bloody battle was waged and exhausted your brethrens one by one, while the imperial forces continued to rain down as hell incarnate and razed everything to the ground. Everything replays in your head, vivid as day; clear in the forefront of your skull.

“That’s enough, release the girl.” Suddenly, the weight on your back is no more. Hakutoku’s deep, rumbling order did nothing to gain your gratitude. Only a scoff as you lift your body with a heaving grunt. A snake ready to strike.

But something else strikes first.

“His Imperial Highnesses Crown Prince Hakuyuu and Second Prince Hakuren have requested an audience with the Emperor!” A eunuch’s shrill voice announces the presence of Kou’s two princes from outside of the hall’s gates, causing the silence that has already laid upon you to feel heavier than before. As if you needed more weight on your shoulders. As if you needed it to be harder to breathe.

“Let them in.” Emperor Hakutoku’s order is concise. And soon, two pairs of footsteps– those of trained soldiers, light yet present all the same, march across the long stretch of the gate to the throne. They don’t spare you a glance, and you keep your spine straight where you kneel.

Head up high. Eyes ahead. Chin lifted. Your fingers curl till the knuckles turn  pale.

For those who lived and lost, you keep your trembling body still.

It is then that the princes stop ahead of you on either side, with the younger one (whose wide, pale blue eyes remind you of a bright and cunning fox when he looks your way) to your left. Ren Hakuren stands impressively, sinewy muscles apparent as the fabric of his sleeves roll back as he bends his elbows and clasps a fist within a palm to greet the emperor. The off-white garment is decorated in black and silver, contrasting his elder brother’s darker robes.

And him . Ren Hakuyuu, the owner of a gaze as cold and sharp as iron, piercing like the finest of blades forged during the darkest of dusk. A mirroring pair of blues yet paler than anyone else’s, it catches you the same way the worst of snowstorms would. The crown prince stands there, a silent blizzard with poise befitting of the dragon’s son. And you swallow emptily as they bow in respect towards their royal father.

“Father,” Prince Hakuyuu begins, a voice that naturally demands attention pouring out of those lips like the smoothest of Go liquor, “I implore you, please do not kill this child.”

The short, guttural laugh that comes from Hakutoku twists your guts. A part of you believes bile would rise from your throat to empty your already hollow stomach. “Kill? What makes you think I would?”

“By our own laws, rebels are to be executed.” Hakuyuu’s stance is firm, unbending even as he lifts his head. Hakuren follows. “You are a just ruler, Father, forgive me for being improper but I ask you to break this law.”

Hakutoku’s hand, roughened from decade long scars, stroke his beard. “For a simple child?”

“Father, if I may speak.” It is Hakuren who perks up, tone lighter than Hakuyuu’s ever stern one. Hakuren is earnest, his voice bright. And he lives up to his name, carrying a grace and purity like lotus flowers would, hidden deep in murky waters of the Kou Empire’s expanse.

“You may.”

“Thank you, Father. Brother Hakuyuu and I believe that she would be a great friend for Hakuei. Our sister is still young, but she has yet made any friends with the other princesses.”

Interest piqued, Hakutoku ‘s hand stops and both brows raise high on his forehead. “Then why not ask the general’s children? Or one of the official’s?”

“They might use this opportunity to use Hakuei as their pawn in order to gain your favor.” Once again, Hakuren clasps his hands true to Kou’s greeting and bows his head. “This child has no connections to Kou’s internal politics, and we can keep a close eye on her if she is by Hakuei’s side.”

Hakuyuu says not a word, simply standing there as he glances at you. The exact moment he does, all pairs of eyes present in this room are drilling into your figure, as if willing you to collapse. Your knees and legs have long gone numb, and you dare not close your eyes.

“…I see.”

It is very simple indeed. Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer. Young as you may be, you have known what it is like to kill a man, to bury a knife deep into the chest of a soldier as you try to protect those dear to you– feel blood roll down your arms, and another body go limp.

For someone who has grown with war, you have not known peace.

But you know how precious it is to live.

“I will make sure she can do Hakuei no harm,” Hakuyuu adds.

“Then I will entrust you to this, Hakuyuu.”

The process of bringing you from the throne hall to a quiet, desolate corner of the palace far from the main hustle and bustle of imperial activities is much different to the process of hauling you in. The guards had been dismissed some time ago, and you now walk along between the two princes who are keeping up with your excruciatingly slow pace. Your lips twist.

After a long stretch of silence, Hakuren tries to converse with you. He cheerily asks, “What’s your name?”

You don’t answer.

“I don’t think she will talk to either of us, Hakuren.”

“Ah,” comes the sheepish laugh as Hakuren scratches his cheek. “I know, but I thought I’d try. She seems… well, I can’t help but feel a bit pitiful.”

At the word pitiful , you shoot him a glare. Hakuyuu’s lips part when he sighs, and Hakuren simply smiles at you. Seems like you’ve fallen to some trap of his. This cunning second prince.

“A negative reaction is better than none at all!” comes the cheerful announcement as if Hakuren has nothing else to worry about in this world. You clench your jaw and stagger forward, feeling the pricks on your legs that threaten to topple over. Oddly enough, neither asks if you need help.

Whether it’s because they think you are too filthy to touch or they respect your dignity, you are glad either way. There is nothing you’d like more but to owe no debts, especially to Kou royalty.

There are no maids to take care of you here, as expected. The three of you arrive in a forgotten part of the Crane Pavillion, a good long half an hour walk away from the central palace where the emperor resides. Through gardens and less-trodden stone paths, winding about even worse than a maze, you begin to realize the magnitude of this palace. It is larger than anything you have ever seen; a city within a city.

Yet this place still carries an air of serenity. Well-kept, by the looks of it. Artificial outcrops and trimmed grass line the path towards a gazebo that rests in the middle of a manmade pond. You see shadows of fat kois swimming in it, hiding beneath floating lily pads. But it’s too dark to admire what otherwise would be a slice of heaven in a tumultuous world.

“You will stay here for now,” Hakuyuu orders, his figure partly a silhouette from the warm lanterns lining your surroundings. “Food and clean clothes have already been provided in your room. I will send you a handmaiden come morning.”

What? You turn to him, and your lips turn thin. Whatever expression you have on your face seems to communicate your apprehension well enough to the princes.

“Make sure to clean yourself properly, kiddo,” adds Hakuren as he makes a scrubbing motion. He grins. “You’ll be our little sister’s playmate after all.”

Wanting to rebut his statement, you realize that your voice still hasn’t returned. Only a dampened whistling noise comes out when you try to speak, causing you to frown.

“Go now,” Hakuyuu ushers you through the sliding doors, closing it to give you some space. And from your shoulders, just peeking between the space before the door shuts entirely, you can see Hakuren waiting for his brother in the gazebo. He waves when he catches your gaze.

Then, they’re nowhere to be seen.

You know that they’re still out there, as you hear faint voices conversing too far for your ears to pick up words. Instead, you finally let yourself crumple onto the floor by the bed, legs shaking. In the confines of a cage that disguises itself as the sky, you are now nothing more than a bird whose wings are clipped. But clipped wings are better than none, and one day, you will learn how to fly again.

Now, you curse the neither condescending nor demeaning attitude of the princes who led an army to siege your home. From the beginning, they have neither treated you like less nor more. Just like everyone else, they see you as human.

And you hate it.

#my fics #magi: the labyrinth of magic #magi reader insert #magi fanfic #hakuei x reader

[heartofsnark]

This Is Love (Chapter Four): Through The Gates

Notes: We’re inching closer and closer to the Seed’s arrival, I know it’s a slow burn to the game events, but I’m enjoying building up to it and hope it will make the impact of it all just that much more meaningful. 

Word Count:  9098

Chapter Warnings: Cursing, Belligerent Drunk Man, Drug Overdose, Pratt and Dahlia being dumbasses

For chapter one and the warnings about this fics overarching themes, please click here!

For the previous chapter; click here!

A tall bearded man is on her porch; leaning against the railing. The familiar snake tattoos that curl down his forearms give him away; Lonny. The Eden’s Gate member who showed at the station to give her and Whitehorse a hard time. What is he doing at her trailer? There’s no reason for him to be here.

“Can I help you?” She asks, raising an eyebrow as she steps up onto the porch.

“Just figured I’d stop by, make a friendly visit to the new deputy,” he expression is somewhere between a smile and a predator baring its teeth.

“And, how exactly did you figure out where I live?”

“Small place, loose lips, word spreads fast.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, now, if we’re done with this ‘friendly’ visit-”

“Word spreads especially fast within our congregation, when someone starts arresting our members.”

“Maybe, your congregation members shouldn’t commit crimes?”

“The law of man matters little compared to the law of god.”

“Well, I get paid to enforce the law of man, so unless god starts signing my paychecks, I’ll be sticking to that.”

“Greed isn’t a pretty sin.”

Goosebumps prickle and creep up her skin at the word sin, making her throat tight, as the word settles over her. Memories of her stepfather claw at the back of her mind, phantom pain of beatings past making her body ache, the guilt and shame of being a sinner pitting in her stomach. She digs her nails into the palms of her hands and grits her teeth.

“Yes, so greedy, as you can tell, I mean just look around, ” she gestures around the dilapidated trailer park, “the used needles a foot away from the kiddy slide cost me extra, but I think they really bring the place together.”

“Charming.”

“I do try.”

“Look, I’ll make this stupidly simple, for you,” Lonny creeps closer, nearly standing on her, glowering down at her, “don’t step on our toes and we won’t step on yours.”

“Is that so?” She grins and literally steps on Lonny’s toes, crushing her boot down as hard as she can, until he finally grunts in pain and takes a step back.

“Don’t make a problem out of yourself, deputy….” His dark eyes flicker around, until finally landing on the shed behind her trailer, “that where you keep your bike?”

“Maybe, maybe not, whats it to you?”

“You know, a little generosity goes a long way to mending relationships, deputy. That motorcycle of yours would be a nice little gift to the flock and most importantly, me.”

“Get bent.”

“It’s important that we all do our part, deputy. That everyone gives a little, so that we all can flourish. As we inch closer and closer to the brink; that becomes even more important. What’s yours is mine, so,  which is more important, keeping your motorcycle or helping others?”  

He’s in her space again, hand reaching out and squeezing her shoulder in a pseudo-friendly gesture; that not even almost friendly smile on his face again.

“I’d sooner watch the world rot than give up that bike. Now, get the fuck off my property.”

She shoves his hand off her shoulder and marches into her trailer; slamming the door shut behind her. Dahlia could scream, could tear apart her entire trailer in rage. Where the hell does that guy get off? Demanding her bike; the motorcycle she slaved over. Her and Lloyd rebuilt that thing from nearly scratch after his son wrecked it; left it abandoned in their shed, a muddle heap of metal left to gather dust. She helped rebuild it; just a project at the time, something to keep busy while she was waiting to see if she got accepted to the police academy, meant to stave off the anxiety. And when it was done, perfectly functional and shining like it was brand new, Lloyd told her to keep it, she deserved it.

There’s not a lot of things Dahlia’s felt she earned; feeling every success has been a fluke, a mistake, a moment of luck. But, she earned that bike. She nearly fought Lloyd’s son when he visited that holiday season; trying to reclaim the bike now that it was fixed and she refused. Lloyd sided with her; because she earned it. Because she put the work and hours into it. And she’ll be damned if she’s going to let some bearded zealot barge in and demand she give it up.

The more she learns about Eden’s Gate, the less she likes them. Stealing booze, trying to take her bike, trying to scare her. She needs a cigarette; she decides and pulls the pack from her pocket; only to find it empty. Damn it. Dahlia starts digging through tossed aside pairs of pants and jackets; she has to have a half empty pack somewhere. She grabs up her duffle bag, still mostly unpacked other than what she’s worn or used this week, rummaging through the pockets for a pack of cigarettes.

A crumpled piece of something brushes against her hand and she yanks it out; only to find a scrunched up white pamphlet. She straightens it out a bit and groans when she reads the front; Eden’s Gate, We Love You surrounding a cross like symbol. Why is this group all over everything?

Giving up on finding a cigarette somewhere in her mess; Dahlia changes into some comfy clothes and plops herself down on the couch, turning the small tv on as background noise more than anything. She finds herself fiddling with that pamphlet again, placed aside before she changed.

Dahlia opens it; if this damn group is going to haunt all her days here, she might as well read their crap. It seems to be fairly standard religious fare. Casted out? Rejected by society? Try Jesus. Take a leap of faith, wash away your sins, confess, atone, and become stronger by joining their family. There are mentions of how corrupt the world is and how it’s all going to end; nice appeals to fear mongering, always have to appreciate that approach. Every word of the dribble reminds her of darker days, of her step father and his asinine sermons. The type of people who’d probably make a PSA about how Dungeons and Dragons is satanic, Harry Potter should be burned at the stake, and Pokemon is an evil atheist agenda to push evolutionary theory on kids.

The leader; man bun guy, calls himself The Father. Those goosebumps and bad memories come back. She knows assuming that all strongly religious people are like her step-father isn’t the best practice. But mentions of sin and calling himself something regarding father, just… doesn’t help.

He calls his siblings heralds; a sister and two brothers.

Her eyes glaze over as she absorbs the same crap she's had spewed at her for years, thoughts of making a donation to planned parenthood in their name pass through her mind. She doesn’t know for certain if the group is pro-life, but one can assume. The picture on the second page of the little pamphlet catches her eye and she sputters out a laugh.

Who the hell runs the PR for this church?

First the creepy statue, then the serial killer-esque drawing on him to open their book, and now a family portrait so awkward she might cringe herself into a coma. Three men and a woman; siblings according to the text. Man bun is in a chair in the middle; not even making eye contact with the camera. The woman, Faith, the siren she’s seen at the hotel and accidentally grabbed outside the diner is on the floor beside the chair. She looks annoyed, like a teenager being dragged to an awkward family dinner. Behind them are the two brothers. One with slicked back dark hair in a coat that appears to be covered in planes; which is… a look. And the other a mountain of a human compared to his sibling; ginger hair with the sides shaved, in camouflage, holding a red rifle.

It all looks ridiculous, from their expressions to their poses. Whoever thought this was a good way to market them is the epitome of human stupidity. Dahlia crumples the little pamphlet and tosses it into the trash; thankful for a laugh to cap off her night. She spends an hour or so watching tv, drifting off to sleep on the couch as she’s done every night.. Eyelids growing heavier and heavier with each second, until black blankets her mind. 

Her bladder wakes her up during the middle of the night, causing her to turn and flop around, rubbing sleep from her eyes. She stares at the ceiling contemplating if she has to pee bad enough to warrant making herself physically stand up; the effort feeling herculean in the bleary twilight hours of the night.

“What if I told you, you could be free of sin,” a male voice drifts from the tv and she groans; this shit again?

She sits up on the couch, sliding down onto the floor with the clumsiness of her sleep leaden body. On her tv, at four am, amid commercials for sexy single phone lines is an infomercial for Eden’s Gate.

One of the brothers; the one with slicked back hair in the plane coat, John Seed as the text on screen tells her. He dramatically talks about how all you have to do is say Yes, the power of Yes, walking around what looks like a red carpet covered in flowers; terraces laced with them around him, a crowd gathered around as he talks.

Is he the reason for the Hollywood style YES sign in the valley?

The crowd around him starts to chant the word yes; he’s saying ‘yes, I will be saved’, ‘yes, I will confess’, ‘yes, I will atone.’ And he gestures upwards; revealing a lit up sign of the word YES and she bursts out laughing; her stomach aching and her bladder upset with her for it. Once her laughter subsides, she does what any good decent young adult would do. She rewinds  it to the start of the infomercial, grabs her phone from the table, and records the cringefest to post online before finally going to the bathroom.

She goes back to sleep after,  still cracking up about this dumb religion and their dumb advertisement.

Dahlia wakes up around noon or so the next day, checking her phone while still curled up in the couch.  The post of the religious cringe has gotten some traction; someone making a reaction gif out of the guy gesturing to the yes sign. Jokes about how the guy must get off on the word yes, how insane it must have felt to be working on this, ‘imagine having a grown man in a plane coat telling you to chant yes while he dramatically touches his own tit’. The internet truly is a beautiful place sometimes.

She stretches out her muscles and decides to call the clinic, the one she gave  info about to Tweak. Dahlia wants to make sure he actually reached out and didn’t just use her good graces to avoid trouble and call it done.

“Hey, I’m Deputy Hale of the Hope County Sheriff’s department, I referred someone to contact your clinic about rehabilitation. I was calling to see if they contacted you.”

“Of course, could I have their name?”

“Aaron Kirby.”

“Yes, we did receive a call from Aaron Kirby, he’s been placed on our waitlist as our drug counseling services are currently at capacity and we can’t take on any more clients.”

“Understood, thank you.”  

She sighs; she can’t fault him for that. Hopefully, they’ll be able to get him in soon. Dahlia stretches, making her back pop, now what to do with the rest of her day. Maybe it’s Lonny trying to take her bike or maybe it’s the mention of those Clutch Nixon stunts yesterday; but she has an itch to go riding and do some stupid shit.

A quick shower and change of clothes; then she’s grabbing her helmet.

Music reverberating in her skull, the rev of her motorcycle engine beneath her, the wind whipping around her, and she’s healed from everything if only for a moment. Dancing and riding her bike are the only things to do this for her; or maybe it’s the music itself that does. But when her blood is pumping, her ears are ringing, and her throat is raw from screaming along to the songs; nothing else matters.

She’s not lonely as she takes a sharp turn right at the chorus.

She’s not sad or pathetic as she cruises down the road, passing cars.

She’s not a disgusting sinner as she takes one of the paths that goes through the woods.

She’s not rejected, worthless, and tossed aside as she hits one of the many ramps across the county, catching air before hitting the ground again.

Everything is pure chaos and adrenaline in her veins; no room for guilt or doubt or

Deer. Big deer, in the road, it isn’t moving.

She hits the brakes; the sudden jerk of a stop, pushing her body forward, losing her grip and being ejected forward. Dahlia hits the ground in a heap, head rattling but thankfully not split on the road. She forces herself to roll over on her back, body aching in protest. Her eyes close and she takes deep breaths, trying to gather herself.

Something fuzzy pushes against her hand, glancing down to see the large deer sniffing at her. It’s no worse for wear, so that’s good at least. She forces herself to sit up, body protesting,  and she peels her helmet off. The deer shuffles back a little but when she extends a hand it tentatively presses against it. She scratches its nose.

“You’re very lucky you’re cute.” She digs around in her pockets, finding a pack of crackers, she always has food on her if she can help it and she offers the deer a cracker. It eats from her hand. Maybe she’s just trying to avoid moving her bruised body, but she spends a few moments finishing the little pack with the deer before finally forcing herself to stand.

Her motorcycle is in good shape, a little scuff on the side, but nothing she can’t buff out if needed. Dahlia’s baby remains the most stable part of her life. She rides it back to her trailer, a bit more carefully. She’s managed to burn through most of the day with her reckless bullshit.

She calls Lloyd and Caroline that night; telling them about her first week, skirting around details that might sadden them. Going to the F.A.N.G Center is reduced to just going there, nothing of being overwhelmed and leaving. No mentions of Pratt tricking her when she talks about Peaches, just an old lady with a cougar Dahlia got to carry. No mention of being left out everytime Pratt and Hudson go to the Spread Eagle. No mention of Lonny, the threats, the religious group that seems much more involved with the community than she originally thought. Everything is fine, perfect, ideal.

The pain of her little crash has mostly faded by the time she shows up to work the next day; uniform properly on when she comes into the station bullpen.

“What the hell happened to you?” Hudson calls out and Dahlia can’t help the heat crawling up her face at the attention. Her forearms and some of her upper chest that’s exposed are covered in bruises; mottling blues and purples.

“Oh, uh, I had a little bike crash yesterday.” She shrugs.

“Jesus christ,” Pratt grumbles and pinches the bridge of his nose.

“Rook, you need a hobby,” Dahlia starts to say something, but Hudson continues, “one that doesn’t injure you.”

She likes to dance, but dancing completely alone isn’t as much fun, not awful but not as fun. And there's not exactly dance clubs in Hope County. Hmmm. Unfortunate. She shrugs, if her hobby kills her, it kills her.

During patrol, Pratt and her don’t talk about the F.A.N.G Center, they don’t talk about him being angry at her. An awkward cloud hanging over them as they patrol. She doesn’t even bother to ask to give tickets when they pull people over; already knowing Pratt won’t let her and not wanting the conversation. An emergency call to what’s called Sergey’s place breaks up the monotony, suspected overdose.

She digs her nails into the leather of her seat as Pratt flips on the sirens; what if it’s Tweak? Doubts of if she did the right thing running through her head. She wanted to help him; but if he ended up just being put on a waitlist and overdosing right after, how much good did she do?

Sergey’s place is a wooded area filled with abandoned train cars where homeless people and drug addicts gather. Dahlia rushes to where she sees a group of them gathered around; screaming and crying coming from the center.

“Clear the way, so we can help,” Pratt tells them, the crowd dispersing, a woman is seizing. Her entire body jerking and drool pooling from her mouth; another woman holding her close, crying over her.

“Did she take anything?” Dahlia asks.

“We were shooting up and then she was on the ground, I, it’s all my fault, I-”

“Understood, we’re gonna do everything we can to save her.”

Dahlia holds the seizing woman as still as she can, getting out the syringe of narcan that's kept in patrol cars. She plunges it into the woman’s arm, forcing the medicine into her system, watching as her seizing slowly starts to lessen. Removing it, she notices the large bruise and cut on the woman’s forehead.

“Dispatch,” Pratt radios in, “we need an ambulance out to Sergey’s place, confirmed overdosed, head trauma, female early twenties. Junior Deputy Hale has administered a dose of Narcan, over.”

Dahlia stays with the woman, to make sure she doesn’t seize again and hurt herself further. Meanwhile, Pratt clears the way and helps get the ambulance into the area when it arrives; the woman being taken away on the stretcher. They find out the one who was holding her was her sister, allowing her to go with her to the emergency room, while Pratt asks some questions of those who were around. Nothing suspicious; just an overdose, no one to blame.  

The younger deputy sighs and a hand clamps down on her shoulder; gently squeezing. Pratt is next to her and she raises an eyebrow at him. 

“We got here quick, she should be fine.” 

“Maybe, lets get going.” 

The conversation is still more than a little stilted as the day goes on; but it isn’t quite the awkward silence of before. Pratt making little comments and saying things, while she nods or hmms along.

Later in the afternoon, when they’ve stopped back at the station, for lunch and paperwork regarding the overdose. She yawns and stretches her arms, standing up from her desk to get coffee. Maybe she needs caffeine or maybe she’s just tired of sitting in one place; but either way she’s up and moving. 

She rubs a hand down her face as she enters the kitchenette where the fridge and coffee machine are. Dahlia grabs her mug; one that was bought for her by Lloyd and Caroline. It’s a little embarrassing, the picture of a black cat with the message, ‘horrible and adorable.’  

Warmth presses in close to her back, looming over her. The smell of Pratt’s cologne hits her just as a large hand plucks her mug off the counter. Pratt holding the mug high above her head. 

“Hey!” She tries to grab it from him but can’t reach, Pratt grinning as she makes the effort to stand on her tiptoes but still can’t quite get it. 

“Something wrong?” he smirks, “you can’t reach your kitty cat mug?” 

“Can you go five seconds without being an ass?”  She turns to face him, glaring at his shit eating grin, the mischief in his eyes as he crowds her and holds the mug just out of reach. 

“Hmmmm, no. Can you go five seconds without pouting?” He reaches up with the hand not holding her mug hostage and cups under her jaw to squish her cheeks together and force her lips to pout out; laughing at her. 

She smacks away his hand, making a grab for her mug, knocking against his chest in the attempt before he jumps back. 

Dahlia whines and he just laughs, dodging her again as she tries to take her mug back. Her fingers can barely reach his face, let alone high above his head where he’s holding her mug hostage. She clambers to grab a hold of his bicep; trying to pull herself up high enough to grab it, laughing at the ridiculousness of trying to essentially climb her coworker to get her mug.

“Jesus christ, you fuckin’ spider monkey!” He nearly falls over, but catches himself and switches the mug to his other hand, placing it on top on the cupboards.

She glares for a beat, still hanging off of Pratt’s arm before letting go. Dahlia can’t even reach the top shelf in the cupboards.

“I’m actually going to strangle you.”

“Something wrong, Thumbelina?” He taunts and ruffles a hand through her hair, the gesture far more rough and teasing than when Whitehorse does it to comfort her.

“Yeah, my coworker is an ass.”

“Not my fault you’re short.”

“If I get dirt on the counter, you’re cleaning it.”

“What do you-” he bursts into laughter when she box jumps up onto the counter, grabbing her mug. The deep rumble of it makes her smile, it’s ridiculous, but he’s left her no choice.

“The hell are you doing, Rook?!” Whitehorses’ voice cuts through Pratt’s cackling and she jumps down with a yelp.

“Pratt did it.”

The older deputy straightens up, after nearly bending over doubled from his laughing fit. Whitehorse pinches the bridge of his nose, Dahlia swears she can see the migraine forming in his head.

“I didn’t do anything,” Pratt defends himself,  “she managed that all on her own.”

“I, I just...no feet on the counter, that's where food goes, for fucks sake, ” Whitehorse looks from Dahlia to Pratt, “and no whatever you did.”

With that the sheriff leaves; weary of their bullshit. Dahlia jabs her fist into Pratt’s ribs, hard enough to jostle him but not enough to truly hurt.

“You got me in trouble!” She yells, sounding every bit a kid who just got ratted out to the teacher, and Pratt only snickers.

By the time Dahlia manages to get her coffee, her face hurts from smiling. The ache of happiness followed throughout the day, until Hudson and Pratt cap off the night with another day of chatting at the Spread Eagle, Dahlia left to go home alone. 

The next day a call comes in from Adelaide Drubman, Hurk Sr’s ex wife who owns the marina as Dahlia’s been told. She’s seen advertisements around for the older woman’s real estate business, telling people to call Addie. The woman pictured on the signs of those advertisements is a fair representation, albeit maybe a little more airbrushed, of the woman standing before them when they arrive. Older with dirty blonde hair and blue eyes, a red bandana tied in her hair. She’s all sly smiles and winks when she sees the two deputies walking towards her.

“Well, hey there, hon’,” she greets them, the southern Montana accent one of the strongest Dahlia’s heard since she’s arrived here.

“Hey, Addie,” Pratt replies in kind and Dahlia gives an awkward wave, “what’s wrong?”

What’s right, Dahlia can’t help but wonder as she looks at the property, clearly abandoned and dilapidated.

“Well, I think some squatters might have moved in on me, sweetheart. And, apparently threatening them with my gun is illegal, but having y’all run ‘em off with yours is fine. Go figure.”

“Yeah, the law is pretty picky about that kind of thing,” Pratt says with a laugh.

“I mean, I’m not complaining , at least I get a  chance to see some young pieces of ass in uniform.”

Dahlia chokes and coughs; heat flooding up to the apples of her cheek. That was blunt. Really blunt. Pratt doesn’t seem the least bit bothered, maybe he’s just used to this. Despite her embarrassment, she’s smiling. Something about Adelaide is comforting, warm and friendly, the kind of person who doesn’t know a stranger. Dahlia remembers the gross curmudgeon of an old man that use to be her husband.

“Speaking of which,” Adelaide continues, looking at Dahlia, “I don’t think I’ve seen you before, honey.”

“Uh, yeah, I’m new at the station.”

“Our probie junior deputy.”

“Adelaide Drubman, pleased to meet ya.”  

“Uh, this might be impolite,” she pauses, rethinking for a moment, but she needs answers, “but were you seriously married to Hurk Sr?”

“Un-fucking-fortunately.”

“Did you lose a bet?”

Adelaide starts laughing and Dahlia can’t help but smile, the sound absolutely heartwarming.

“I’m serious; lose a bet, piss off a witch and get cursed, broke a mirror and had seven years bad luck… It’s gotta be something, ‘cause that just don’t add up.”

“Well, aren’t you just the cutest thing,” the older woman tells her, “word of advice, don’t let anyone tell you you gotta stay with a man just ‘cause he knocks you up.”

“I’d rather die.”

“Good, keep that mentality, save you years of suffering.”

“Okay, enough chat, let’s go check out the place,” Pratt says, nudging Dahlia to get a move on. She sticks her tongue out at him as they walk into the rundown house.

There’s trash strewn around, thankfully no needles or sign of drug users here. Adelaide must have a lot of trust in whoever she has cleaning these places up for resell. They pass through rooms, looking for anyone who’s not meant to be there, knocking on doors and calling out. Most of the house is cleared through and the two of them head to the attic, a good place for any squatters to hide.

The stairs creak under her feet as she takes them two at a time, moving ahead of Pratt in minutes. She hears him grumble, he tells her to slow down, but she doesn’t.

It’s dimly lit, some abandoned furniture and old antique crap littering the area; blocking the window that might have let in even a glimmer of sunlight. She flicks on her flashlight. The light illuminates the dust that hangs heavy in the air, drifting across her vision. Something rustles, a box shuffling across the floor.

“What was that?” Pratt asks as he finally joins her in the attic.

“I don’t know, yet.”

Scratchy noises echo through the room and she walks towards where she saw the box move. She crouches down and shifts the boxes out of the way, finding nothing but a dusty floor beneath them. Then something presses against her leg, a soft sniffing noise. 

“Oh my god!” She gasps as she looks down at the cute opossum staring up at her; baby pink nose sniffing at her jeans. A white face, tawny gray almost black body, with big soft dark brown eyes, its wiry whiskers curling at odd angles. 

“Is something wrong?!” Pratt yells out and comes rushing over, feet stomping across the floor; the heavy thuds making the opossum hiss and creep backwards. 

“You scared it, jackass.” 

“I,” he looks down at the hissing opossum, “I thought something happened.” 

“Shhhhhh…”

Dahlia reaches out; tentatively brushing her fingers against its narrow snout, feeling the short slightly rough fur. The hissing stops and it sniffs at her hand, letting her scratch up its face to the top of its head. It relaxes into her touch and she scratches behind its ear. 

“You can’t pet every animal, you meet, Rook.” 

“Watch me,” she says before scooping the opossum up in her arms, holding it close to her chest. A tongue licks over her cheek, the marsupial content in Dahlia’s arms. 

Pratt shakes his head and leaves the attic; Dahlia following him down the stairs. Adelaide is waiting outside the home when the two deputies exit. 

“Good news, Addie-” 

“I acquired a baby.” 

“Jesus fuck,” Pratt rubs a hand down his face at her interruption, “there’s no squatters.” 

“’Preciate ya coming out to check and taking care of the opossum problem.” 

“I fail to see the problem.” Dahlia’s new friend is trying to climb up her head, licking her scalp. 

“You really gonna try to sale this mess?” Pratt asks, rolling his eyes and ignoring the younger deputy’s new pet. 

“It’s my best chance of making any profit anymore; those fuckin’ Seeds are buying up any place thats actually worth a damn thing.  Flipping run down places is the only way to even hope of making money anymore. You know those bastards even tried to by the Marina.” 

“They’re gonna own the entire county before we know it.” 

Deputy Pratt shrugs his shoulders and Dahlia chews her lip; unsure if she likes how casually they talk about the local religious nutjob owning the county. The older deputy doesn’t even seem bothered by the thought; the idea of them buying everything just thrown out as blasé as one would say the time of day. 

“I swear to god, I can’t figure out what I wanna do more; punch John Seed’s face or ride it.” 

Dahlia raises an eyebrow at the older woman; she’s unsure what that means…but it sounds vaguely inappropriate… Her nose scrunches, brows furrowing as she tries to reason through this. Riding…like sitting on someone’s face? So, oh… Heat flares up Dahlia’s cheeks as the meaning hits her; definitely inappropriate. Very inappropriate. She covers the opossum’s ears, as if to protect the innocent being from the filth, meanwhile her own ears are burning. 

“Addie…” 

“I know, I know,” Adelaide waves her hand dismissively, “but you know what they say, the pussy wants what it wants.” 

“Not sure that’s the saying.” Pratt laughs

Dahlia raises an eyebrow before looking down at the opossum in her arms as if the little critter could answer her unasked question. Instead, its doe eyes just stare up at her. What cats have to do with Adelaide wanting to fuck John Seed is beyond Dahlia’s comprehension.

“You alright over there, hun?” 

“Don’t worry about her,” Pratt dismisses Adelaide’s concern, “she’s probably just wondering what cats have to do with anything.” 

“Oh lord.”

“How did you know?” Dahlia whispers, wide-eyed at Pratt, only getting a throaty laugh in response. 

“How old are you again, sweetie? Pussy, vagina, cunt; what’s between your legs. Well, maybe not yours, I ain’t got a chance to check y-” 

“I would like to change the subject!” Dahlia blurts out; face feeling like it’s been set on fire and no doubt a vivid flush a red. Adelaide’s little grin and Pratt’s laughter only serving to make her face more crimson. 

“Well…if we’re on the subject of faces I wanna ride, the Ryes are having their barbecue next Saturday, you and Hudson gonna make it out?” 

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.” 

“I’ll be seeing you then, Pratt, and hopefully you too, junior deputy. I gotta call my remodeling guys.”

They say goodbyes and wave off Adelaide, going back to the patrol car. Dahlia cuddling her new opossum friend as she goes. This is her baby now and will comfort her through humiliation at the hands of Hope County’s sex perverts. 

“What are you doing?” Pratt asks, when Dahlia opens the car door. 

“What do you mean?” 

“Fuckin’, put the opossum down!”

“No.” 

“You’re not bringing that thing into the car.” 

“I’m not abandoning my child.” 

“It’s literally a wild animal.” 

“It’s a opossum, not a bear, calm your tits,” Dahlia tells him firmly, opening the door and plopping down with her critter in her lap. Pratt groans and jumps in the driver side. 

“So, what, you’re gonna take it home and make it a pet?” 

“No.” 

“Then what?” 

“You know how some stations have like animals and stuff?” 

“You mean K-9 units, trained dogs? You wanna train a fuckin’ opossum?” 

“No, don’t be ridiculous,” she rolls her hand flippantly, “I’m not gonna train her, she’s perfect the way she is.” 

“Have fun getting the sheriff on board with this, that thing could be rabid for all you know.” 

“Opossums don’t carry rabies; like they physically can’t have rabies.” 

“Okay, fuckin’, opossum expert.” 

Dahlia spends a mile or two, just watching out the window at the world passing by as she scratches at her new friend’s ears. Passing by a sign for Rye and Son’s Aviation, she remembers the conversation with Adelaide. 

“Who’re the Rye’s?”  She turns her head towards Pratt, head cocking to the side in curiously. 

“Huh? Oh, they’re a couple who live not too far from Falls End. They have these big barbecues that basically the entire county shows up to; everyone brings some food, it’s a whole thing.” 

“That’s nice.” 

“You should come.” 

“I don’t know them.” 

“It’s open invitation, you live in Hope County, cook some food, show up. It’ll be fun.” 

“Just like the F.A.N.G Center?”  She raises an eyebrow 

“Well, if you don’t freak out and run off halfway through, yeah, things can be fun.” 

“Yeah, sure, whatever.” She rolls her eyes and sticks her tongue out at Pratt. 

Side eyes and double takes are taken at Dahlia as she walks into the station carrying a opossum. Dahlia just nuzzles her face against the top of the opossum’s head as they reach the office, plopping down in her chair and propping her feet up on her desk. Pratt walks past with his lunch and Dahlia grabs a handful of apple slice off his plate; making the older deputy stop and glare at her.

“Can I help you?”

“I gotta feed her.” Dahlia shrugs, letting the opossum munch on one of the slices of fruit.

“Feed her your lunch.”

“My lunch is an energy drink and a twinkie.” She ate the last of the lunches Caroline sent with her; an empty fridge and a sink full of Tupperware waiting for her at home. 

“How the hell are you still alive?”

“The world’s too cruel to end my misery.”

“Jesus fuck,” he rolls his eyes, “calm it down, Hot Topic.”

“What are you doing, Rook?” Heat zings up Dahlia’s cheeks when she hears Hudson’s voice and sudden fear that being the weird opossum girl might not be what she wants.

“Is that a fuckin’ rat?” A guy next to her, dressed in the standard officer uniform asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Feeding...opossum…Who are you?”

“Rook, this is Brennan, he’s one of our officers, Brennan this is-”

“The rookie deputy, I know, I’m officer Beau Brennan, nice to meet ya,” he says, extending a hand and she moves the opossum to properly shake it.  Beau Brennan, possibly the most southern sounding name she’s ever heard, especially this far up North.

“Nice to meet you, too.”

“But, uh, Rook,” Hudson looks at Dahlia, “should you really be bringing a wild animal into the station?”

“Maybe not...she’s friendly, though.”

“So, Joey questions you and she has a point,” Pratt swings his hand in an angry gesture, “but I do it and I get mocked?”

“Yes.”

“Well, why don’t you tell Joey, how you want the opossum to be the station pet?”

“Do you?” Joey raises an eyebrow at Dahlia, the younger deputy’s face turning a deeper shade of scarlett.

“...yes..”

“If you want the thing so bad, why not just take it home as your own pet?”

“That’s what I was asking!” Pratt butts in.

“Five seconds ago, you were asking how the hell I kept myself alive, you want me in charge of keeping something else alive?”

“She’s got you there,” Hudson looks back to Dahlia, mirth lighting up those olive green eyes, “what's her name gonna be?”

Dahlia suddenly has no coherent thought in her head. Just cricket noises as she realizes she’s never actually named an animal in her life. Every time she’s ever had a pet or something close to one, she just refers to it by species or someone else names it. The cat’s name is cat, dog’s name is dog.

“....Opossum…?”

“Not how names work,” Hudson pets behind the opossum’s ear, “Petunia?”

“Petunia, it is,” Dahlia flusters to say grinning, she’s actually okay with this, Hudson doesn’t mind the weird opossum girl.  

“Why are you encouraging her!?”

“‘Cause it’s annoying you.”

“I think the girls have you outnumbered, Staci.”

“Staci?” Dahlia looks over at Pratt, is that his first name? She’s never actually heard it before. His face completely falls, hazel eyes harsh and angry.

“Shut up.”

“Your name is Staci, oh my god.”

“Spelled with an ‘i’,” Beau adds, grinning as Dahlia starts cackling.

“Oh my god, you have a sorority girl name!”

“Laugh it up, you know when Whitehorse comes back, you’re gonna have to say goodbye to your new friend.”

“Eh, it’s Rook, so he won’t mind much,” Joey says, shrugging her shoulders.

“Huh?”

“You don’t know?” Brennan raises an eyebrow at her, “everyone knows that the sheriff is soft on you. Been hardly a week and it’s like he’s adopted you.”

Her cheeks hurt from grinning, Whitehorse sees her like his own child? She knows she’s lucky to even have gotten the job; let alone the way he’s been going the extra mile to make her feel at place here. But knowing he may see her like family lights up her heart. The sheriff already reminded her of Lloyd before, but hearing that cements the comparison.

“Dear god, if you were a dog, your tail would be wagging,” Pratt-Staci, grumbles as he pinches the bridge of his nose.

“It's cute,” Brennan defends her, “we don’t even need a canine unit with her around. Ow!”

Brennan jumps when Dahlia kicks him in the shin, hard enough to bruise she’s hoping. Hudson and Pratt laugh. Petunia is content and nuzzling into Dahlia’s neck as the four shoot the shit, the topic of the Rye barbecue coming up. Hudson and Brennan both plan on being there as well.  Dahlia finds herself sinking deeper into her chair, holding Petunia closer. Taking her phone from her pocket and checking the notifications on John’s little video. Other than someone claiming he looks familiar and another person saying he’s hot; it’s mostly more taunts. 

“What’s going on here?” Whitehorse’s voice cuts through the chatter, the sheriff coming through and spotting the gathered deputies and officer. His eyes landing on Petunia within a second, “Rook?”

“Yeah?” She scrolls past someone using a gif of John’s light up yes sign as a reaction gif. 

“Why are you holding a opossum?”

“She likes being held.” She doesn’t bother looking up from the phone. 

“She?”

“Her name’s Petunia.”

“You can’t have a opossum.”

“She’s the station opossum.”

“Rook,” Whitehorse sighs and pinches the bridge of her nose, “just go put her outside.”

“So, she’s an outside station pet?”

“I don’t care as long as she’s outside.”

“I’m taking that as a yes,” Dahlia says, finally looking up and grinning ear to ear. Whitehorse shakes his head and just waves her off before going into his office, no doubt looking for some Tylenol or Aspirin at this point.

“That’s it,” Pratt lets out a heavy exhale, shaking his head at Dahlia.

“Told ya, soft on Rook.”

“I’m gonna take Petunia outside, to her new home.”

“Do you think she’ll stay around?” Hudson asks, as her and Pratt follow after Dahlia, towards the little lot of land behind the department.

“If I keep feeding her, she should, right?”

“I’m gonna have to start bringing two lunches, aren’t I?”

“Nah, you don’t wanna overfeed her.”

“Hilarious.”

The wind is blowing just a bit; breezing by and shifting the grass around them. The sun starting to set as the evening arrives. Petunia licks her cheek and then runs up on Dahlia’s shoulder, little hands grabbing at her skin as she clambers up onto her head; curling up like she belongs there.

“Pffft,” Hudson sputters out a laugh, “look this way, Rook.”

Dahlia faces Joey, grinning with the apples of her cheeks flushing red. The older deputy has her phone out and snaps a photo of Dahlia with Petunia perched on her head. She’s not sure why the moment is worth catching, but she’s glad it was.

“Send that to me, if you don’t mind…” Dahlia asks as she puts Petunia down in the grass.

“No problem,” she taps away and Dahlia feels her phone buzz, “and don’t worry I’ll send it to you, too, Pratt.”

“I didn’t ask for it.”

“Didn’t have to.”

Dahlia sits down on the ground, petting Petunia as the sun sets. As always Hudson and Pratt leave that evening for the Spread Eagle, she catches Brennan talking about going to the Hollyhock Saloon with some fellow officers before she leaves. Everyone has their friend group, their routine. And it’s time for her own; going home to an empty trailer. 

And an empty fridge, she remembers. Oh god, she has to go shopping doesn’t she? It’s a break in the monotony but she’s not sure it’s a welcomed one. She also has to do dishes at some point…and laundry…  Adulting sucks. 

There’s a little family owned market in the Henbane River region; just a bit more to it than the general store in Falls End. The fluorescent lights irritate her eyes as she pulls off her helmet to look around. Never the cooking type; Dahlia’s hoard comprises of things that don’t require more than a microwave to prep. Frozen meals, snacks, and absolute garbage pile high in her cart as she scours the shelves for more. This might get her through for a week. 

Her phone buzzes, another Twitter notification, she’s sure someone else reacting to the Eden’s Gate commercial. She tugs her phone from her pocket; just like she thought a Twitter notification, but the message beneath it catches her eye. A text from Hudson, where she sent the photo of Dahlia and Petunia. The young deputy hasn’t gotten around to opening it; mind preoccupied. She opens the message. 

Dahlia doesn’t take pictures of herself and has never been particularly enthralled with her own appearance. But, she likes this photo of her. Petunia is perched on her head, dark eyes warm and soft. The evening sun setting behind Dahlia illuminates her in golden light; dark hair mussed, brown eyes lighting up amber where the light hits, and a wide grin on her face. 

Beneath the photo is a message from Hudson captioning it; 

‘cant tell who looks better here’ 

 Heat makes it way up to her hairline. Is…did Hudson call her cute? She’s comparing Dahlia to Petunia, a opossum, both Petunia specifically and opossums in general are cute. So if Hudson’s saying Dahlia’s looks are on par with a opossum; does Hudson mean she’s cute? But, not everyone thinks opossums are cute… Some people think they’re gross little trashy goblins, does Hudson think she looks like a trash goblin? She seemed to like Petunia, but just cause she was nice to the animal doesn’t mean she thinks opossums are cute. Dahlia leans her forehead against the freezer section for a moment; letting a turkey meal cool her flushed face as she forces herself to not agonize over this. 

A few deep breathes and a concerned passerby make Dahlia straighten back up, getting her bearings before heading to self-check-out. She quickly rings up her items and bags them, leaving the market with her grocery bags in tow. 

“Leave me alone…please…”  A soft demure voice whispers, a woman about Dahlia’s age stands beside the road a man towering over her with a beet red face. The smell of liquor coming off him on the wind. His hand is wrapped tightly around her wrist, her skin indenting under his grasp as she tries to fold in on herself to avoid his touch. 

“Wh-what, you scared daddy Joe’ll call you a sinner for spending some time with me?”

The stench of alcohol wafts off his breath with every drunken slur; even at a distance, the smell churns her stomach.  She drops her bags on the cement and makes a beeline towards them, she needs to keep this from escalating, or someone will get hurt. 

“Leave me alone!” The girl’s voice shakes as she tries to pry herself from the man’s grasp. 

“Fuckin’ peggie whore!”  

“Hey!” Dahlia yells out and runs as his other hand starts to raise and pull back. 

She gets between them just in time to feel the crack of his hand striking her face. An ache and echo of pain rings through her jaw; a metallic taste where her cheek scraped the inside of her jaw.  Glassy eyes widen, the man shocked at the interruption. 

“Wh-who-”

“I’m a deputy with the Sheriff’s Department, and unless you want some jail time for assault, I recommend you get the fuck out of here.” 

“Pssh,” he scoff, whiskey scented spittle spraying into the air, “li-”

“I’m giving you to the count of three to get out of my sight, sir. One,” she leans into his space, glaring him down and sneering as she counts, “two, th-“ 

“F-fine, fine, fuckin’ bitch.”

He makes a dismissive hand gesture as he grumbles a curse, but he stumbles away, leaving the two girls alone. Dahlia rubs absent mindedly at her cheek before turning towards the girl; a peggie, he called her. One of the followers of Eden’s Gate. She’s beautiful, five or so inches taller than Dahlia, with long black hair falling in waves down her shoulders. Delicate fine facial features, the deputy can’t help but feel the girl’s face might have shattered has it been struck.  Like the handful of peggies she’s seen, traces of tattoos and markings are on her. ENVY etched across her chest and a delicate tattoo of vines with blue flowers curling up her forearm.  

“Are you okay?” Dahlia asks her. 

“Oh yes, yes, I’m fine, but are you?”

The girl reaches out, fingers nearly brushing over Dahlia’s cheek. She instinctively ducks back, avoiding the touch. Strangers touching her is never something she’s been fond of, though she can’t imagine many people are. 

“I’ve taken worse from better; I’ll be fine.  You be careful and have a safe night, ma’am.” Dahlia nods at her and makes the quick walk to her abandoned groceries and bike. 

She stoops down and begins to collect the food that fell from her bags. A pair of slender hands join in, helping gather up a bag of microwave meals for her, the girl offering it to Dahlia once it’s secure. 

“Thanks,” Dahlia murmurs, taking it from the stranger, stashing her groceries in the little storage space under her motorcycle’s seat. 

“It’s the least I can do…I’ve never seen you before.” 

“I started here about a week ago.” 

“Really, that’s incredible…The Lord placed you here at the exact right time.” 

“Nah, I just needed groceries,” Dahlia shrugs, “well, hope you have a nice night.”

“Wait,” she knots a hand in the deputy’s shirt, “I’m Layla…” 

“Nice to meet you,” Dahlia offers, Layla’s dark brown eyes are darting around, avoiding eye contact. 

“I…was on my way to a sermon at Father Joseph’s church and-”

“Look, Layla, if you need my help just say the word. But, if this is the beginning of a conversion spiel; save your breath and my time, ‘cause it ain’t happening.” 

“I don’t feel safe, going there alone, right now. What if he comes back?” Her arms cross over herself, the thin cardigan not doing much to protect her from the night chill. 

“Oh, uh, you don’t have anyone who can go with you? Aren’t religions like, community things?”

“I was gonna walk there by myself, but…” 

“Fuckin’ hell, where is it?”

“Up the north bridge, one of the island’s in the middle of the county, it isn’t far.” 

“Here,” Dahlia shoves her helmet at Layla, “I got one helmet and if anyone’s brains are splattering on the road, I’d rather they be mine.”

Layla pulls the helmet on over her head, body still shivering. Dahlia shies and shrugs off her leather jacket; it’s only going to get colder on the ride there with wind whipping around. She hands it to Layla who smiles and takes it, pulling the worn black leather jacket on. Oversized on Dahlia and still marginally so on Layla. 

“Thank you,” Layla murmurs as Dahlia straddles her bike, then climbs on the back. Dahlia takes in a deep breathe when arms wrap around her midsection, Layla pressing in close to the deputy’s back as she starts the engine. The familiar nature of the touch contrasting with the fact they’re strangers. 

As Dahlia makes her way up to the bridge, Layla lifts the visor just a smidge so that she can whisper directions in the deputy’s ear. Once she’s past the bridge coming from the Henbane, the roads have fencing and barbwire, making it nearly impossible to go from the road into the woods on the island. She rides down the winding road, taking a left turn off the paved road onto a beaten path, rounding the corner she sees it. 

A cold sweat builds on the back of her neck, heart dropping into her stomach. It’s a collection of small white buildings, dark roofs, with Latin scrawled across some of the buildings; Luxuria, Acedia, and more she’s sure. All of it on a large piece of land, within she can see picnic tables, bundles of white flowers, where they might gather for picnics or barbecues. She pulls her bike to a stop just a distance from the white gate; Church of Eden’s Gate etched in the upper arches. 

People are all around, getting out of white trucks and cars, greeting each other with hugs and waves; throwing side eye glances at Dahlia when they notice her. Dogs are barking somewhere; she doesn’t know where from. Layla clambers off the back of Dahlia’s bicycle, pulling off her helmet and handing it back to her. 

“Sister Layla,” a deep masculine voice rumbles out, a familiar man standing by the white gates. Tall with a thick dark beard, his deep dark eyes are focused on Dahlia as he speaks to Layla. Theodore is what the other man called him that day when Dahlia caught them stealing from The Spread Eagle. He looks a moment away from ripping the deputy’s head off her shoulders; his shirt dipping in a way that exposes the way PRIDE etches across his chest, crossed out as are all sins the church members wear. 

“Brother Theodore, this is-”

“The new deputy, we’ve met, why is she here?” 

“I was just getting ready to leave, don’t worry.” 

“What,” Layla’s eyes widen and she grasps Dahlia’s arm, “you can’t.” 

“I can’t…?” Dahlia raises an eyebrow and shoots a pointed look where Layla’s grabbing her, making the girl let go. Layla’s trying to rope her into this shit, isn’t she?

“You came all this way Deputy, why not just come in, listen to the sermon.” 

“Not happening, I already told you, not my scene. Just give me back my jacket, so I can leave, okay?” 

“But,” Layla chews her lip, gears in her head turning, “how am I suppose to get home?” 

“I saw at least thirty people go in that church, I’m sure someone will be willing to give you a ride home.” 

“Oh, uh, I-” 

“Brother Theodore, Sister Layla, service will be starting soon!” Someone calls out from within the compound. 

“I have to go, I’ll be right back, Deputy!” Layla rushes to say and then runs off towards the church, Dahlia’s jacket still on her shoulders. 

“Hey, wait!” Dahlia jogs after Layla, hurrying through the little compound, but the woman vanishes into the steepled church ordained in cross symbols. 

She stops, just before entering the door and takes a step back. The crush of boots in dirt echoes beside her before coming to a stop, the looming of someone nearby. Body heat lingering near her side as she looks up at the cross on the topmost steeple of the church. 

“You going in?” 

“No.” 

“Have fun out here,” Theodore tells her, moving to press a heavy hand against the church door. 

“Those dogs,” she starts, listening to the barks ringing out around her, “they friendly?” 

“Why don’t you go find out?” He leaves her with a smirk, walking into that church. 

Dahlia lets out a harsh breath and pushes her hand back through her hair. A breeze pushes through, her t-shirt and thin uniform shirt does nothing to keep out the chill. She’s not leaving without her jacket; her wallet and phone all in the pockets.  Music echoes from inside the church as she plops down onto the ground outside it, balancing her helmet on her knees and resting her chin on it. 

If your soul has grown weary, and your heart feels tired… 

She fidgets with her helmet, chewing her lip. Please let this Joseph guy be short winded, she just wants to leave. The entire place sets her on edge, makes her skin crawl and she wants to hide away. 

Let the water wash away your sins…

A cool breeze passes by, a soft whipping sound mingling with the singing. She scans the night sky, searching for her favorite and only known constellation, she has a feeling she’s going to be here a while… 

#far cry 5 #fc5 #this is love #Dahlia Hale

[freckled-words]

For The King - Part Three

Are you READY for the beginning of some Dragon King antics? Cause I am stoked to get your thoughts on this chapter. This is where I picked up the actual idea that Anon was requesting ah ha ~

Edited by @the-wild-ego​

PART ONE / PART TWO

By the third year of your duty as the King’s personal servant, you had confirmed a suspicion you’d had of him when you were a child.

Fierce, greedy, and cruel as he could be, King Phantom still had moments of vulnerability. It was these moments that you saw the truth of why he’d wanted to keep you at his side. He was wanting companionship.

Not the romantic variety of companionship, that was certain. There had been numerous attempts by courtesans, noble daughters and sons, and widowed royalty to woo the Dragon King. All had been treated with disdain and were dismissed. 

One particular incident involved a cocky prince being thrown out of the palace. From the roof. Into the flesh eating fish moat beneath. ( King Phantom received a letter from the newly appointed Princess of that Prince’s kingdom in thanks, along with a small chest of treasures.) 

As much as you wanted to move on with your life, and pursue your passions away from servitude, you never once considered asking for your freedom. 

At night on your cot, when you asked yourself why that was, you answered with, “My being here might make a difference one day.” Given that the King had not changed his disposition in the centuries of his rule, you didn’t think it possible, yet it was still a hope.

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

“Y/N, come here.”

You’d been dozing in the back corner of the throne room while the King addressed the citizens concerns.

The last had just left, and the guards had followed along to close up the large throne doors. It was nearing noon at this point and the rest of the day would normally be spent with the King lounging or looking over reports from his generals and spies. King Phantom sincerely didn’t care just how much you knew about the goings on.

Going to his side, you reflexively asked, “Yes, my King?”

“Tell me, in your own words, what would cease my people’s constant complaints? Dealing with their petty problems grows more bothersome by the day, as of late.” King Phantom shifted in his throne, angling himself to have a clear view of your expression. After that day when you had spoken frankly to him as a dragon, he found he rather enjoyed seeing your moments of genuine expression and hearing your thoughts. It was refreshing after being praised or cursed for hundreds of years.

This had, indeed, left you bewildered. Here was the King asking you, the servant, on how to handle the common people. 

Trusting the King to keep his word about ending your life quickly, you told him bluntly, “For starters, and I ask your forgiveness, but you did ask, you could be less of a jackass your Majesty.”

King Phantom rolled his eyes, “I’ll continue acting as I please. Give me another.”

Your posture relaxed and you looked down at the expanse of the throne room’s vast hall, “What if you didn’t have to listen to the complaints? Instead you assigned an advisor, or appoint a group of people that know the city best to handle the people they know? If there are any major crimes or blood feuds, then you step in.” 

With a few years in attendance to the King’s meetings with the people, you’d noticed that he didn’t care enough to give fair judgments. Often leading to bigger feuds or issues a few months later. If people that knew the locals, and knew the King’s laws best, were put in charge less problems could arise.

King Phantom mulled this over. It would remove a majority of the complaints in the morning, if not all together, and free up his time for more leisurely activities. 

He flicked his hand in a sign of dismissal and conjured a small orb in his palm. This spell allowed him to summon people he needed, which at present, was a scribe to write down letters of summoning. 

You went to the kitchen from there, to see if you could beg the cook for a small tidbit. It wasn’t quite noon meal time yet, but you’d eaten a smaller breakfast that morning. Not by your own choice, of course, you’d been pulled away by the King demanding you help him choose which tunic to wear that morning. 

You were in luck, the cook was in a good mood and was happy to give you a roll and a handful of grapes. 

You ate and walked back towards the throne room, as it had been plenty of time for the King to get his ideas in order and deal with whoever needed dealing with. 

As you passed an alcove, you heard hushed whispers. Being unfortunately curious, you pulled back against the wall and listened.

“I swear it will work!” Insisted a man.

“For all that she paid for it, it better. Or she’ll be taking her gold back out of our hides! How are we supposed to use it?” Questioned a second man.

“I’ve got an in with a sweetheart in the kitchen. She’ll sneak it into his noon meal.” Explained the first man.

“He spells all his food, if anything is poisoned it burns up!” Complained a third man. There came a sound of flesh hitting flesh, and a muffled “Ow!”

“Keep your bloody voice down and listen you sod. That’s why I’m saying it’ll work! The witch I bought this from brewed it up special, it’s not going to burn up. He’ll think it’s safe, and ta-da, the monster King is dead.” The first man proclaimed smugly.

You’d heard enough. Spinning on your heel, you hurried back the way you’d come. 

You had to warn the King. Regardless if that supposed poison would truly work or burn up, you didn’t want to take a chance of it succeeding. 

You couldn’t identify the three men talking, meaning they were either new to the palace, or were usually not within your sphere of interaction. They’d sounded like men that didn’t have the smarts to come up with an elaborate plan, and they’d mentioned a woman’s involvement. If a group like that were investing their money in killing the King, then they’d have plans that could spell trouble for the rest of the Kingdom after.

He wasn’t in the throne room where you left him. Spotting a page cleaning up, you asked if he’d seen where the King had gone. The page said he heard the King muttering about food.

Your heart crept up your throat. He’d gone to the dining room, which was nearly the other end of the palace. If you didn’t reach him by the time he’d tested his food, you may be too late.

All sense of decorum was tossed aside as you ran as fast as your legs would carry you. A bell tolled from the city center, alerting everyone that it was the point in the day when the sun was at its peak. Time for the noon meal. 

Any palace personnel you passed in your mad dash stopped what they were doing to watch. They would often rely on you to know of the King’s mood. To see you in a state of panic, told them that something must be terribly wrong. Any not in the middle of completing a necessary task, abandoned their work and hurried off to warn others.

*****

King Phantom took his seat at his large table, and surveyed the food waiting for him. He ate light in the mornings, heavier at noon, and heavier still at night. There were plates loaded with dried meat, cooked meat, cold meat, and stewed meat. Despite popular belief, he did enjoy fruits and vegetables as well. Leading to bowls of plump grapes, sliced apples, peeled oranges, soups loaded with onions, broccoli, carrots, and peas. Potatoes cooked in various forms were a favorite. And of course, a vast array of desserts ranging between pies, puddings, cakes, and a recent treat that’s been quickly becoming popular, caramel candies.

By reflex, King Phantom flicked his hand out and sent a shimmering wave of red power over the food. 

To his disappointment, the only thing to turn to ash were the bowl of caramel candies. He’d really been looking forward to trying them. A servant immediately cleaned away the bowl of ashes, and a dish with a raspberry chocolate cake took its place. He cast the spell once more, and the cake came up clean. 

Having taken up the mantle of King, Phantom had learned the proper etiquette expected of his rank. Which meant eating his food in a certain order. He pulled the nearest bowl of stew towards himself and breathed in its savory scent. Potatoes, beef, carrots, peas, onions, corns, and a dash of spice seasoning to give it a kick. Exactly how he liked it.

Behind him, one of the kitchen maids twisted the handkerchief in her apron pocket. She’d taken a guess at which bowl the King would reach for first, and her guess had paid off. Her man would be pleased with her. 

King Phantom filled his spoon with a chunk of beef and broth, and raised it to his lips.

“YOUR MAJESTY, STOP!” The spoon was slapped from his hand, the bowl was swept off the table. The broth splashed across the wood floor, splattering on chair legs and the base of the table.

The servants present froze in place, not daring to even blink.

King Phantom could only stare in genuine shock as his servant collapsed to their knees, gasping for air as they struggled to breathe. 

The sound of sizzling drew his attention to the mess on the floor. Wherever the broth and food pieces had landed, now eroded from their poisonous touch, leaving blackened holes in their wake.

He’d just about swallowed poison that had managed to withstand his magic. This was a working that would have certainly ended him, as anything that could withstand the magic of a dragon could kill that dragon. 

The food had been laid out before he had arrived, which would make the perpetrator safe from his scrutiny. Or so they’d hoped.

He snapped his fingers and the bowl’s sides took on a ruby glow showing where fingers had touched. Turning in a circle, he scanned over each person present in the room. He stopped when he faced the maid that had taken up the station behind him. Her hands were clasped in front of her, giving him a clear view of her now glowing fingers.

Advancing on her, he demanded, “Did you place the poison in my food? Speak truth, wench.” Another flick of his hand and his shimmering magic covered her.

She pressed a hand over her mouth, fighting to keep her lips still as she furiously shook her head in denial. 

King Phantom slapped her hands away, and pinned her to the wall with a hand to her throat, “Speak!”

Gasping, she broke into tears, “Y-Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Guards, take this filth from my sight.” He threw her to the ground and left her to the guards that immediately swarmed on her.

In this time, you’d finally calmed your breathing. Getting to your feet, you met your King’s infuriated gaze. You hadn’t anticipated this, causing you to take a startled step back, “Y-your Majesty?”

“How did you know? Were you part of this? Were you working with that waste of life to get rid of me and changed your mind at the last second?” He stepped closer, looming over you with his anger barely in check.

You lifted your hands up in defense, “No, Your Majesty! I overheard some men talking about it! I came here as quickly as I could!” 

When you lifted your hands, King Phantom saw a swatch of black across your palm. You showed no sign of pain, did you not realize it was there? If you’d known the poison would cause a reaction to flesh, you would have merely stopped him from eating, not thrown it as far from him as possible and risk being splashed yourself.

Even with that conclusion made from his observation, he recalled your expression as you’d slapped away the spoon. Pure, unfiltered panic and determination. You’d been set on saving him and had run yourself ragged to reach him. 

His anger evaporating, he took hold of your hand. You stiffened, never having been touched by him before. His grip was firm, ensuring you didn’t pull away. A flash of pain hit you as you finally registered the magical burn, causing you to hiss and give an involuntary jerk. 

“Hold still.” He demanded quietly, as he held his other hand over yours. 

You did as told, biting your bottom lip to have something to distract you from the pain.

A shimmer of power dusted onto your skin. The blackened patch took on a ruby glow. The pain immediately ceased, allowing you to watch as the glowing spot shrank, leaving behind fully healed skin. 

King Phantom didn’t release your hand until he’d turned it over to inspect for any missed places. 

You poked at the place where the magical burn had once been, and muttered an awed, “Thank you, Your Majesty.”

“You said you overheard men speaking of the poison, did you see their faces?” King Phantom asked, putting a hand to your shoulder and guiding you out of the dining room. 

You obeyed, walking where he directed, and shook your head, “No, I didn’t get a chance. Once I heard of their plot, I took off at a run to reach you.”

“Show me where.”

#For The King #Part Three #Phantom Battle AU #Dragon AU #Medieval AU #fanfiction #NateWantsToBattle #NWTB #Platonic Reader x Phantom Battle #Reader Insert

[dlucets]

cronophobia | oikawa tooru x reader

Title: Cronophobia Fandom: Haikyuu!! Character: Oikawa Tooru Genre: Angst-Fluff Word Count: 2385 Extra Info: Crossposted from dA // originally written in 2017. inspired by this song

Oikawa Tooru was not the sort of person who would be branded as a ‘worrier’.

Oikawa smiled brightly. His childish persona evident as he waved to the girls swooning over him. He didn’t let one ounce of fear show on his face as he walked down the corridors of his school. He laughed, he smiled at everyone, his entire posture was confident and unbreakable. A demeanour that he’d perfected over many years.

Even though there were the hints of irritation wearing away at the dancing happiness in his eyes. Even though there was fatigue crawling into the side of his face, he refused to show anyone the side of him that he’d hid for years. The side that was confused, lonely, scared. Hell, he was terrified for the future. The very thought that one day, he wouldn’t be walking these very corridors with Iwaizumi by his side scared him.

The thought that one day, he wouldn’t be the captain of Aoba Johsai’s volleyball team. The thought that he’d have to grow up, to move on in life. To let go of the bonds he’d forged with people over the years. It terrified him, really. The idea that graduation was creeping closer with every passing day, that he’d have to leave home and enter the big, wide world with only himself as company.

“Oi, Trashikawa, are you even listening to me? I sai-”

“Yeah, yeah, Iwa-chan. I get it. You don’t want me to stay up late all night because we have a game soon, right?”

He received a slap on the back of his head for his ignorance, courtesy to Iwaizumi, which resulted in one of Oikawa’s infamous pouts. Childish as always. A whine escaped his lips that emphasised the childish mask he was playing with, not allowing any cracks to show in his ‘flawless’ act.

“No, you idiot! Stop pulling that face, too. You’re not a child, are you? I was asking about your college applications,” Iwaizumi’s long sigh dragged out the silence between the pair as they walked through the school premises.

“Really, Iwa-chan? We have months off that, don’t worry about it. I’m sure you’ll do fine, after all, you always make the best choices in life. That’s why you chose me as your best friend!” he chirped, fishing some milk bread from his bag and eagerly eating it.

“Tch. Could’ve fooled me. Anyway, I was asking about your college applications,”

Oikawa almost choked on the food he was eating for a second. He hadn’t really given it much thought. Hadn’t wanted to.

“I’ll get in somewhere. Y’know, I’m not just a pretty face, Iwa-!”

“Right, right, we get it,” Iwaizumi muttered, “you know, binge watching the X files isn’t something colleges tend to care about, Trashikawa.”

“Bah! I’m good at plenty of things, don’t get jealous, Iwa-chan!” he proclaimed confidently, pushing open the doors to the gym and allowing the atmosphere of the volleyball club to take away his current concerns and problems.

How on earth was he going to cope?

“Hey, Oikawa!” another voice dragged him out of his thoughts, and his eyes flitted to your figure.

“Yo, (Y/N)-chan!”

+++

“Oi, Trashikawa, you did some alright serves back then.”

He was currently leant against his locker in the club room, idly scrolling through his social media. Not really taking into consideration his surroundings, trying to silence the worry that was in his mind. When Iwaisumi spoke, he raised his head, erasing the frown on his lips and replacing it instead with a winning smile.

“I know, right!” he quipped, that immature smile once again twitching at the sides of his mouth and pulling his lips upwards.

Iwaizumi didn’t reply immediately, choosing to retrieve his bag from his locker before replying to the brunette. As he closed his locker, he shifted himself so he was leaning against the locker, a small sigh escaping his lips. He glanced sideways, surveying Oikawa’s far-away expression, as though he were locked in a daze and not really there.

“Oi, Oikawa,” he said, for once using his real name, which startled Oikawa slightly, “are you okay?”

“Huh? Yeah, Iwa-chan! I’ve never been better, how about yourself?” he smiled his irritatingly infectious grin as he sauntered towards the door, carelessly fishing the clubroom’s keys out of his pocket and waving them around a bit before he hit the lightswitch to the room.

“You coming, Iwa-chan? (Y/N)-chan will be waiting for us outside, you know,” he said, his sing-song playful tone fully returning, much to Iwaizumi’s annoyance as he walked towards the door, exiting before Oikawa.

As the clubroom dimmed, Oikawa’s liquid-chocolate eyes scanned the room. It was quiet and calm, yet it still held the happy atmosphere that it seemed to be cloaked in constantly. He rested his hand on the doorframe, looking back to check whether Iwaizumi had started to walk towards the gates to meet you. He was out of sight already, and he let out a sigh.

Just how many more days would he be allowed to close the clubroom door, to pocket the keys with the knowledge that he was the captain? Just a matter of months, a few months he’d have to continue with this happy go lucky childish facade. A few more months he could go on pretending he was still too young to care about work, to care about college applications and leaving home and living on your own.

He let out a sigh, shutting the door and locking it.

Pivoting on his foot, he once again carefully placed the childish mask into place, slipping into his act. His routine. He darted towards the school gates, whining about how Iwa-chan had abandoned him all the way.

Once he’d finally arrived at the school gates, he noted the crisp air. The darkening sky had prompted the streetlamps to already flicker to life, despite it only being five o’clock in the evening. Yet another reminder of how quickly time was slipping by, how little time he had left in this school.

School had been something of a sanctuary to him. A place he could slip into another version of himself, even if it did tire him. The way he could act and pretend, grow in popularity and act so out-of-character that nobody would even bother asking questions. The way the work he’d been given, the work he’d often complained about completing, had acted as a distraction from his raging thoughts of what he was going to do with life.

And now, he only had a few months left.

“Hey, Oikawa!” you greeted him, plumes of white air exiting your mouth and indicating the coolness of the weather.

“Hey, (Y/N)-chan!” he grinned, before turning to Iwaizumi and fixing yet another pout on his face as he crossed his arms across his chest.

“You abandoned me, Iwa-chan!”

“I didn’t abandon you, you’re just too slow,” Iwaizumi rolled his eyes, beginning to turn on his heel and walk out of the school gates.

“Anyway, I’ve got to go home now. See you two at school tomorrow, yeah?” he asked, holding up his hand as a way of saying goodbye as he began to walk away, leaving Oikawa alone with you at the school gates.

“So, do you want to get milk bread? After all, it’s Thursday. And on Thursdays, they do like… some offer on milk bread at the bakery. Two for the price of one!” Oikawa gushed excitedly, fixing his gaze on you as you simply smiled on.

“Sure!” you said, and fell into step with him as you headed down the road on the way towards the bakery.

There soon settled a silence, albeit a comfortable one, between the two of you. Like a blanket of smooth snow. Despite the lack of awkwardness, it was still undeniably heavy, as though the things that were pressing it down were heavier than bricks, yet lighter than feathers. You stole a glance at the tall brunette that strolled alongside you, and didn’t fail to notice the slight frown that sat upon his face. His face was tilted downwards slightly, strands of hair slithering into his line of sight that went unnoticed as he lost himself in a bubble of thoughts. Separating himself from the world.

“Oikawa, isn’t the bakery down this road?” you softly prompted him as he continued walking onward.

“Huh? Oh, right. Yeah. Sorry!” he offered you another feigned smile.

Your eyebrows scrunched themselves together, knitting themselves together in confusion as you surveyed the tall brunette. To say he was acting out-of-character would’ve been an understatement. Normally, the boy always had something to say, whether he was ranting out of irritation about a volleyball rivalry or he was discussing the many different ways he could discover whether aliens truly did exist.

The boy always had something to say.

Never had you ever been with him for so long that he’d had nothing to say. Ever. Since the day you two had met, both aged four years old, up until this day, fourteen years later, you’d never once seen the brunette so silent for such a prolonged period of time.

There was something up.

You looked at the boy, who had resorted to chewing his bottom lip as he walked, his hands curling into small balls.

“A-are you alright, Oikawa?” you finally managed to ask, though your question came out much quieter than you’d wanted it to.

He started, as though he’d forgot your presence, and then he smiled at you. A somewhat sad smile at that, though. As though he was a small child who’d been forced to grow up way too quickly.

“Yeah, (Y/N)-chan. I’m just thinking,”

“You seem… sad.”

He shrugged off your question and your assumption wordlessly. You didn’t bother pushing the subject further, not wanting to get into a potential argument with the boy. Knowing full well the way he worked and how he kept grudges, it was likely that you’d end up in his bad books for an entire eternity plus a day before he even considered forgiving you. Regardless of whether you were in the right or the wrong.

Given the current expression that resided on his face, you didn’t want to risk anything at all.

So it was a surprise to you when he spoke once more, his voice much smaller than it usually was, as though the words felt foreign on his tongue. Despite the fact that the words had been on his mind since what felt like forever, the fact that the words had plagued his every waking moment, and sometimes they’d even spilled over into his dreams. Subconsciously manifesting his fears with graphic imagery that had left him awake and afraid to fall back asleep again.

“Do you ever just… want to go back in time?”

“Hmm? Well, I’d like to know what life was like before technology, if that’s what you mean. Just… get a taste of how society worked. I know we learn about it and all, but what it’d be like to actually be there-” you were cut off by Oikawa’s voice once more, and you looked up in irritation that was instantly quelled when you saw his expression.

“No, no… I mean- look, I don’t know. Just… do you ever not want to grow up? Be like Peter Pan, or something. Just fly to neverland and never grow up. Sometimes, I just have this urge to… I don’t know, get on a train somewhere and never come back. Forget my life here and just… disappear? I don’t even know, really. But I don’t want to continue living this life, on this path, right now.”

“You… Oikawa? Are you...”

“It’s like… I don’t want to die, but I don’t want to carry on with the way things are going right now. I don’t want to graduate high school and leave you and Iwa-chan. I don’t want to move house, I don’t want my parents to grow old. I don’t want to have responsibilities, as selfish as it sounds. I don’t want change. I want things to stay the same. I want to carry on being the captain of my volleyball team. I want to improve, I want to be the best setter in this country,” his voice began to crack at some point, his breathing diminishing even more as he continued talking, his voice spiralling downwards and downwards, quicker and quicker.

“Oikawa,” you whispered, looking at the boy who always seemed so careless and nonchalant. So happy and full of life.

He wiped away the tears that were beginning to group at the sides of his eyes, his hands curled into fists. He let out a short, breathy chuckle as he did so.

“Look at me, I’m crying because of my own future,” he laughed, a sad laugh that sent a ripple of sadness through your heart. One that caused you to inhale slightly, your brain attempting to compile a short amount of thoughts before you began speaking.

“Oikawa, you’re a brilliant person, you know? You’re so clever, talented, funny, you’ve got every girl’s attention at school - and every boy’s attention at that, too, to be honest. You’re incredible in so many different ways, and so what if you have flaws? So what? I just… you’re so bright, it’d be impossible for you to burn out so quickly. You’ve got a long life ahead of you, I guess is what I’m trying to say, Oikawa. I just know that you’re going to be great. You’re going to do great, regardless. You’re brilliant, Oikawa, and you have the power to wield your future into whatever you damn well please. Don’t forget that power you possess, Tooru.”

“(Y/N)-”

“So stop crying, Tooru. Hold your head up high because you, my friend, are the best volleyball setter in this prefecture. Hold your head up high because you’re gonna go on to be a legend, Oikawa Tooru. Mark my words.”

You reached a hand up to brush the small trail of tears that had begun to work their way down his face, and he smiled a small smile at you.

“Thank you,” he whispered, gently taking your hand and interlacing his fingers with yours, his calloused hands warm against your cool palms.

“Now, how about that milk bread?”

#oikawa tooru #tooru oikawa #tooru x reader #oikawa x reader #oikawa imagine #oikawa tooru scenario #oikawa tōru #oikawa tooru x reader #oikawa tooru imagine #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu imagine

[comeondowntosouthparkrpg-blog]

Christophe DeLorne

[Insert Les Miserables Reference Here] Christophe has been accepted! Let us know your blog and your discoed so we can add you!

out of character info

Name/Alias: Tommy Pronouns: He/Him Age: 20 Join Our Discord: Yes Timezone: PST Activity: 7-8 Triggers: N/A Password: jimmy can fast pass my ass Character that you’re applying for: Christophe Favourite ships for your character: Christophe / Chemistry

in character info

Full name: Christophe “The Mole” DeLorne Birthday: 6 June Sexuality, gender, pronouns: Homosexual, CIS Male, He/Him Age and grade: 18 & Senior Faceclaim: Oscar Kindelan

Appearance: 

Christophe has dirty, medium-tan skin with a good amount of scars here and there, but the most prominent one being a cut across the chest. Having fought more times than he could count, he’s pretty muscular though he appears more on the leaner side. Standing at about 6'2", he towers over some students in his grade but about an average size within the people he works with. Cursed with a resting bitch face that makes it look like he’s constantly glaring at the person he’s looking at if he doesn’t change it.

Has messy and short dark brown hair, it’s likely ruffled up as he doesn’t particularly care for styling it. His eyes are a deep green, though they are fairly dull in colour. Wears the same old kind of clothes that he used to, a dark green military jacket with brown pants, knee-high boots and black fingerless gloves. He also has a brown sash around his shoulder that carries various items in each pocket in it and holds the shovel he holds most of the time he’s walking. Around his neck are two dog tags, but one of them isn’t his name.

Personality: 

His demeanor is initially fairly cold, cut off, and abrasive though he doesn’t intend to come off that way. With a glare look on his face, he often appears like he doesn’t like anyone or isn’t looking for company, something that he prefers even if he doesn’t like it. It doesn’t help that he has a foul mouth, swearing often and blunt with words that would apply to this.

Holding a fairly cynical view on the world, he believes that not everyone or anyone at all is born with true kindness in their heart and that all people are naturally bad until taught otherwise. His hatred for God is often fueled by his insecurities, it used to be a coping mechanism that he used to feel better about the hand he was dealt in life. He is emotionally unstable at times, anger and an attempt to seem tougher than he sometimes can be stemming from his times that he’s had to fight, or whatever he felt like he had to do to keep himself sane enough to function. His growing numbness to having to hurt or kill people scares him, wondering if he’s lost his own humanity.

Internally, he’s fairly lonely despite the fact that he tries to distance himself from other people emotionally (aside from Gregory). His entire life has been spent doing shady missions and fighting to stay alive which has taken up a lot of his free time that he typically spent trying to relax his muscles and tension. Through his tough guy exterior, he’s fairly sensitive though he would never show it through his stoic demeanor.

History: 

Christophe believed God has always hated him. Even before he was brought into the world, his mother was in a relationship with a French soldier who had moved to South Park for a better life with the child. When his father had died, she cursed the child in her womb and attempted to abort him, stabbing him in the heart with a clothes hanger.

Miraculously, he had survived. Growing up wasn’t much better, a distant relationship between him and his mother who had shown him strict discipline. His mother had raised him to know the warfare his father left behind, a dog collar and the people he had worked with, as well as teaching him first hand. At the age of 7, he had been involved in covert operations and worked with a group of soldiers.

It was a lot to take in as a kid, and to this day he can’t get the images, sounds, or feeling of what he often had to do out of his head. One of his most traumatic experiences was being caught by a guard dog, bitten on the arm until he was rescued by one of the soldiers.

He’d grown to be proficient, a fast learner and eventually became incredibly skilled in covert operations even though he was so young. After the events of South Park: Bigger, Longer & Uncut, he had started to question his own life and its meaning when he had experienced death firsthand, both the pain and coldness confusing him as well as waking up. His world had changed, though he wasn’t able to escape the life he’d created for himself. Throughout middle school he had still gone through what he’d always done, and had been under strict disciplining with his mother who he had learned to act better around if he didn’t want her on him all the time. Though he’d always disagreed with her, he felt scared around her, almost like he was unable to move, almost afraid of experiencing death once more.

By the time he hit high school, he was a known expert in his field and had quite a few contacts along with people who would occasionally call for him needing his services. To get out of the house he was raised in, he needed money, and nothing small would get him out of the dirt poorness that his mother had, also having to hand over the money he’d made to her whenever he did make a penny. Now, he simply tries to live on with what he has.

Sample paragraph: 

Silence, a good sign. His footsteps were light as he moved around the abandoned building, making sure no one occupied it or was snooping around in the general area. Gesturing for his partner to follow him, he ran up the stairs as quietly as he could, removing the sniper from his sash and setting it up. Looking around once more, he made sure that nothing would disturb them, a habit of his to check several times.

“Listen to me,” The Mole whispered sharply, checking that nothing would jam nor that his clip was empty once more, “it will be on my count and no zooner or later, tu comprends?”

As soon as he heard confirmation, he knelt down to angle himself right. Through the scope of the lense, he searched for the spot their target would soon be approaching, silently searching the area. The moment he saw them, The Mole didn’t move a muscle more than he felt like he had to, focusing on the two targets and assigning his partner one as well as one for himself. The tranquility was chilling, once he had reached his countdown, a silenced shot was taken and it was over.

Watching the two fall to the floor, he stayed as the blood pooled under both of theirs heads, the deed was done. He drew back from the scope of the sniper, putting it back in its place. Only a brief pat on the back was given to his partner, not a smile nor compliment was sent in his direction. Christophe eyes and inhaling, he was now a regular person who had no ties to what he had just done.

Headcanons: 

Still lives with his mother and pays half even though he has his own hut in the woods somewhere hidden, a warm bed and clothes even with a person like her is preferable to the smell of wood and dirt or the forest floor.

Has a heavy French accent, but he has learned how to clear it up a little since he gets annoyed when people can’t seem to understand him through it. When he’s more annoyed, it gets even heavier than usual to the point it may be just gibberish.

Smokes about every few days, but he keeps his cigarette in his mouth for comfort reasons.

As long as you’re paying and give him a good reason to do something, there’s a high likelihood he’ll do it, no matter how shady it might be.

Has always wanted to have a pet, but his mother doesn’t like any aside from her grumpy cat named Camille that doesn’t seem to like him.

His grades aren’t bad since he works on homework whenever he’s home due to his mother nagging him to do so, but he has quite a few absences on his record that half are only excused.

Works out at the gym regularly to keep up his strength, never know when you might need to fight hand to hand.

Although he doesn’t hate being called by his first name, most people around school and in general know him as “Mole” since he typically uses it as an alias to keep privacy.

Anything else: N/A

#Christophe DeLorne #Application #Admin Samantha #submission

[flickerofcalum]

once bitten, twice shy | part two

part 1 // shoot me a message if you wanna be added to a taglist!

The worst part of it all was, despite the changes, Luke could still see all the parts of Brinley that he’d fallen in love with. The parts of her he was still in love with, if he was being honest with himself. He was more fucked than he’d previously realized.

“It was the craziest thing, bro. One minute she was throwing a drink in my face and the next thing I know, she’s got her hand down my pants and her tongue down my throat. I mean, I’m not complaining, but it was confusing as hell.”

Luke rolled his eyes from where he sat on Michael’s couch, listening to him recount the previous evening’s events to Ashton and Calum, Michael hadn’t stopped talking about hooking up with Olivia since they stumbled into his parents’ home early that morning, but thankfully, he’d mostly been too distracted to really pay close attention to his friend anyway. He was unable to stop thinking about his run-in with Brinley the night before.

When he’d decided to come home for Christmas, he’d prepared himself for the worst. He’d known immediately that she wouldn’t want to seem him and honestly, he couldn’t blame her. The two of them had been together for such a long time, had their whole lives planned out with each other, and Luke had selfishly flipped the script on her at the very last minute. He hated himself for it every day.

And god, he had missed her the entire time he’d been gone, but it felt even worse now that he’d laid eyes on her. Brinley had changed so much in their time apart – she was even more gorgeous, which he really hadn’t ever thought would be possible. Though it may have been a little creepy, he’d spent half the night watching her from across the room. He couldn’t stop picturing her long legs in the red dress, the cute way her lips curved up into a smile whenever she’d teased Calum, the delicate blush on her pale cheeks whenever someone gave her a compliment.

The worst part of it all was, despite the changes, Luke could still see all the parts of Brinley that he’d fallen in love with. The parts of her he was still in love with, if he was being honest with himself. He was more fucked than he’d previously realized.

“Earth to Luke,” Ashton’s fingers snapped in front of his face, breaking him out of his thoughts. “Are you alive in there?”

Luke blinked a few times. “Sorry. I was just…thinking.”

“About Brinley?” Calum questioned bluntly, raising a dark eyebrow at him. Luke had never really been comfortable discussing Brinley with Calum, and since their break up, he’d tried to avoid the topic all together. While the dark-haired man was one of his best friends, he knew that Calum’s history with his ex went back further than Luke’s history with either of them.

Luke chewed on his bottom lip, scratching his fingers along his stubbled jaw nervously. “I just didn’t think that seeing her again was gonna be so hard, you know?” He sighed a bit. “And she wouldn’t even look at me.”

“Well, you did abandon her right before the two of you were supposed to go off to college together, mate. Can you really blame her?” Michael pointed out, barely looking up from his phone. Luke shot him a glare. He didn’t really need a reminder of what he’d done to Brinley. It was already on his mind more than he would ever admit out loud.

Ashton reached over to pinch Michael’s thigh, eliciting a shriek from red-haired boy. “Not helping, Mike.” He looked back at Luke, his eyes soft and pitying. “She probably just needs some time.”

Luke shrugged sadly. At the party, Brinley hadn’t been able to get away from him fast enough – the chances of her changing her mind about wanting to speak to him were probably slim. He wasn’t stupid enough to think that Brinley was still in love with him. Not only was she beautiful, but she also was incredibly smart, talented, funny, and had the kindest soul out of anyone Luke had ever met. If they hadn’t already, it was only a matter of time before someone else came into her life and swept her off her feet, treated her the way she deserved to be treated. Luke was afraid that he was too late.

“She looked good, though, right? Like…she looks like she’s happy,” Luke said finally. Even if she was never his again, that was all he wanted for her.

He watched as Calum shared a look with Ashton he couldn’t quite read before he reached over to pat Luke’s thigh. “Yeah, man. She’s happy.”

♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡

The cold air stung his skin as he walked outside, causing him to curse under his breath. When he’d promised his mother he’d come home for the holidays, he’d forgotten how goddamn cold it got there. He didn’t have a lot of warm clothes since he lived in Los Angeles, so he wrapped himself up in one of Jack’s old winter coats. There was a gap between the sleeve and the gloves he was wearing, but it was better than nothing.

Normally, Luke avoided going outside at all costs in the winter, but after being locked up in his childhood bedroom for nearly a week, his mother forced him out of the house with a grocery list. Worst of all, he was without a car, so he had no choice but to make the small trek to the store on foot. It was only about a ten-minute walk, but the frigid weather made it feel like hours.

His cheeks and the tips of his ears were red by the time he arrived at the store. The heat was blasting, something he was grateful for when he walked inside. He grabbed a cart and furrowed his brows as he looked at his mother’s list. It occurred to him that he hadn’t been grocery shopping since he moved to Los Angeles. Most of the time, Ashton took care of that sort of thing or they ate take out. “Milk, egg whites, cereal…” he mumbled to himself underneath his breath as he wandered down the aisles, putting the items in the cart. He was pretty sure he had grabbed the wrong brand of cereal, but it was his mother’s own fault for sending him here.

He stood in front of the milk, thoughtfully looking between all the different types. His mother had been on a health kick lately, so would she want almond milk instead? Was he supposed to buy the store’s off brand version since it was cheaper? Luke had been standing there for far too long whenever he heard his name called out by a sweet little voice.

Brinley turned the corner, an exasperated look on her face as she tried to stop her little sister who was barreling towards Luke. He took in a sharp breath as he saw her. She was only in a pair of leggings and a sweatshirt, her hair thrown messily on top of her head, but she still looked as beautiful as ever to him. “Mallory, no running! You’re going to hurt yourself.”

The man grinned as he bent down to Mallory’s level, catching her when she launched herself into his arms. Luke had always had a soft spot for the younger girl, partly because she was the spitting image of her sister. He was a little amazed at how much she’d grown since he’d last seen her, a heavier weight against him than he was used to.

“There is no way you’re Mallory,” He said teasingly. “You are far too big to Mallory.”

Mallory rolled her eyes, propping a hand on her hip as she looked at him. “That’s ‘cause I grew up, dummy.”

“Mallory, be polite,” Brinley chastised. She locked eyes with Luke for a moment before she looked away with flushed cheeks.

Luke turned his attention back to the younger girl. “My apologies, Ms. All Grown Up. Who said you could grow up while I was gone, hm?”

His smile only grew as the little girl giggled, revealing her missing tooth. “I can’t help it!” She insisted, gripping Luke’s hand once he stood up.

Looking at Brinley again, he dared to speak. “It’s good to see you. It’s a shame we didn’t get to talk at the party.”

Brinley tucked a piece of hair behind her ear, looking up at him through her long eyelashes. “Oh, well… you know, Olivia kind of loses her mind when Michael’s around. I had to make sure she didn’t do anything stupid.”

“Right,” Luke said with a nod, looking back down as Mallory started tugging on his sleeve.

“Luke, Luke! I’m in a Christmas play at my school. I play an angel!” She said excitedly.

Luke grinned. “An angel, huh? How fitting,” he teased, smoothing down her hair.

Mallory rose up on her tiptoes to speak to him. “Will you come see it?”

Brinley coughed. “Mal, I’m sure Luke is really busy…”

Although he knew Brinley didn’t really want him around, he hated the idea of disappointing Mallory by saying no. “I’m actually really not that busy,” he blurted out, chewing on his lip again. “I’d love to come, Mallory. If it’s okay with your sister.”

He felt only slightly guilty as Mallory turned towards her older sister with big eyes, a small pout forming on her lips. “Can he come? Pleaseeee?”

The older girl let out a sigh, giving Luke an exasperated look. “I guess so. Can you let me talk to Luke alone for a second?”

Mallory’s smile was wide as she hugged Luke around his legs for a moment. “Bye Lukey!”

“Bye, petal,” Luke said fondly.

He bit his lip as Mallory ran back over to their nearby cart, pulling the doll she’d left inside out. He’d gotten enough lectures from Brinley to know when she was about to chastise him about something, so he prepared himself as he looked at her. “Brin, look…”

“Don’t call me that,” Brinley snapped, holding one finger up to cut his sentence off.  Her gaze felt like it was piercing right through him and he had never felt quite so vulnerable in his life. “I know we’re going to be seeing each other a lot over the next few weeks, but I want to make it clear that I’m not interested in reconciling with you. You can come to her play, and we can be civil when we’re with our friends, but I don’t want anything to do with you other than that?”

At her words, Luke felt his heart jump into his throat. While he didn’t necessarily expect her to jump back into his arms, he at least thought she’d be willing to talk things out. “Can’t you just give me a chance to explain?” He said, a bit more pleadingly than he would’ve liked. “There’s so many things I have to say to you if you’d just give me five minutes.”

Brinley let out a humorless laugh. “If you wanted to explain yourself that bad, you would’ve done it by now. You can’t just show up here after all of this time and expect me to just bend to your will and listen to you.” She insisted. “I just… I just want to forget everything that happened between us. I’m done, I’ve moved on. And I suggest you do the same.”

Luke gaped after her as she stalked back over to Mallory. He’d been on the receiving end Brinley’s anger before, but he had never experienced her being so outwardly harsh. He felt like there was a gaping hole in his chest as he watched her walk away.

As he finished up the rest of his shopping, he felt numb, like he was on autopilot. The wind blew the cold air harshly around him as he walked, but it barely affected him. He’d always known that he’d fucked things up with Brinley, but it was starting to hit him that things between them were messed up beyond repair. The girl he loved wanted nothing to do with him anymore, and it hurt.

So, when Luke got home, he quickly put away the groceries before retiring to his room to deal with his feelings the only way he knew how. He locked his door, grabbed a notebook, and started writing.

#luke hemmings blurb #luke blurb #luke hemmings fanfic #luke hemmings fic #5sos fic #5sos blog #luke 5sos #5sos #obts #kelly writes #this got so long #pls reblog if u read sfjdsdk

[savinscripts]

CHAPTER 1: ❝ The purpose of life is to live it, to taste experience to the utmost, to reach out eagerly and without fear for newer and richer experience. ❞

Lightning split the sky overhead, followed by a deafening clap of thunder. Rain beat down, cold and sharp, running in a torrent down the treacherous mountainside. The cliff face gave no relief, rising up hundreds of feet into the sky. The old stone was thick with moss and worn slick by the passing of the centuries. By the passing of thousands of bare feet from centuries ago. Faye pushed her sodden hair back out of her face and held up her flashlight. Most people would just see a blank rock face, covered in vines and dirt and worn by weather and time. Nothing special. Nothing of worth. Certainly nothing that would warrant standing on the edge of a mountain in the middle of a tropical monsoon.

But Faye wasn’t most people.

Faye was here for a reason. Several reasons. Five million of them to be exact. Paid upon delivery. Because Faye found things. Things people wanted. People with money. Lots and lots of money. And after being ‘let go’ from her dream job at the National Archives for some bueracratic bullshit that said she was no longer needed - even though over half their recent collection was all there thank to her efforts - she went into business for herself.

Finding things.

It was twice as exciting. And paid a hell of a lot more.

She was good at it. Hence why she was here, and running her fingers over the symbol hidden beneath the vines. A symbol that when pressed just so…

“Open fuckin’ sesame,” Faye grinned, taking a careful step back - wouldn’t do to fall off the mountain now - as the way opened up. A gust of long-trapped air, dry and smelling of old things long shut off from the world, blew out into the rain. Faye turned her face away. When the door was open, she found a large bit of rock and wedged in the threshold. Just in case. She doubted it would close, but she wasn’t taking chances.

Stepping inside, Faye descended the dusty, spiderweb strewn corridor, her flashlight swinging back and forth as she searched for the next piece of the puzzle. The piece that would eventually lead to her prize.

Back outside, Carrington Bishop, ex-soldier turned hired mercenary, watched the woman open the tomb and disappear inside. He smiled to himself. Excellent. He didn’t know anything about ruins, or ancient treasures, nor did he give two shits about any sort of historical value. He knew the jungle. He knew how to get shit done. He knew that five million US dollars would set him up well for the rest of his life. And he could out of this fucking business for good.

So he waited a few minutes before following her, the sounds of the storm raging outside dulling to a dim roar as he descended, following her footprints in the dust.

Stefan Savin was a liar.

Now, calling him such was in no way an accusation, or an insult. It was a fact, and, in all regards, a rather well known one. Fane himself would admit to it in a heartbeat. No longer a top-graded Oxford graduate or even a scholar nosing around libraries and letting other people secure his artefacts for him (granted he still did love a good library). He was a thief and, well, thieves lied. In his opinion, there was nothing wrong with being a liar, at least, not if you were a good one. And Fane? He’d become one of the best.

Once, at gunpoint, he’d convinced a corrupt, black-market-dealing, money-hoarding thug and half his band of drooling goons-- who had ambushed him in the depths of a crypt he’d spent months researching a way into-- that the only way to open the vault and inner crypt where the treasure horde was kept was to spin around in circles as fast as they could while patting their stomachs with one hand and rubbing their head with the other. Of course, most of the goons had been too damn dizzy to shoot at him afterwards when he’d proceeded to bolt through a nearby split in the wall and made off with the real treasure, not gold or jewels, but half a crumbling ancient manuscript written thousands of years ago.

Something that had fetched a pretty sum for a scholar, who intended to have it displayed at a public museum in the near future though not before Fane had taken his own time to study the relic. He hadn’t entirely abandoned his roots and interests after all. A lifetime of study, education and travel had left him access to a vast knowledge base not to mention combined with a sharp intellect he’d learned to passably speak and read almost two-dozen dialects ranging from modern to ancient civilisations long since passed. A job offer had come in since. Five million dollars for the retrieval of an artefact deep in the Lacandon jungle.

But something about this job felt off, except, Fane couldn’t quite pinpoint what it was.

Unfortunately, he didn’t have the absolute luxury to turn down jobs when they came about explaining why he presently cut through an overgrown trail towards a rubble-strewn ruin that once was a sizable temple dedicated to Quetzalcoatl when the downpour began, sudden and torrential, as was the usual way. It began with a flash of lightning, splitting the darkened sky; then the deep rumble of thunder that echoed over treetops. And then, the approaching hiss of rain that fell heavy on the leaves of the trees, the patters more an endless, dull roar to his ears and by the time he arrived at the true entrance his clothes were drenched entirely. Not that he minded as he stepped into the shelter of darkened granite overhead, cracking a military grade glowstick to illuminate the darkness he glanced at a nearby wall taking a moment to mark it for safety’s sake and to ensure he knew which way to go to get out again once this was all said and done. The artefact from his studies was housed deep inside the temple; artfully designed to guard its secrets. Stepping near to the wall he pressed his ear to it, and from some distinct place beyond could hear the rush of water in such a way that didn’t quite seem a natural fashion.

Likely something to keep in mind as he pushed his hair out of his eyes and headed into the temple.

Faye descended deeper in the temple. It smelled like something moldering the further in she moved. The cobwebs grew thicker, and she had to duck beneath them in several places they were so thick. Some stuck to her hair and clothes, but she batted them away without much care. There was nothing living down here. Not for centuries. It was cold too. Or cooler at least. Her rain-soaked skin peppered with gooseflesh as the humidity from up above was replaced by a creeping dampness.

There were no marking on the walls here, Faye noticed. She ran her hands over the slick stone, trying to feel for any small indentations. Anything that might reveal something left behind by the people that used this temple. There was nothing. Until there was.

The passageway opened up into a cavernous antechamber. Dry as the rest, it smelled like air hadn’t moved in ages. Nothing grew here. Nothing crawled in the shadows. Nothing flittered across the light of torch. It was empty. Except for the bones.

Pulling her bandanna up around her mouth and nose, Faye eased forwards towards the wall of skulls. They rose out of sight, up into the darkness, each one carved with a different symbol on it’s forehead. She walked down the wall one way, and then the other. The skulls extended thirty paces each way from the center. She didn’t know how far up they went. “Fuck,” she sighed, backing up a few steps to look at the wall as a whole again. There was no other way forwards. But maybe…

“It can’t be that easy…” she said to herself. Finding the skull with the symbol for ‘k’uk’ or ‘quetzal’ inscribed on it, Faye hesitated only briefly before pressing on it. There was a grinding sound, and the skull sank into the wall. Another heavy thump from behind the stone, and the way opened. Faye started to take a step forwards, but thought better of it. A large stone tossed down the passageway saved her a belly full of poison darts. At least she assumed they were poisoned. Still, she noted the pressure plate and quickly made her way through.

Carrington had watched from the edges of the first path. The woman didn’t notice him, and he very nearly revealed himself, content to blast through the fucking door with a well-place bit of C4, when she managed it finally.

“Better you than me, sweetheart,” he said to himself. Once she was through, he followed, carefully stepping in her footprints.

Fane wasn’t sure he would ever grow accustomed to the smell of rot and death that lingered on the stale and musty air of ancient tombs and crypts, a few steps inside and he already was pulling a mask up over his mouth and nose to barricade against some of the odours permeating through the air. His glowstick swung where it was hooked to his backpack the light shafting this way and that with each step he took into the temple his eyes mindful for any trip wires or pressure plates that might happen to still be active after centuries of disuse. You never really knew what to expect after all, and you never could be too careful.

Forcing his way through thick nets of webbing crafted by spiders larger than the size of his fist the sight of which made him shiver slightly on the venture deeper into the temple, he paused every now and then to continue marking his path through winding corridors and up and down various flights of steps. Left and right the path wound, mindful to always check with a few heavier stones when it came to a new corridor as to whether there might be some unfortunate spike-pit ahead. Those he found were mindfully skirted by, it wouldn’t do to end up being skewered after all.

Until narrow walkways opened into a vast square room lined with ancient burial alcoves, a central raised altar with skeletal remains left on it and no foreseeable way forwards and Fane was forced to consult his journal regarding the layout of the temple. Cracking out his flashlight and shining it about until he highlighted a statue ahead carved with intricate details and an inscription in an ancient dialect. On either side of this hung what looked like two empty braziers cast in bronze. Shining his light on the inscription he squinted a little, needing to read back several times until he got the gist of what it was saying. “The warrior’s soul will be weighed in gold,” he snorted a little the sound muffled by the mask covering his features. Walking forwards he tucked away the journal and glanced at the skeleton who seemed to have once been dressed for battle by these people’s standards; the remains of what looked like a spear resting beside him.

Hooking his fingers through the empty eye-sockets of the skull, Fane hoisted the skull up picking the jaw up along with it prior to setting them in one of the scale-like objects which sank mightily under their weight. The Mayans believed the soul was in the head after all. Hearing the distinct grind of something moving Fane glanced around noting plenty of gold pieces and items strewn about which he set about collecting up, filling up the other scales until they balanced out and something clunked and the echo of stone on stone could be heard echoing through the chamber as a doorway was revealed. With a two-fingered salute to the skull and a passing remark of “cheers Horatio,” Fane continued on, several antechambers later arriving in a space that must’ve from his approximations been the central hub of the temple. Walking down a long set of stairs, he had to crane his neck up at what looked almost like an ancient equivalent of a cistern. Rising high above the pooling waters that rushed down carefully constructed channels into swirling pools at the base. Fane could almost taste the satisfaction of taking the item and getting out of here already as he considered the safest route up before moving to jump onto one of the nearby ledges from the entrance he’d just arrived through. Shuffling along and swinging his body weight until he could safely drop down on another platform nearer a couple of toppled pillars that would lead roughly by his judgement to the base of the structure.

After what felt like the longest walk of her life, and nursing a sore shoulder from a steep slide and a sudden stop when she stepped on the wrong stone a ways back, Faye squeezed through into what she hoped to God was her destination. She was dirty, sweaty, and covered in cobwebs. All she wanted was that fucking relic so she could get the hell out of here and get her money.

She looked around, eyes adjusting to the sudden brightness of the chamber. And when she blinked, she suddenly forgot all about how tired she was, or how dirty. Or how much she wanted a shower and a drink. There was the final dias. It was a good climb, but nothing she couldn’t manage. Tucking her flashlight away - since the room was illuminated by a huge opening in the roof of the cavern (her way out, hopefully) - Faye adjusted her pack on her shoulder and moved towards a crumbling set of stairs.

The sudden yet familiar sound of a hammer being pulled back had her going for her weapon. “I’d stop there if I were you, love.”

Faye froze, hands out to the side. She’d been followed. She’d been fucking followed, and hadn’t even realized-

“Thanks for the tour,” the voice said again, cutting off her thoughts. “But I’ll take it from here. Drop the pack please.”

Faye did as she was told, trying to get a look at her pursuer in the process.

“Ah, ah. Eyes front. Now the gun. Drop it. Kick it into the water.”

Faye complied, hoping he wouldn’t search her. She had another in her boot under the hem of her pants.

“Be very still. I’d hate to shoot you by accident. Such a pretty face. Even under all that grime.” The voice moved forwards. Faye heard heavy boots, the swing of a light pack, possibly a rifle as well. Hands patted her down after making her interlock them behind her head. Not the boot, not the boot… fuck.

“Sneaky,” the voice crooned, slipping the gun from the ankle holster.

“Glass houses,” Faye said shortly, too pissed off to keep quiet.

“Ah, well. A few broken panes can be fixed quite easily. Now sit please.” He pressed the gun into Faye’s ribs, wanting her to move to the wall.

A distance away, Fane was continuing to edge his way across the ledges and platforms his boots hooking into cracks, the muscles in his arms straining with the effort of lifting and maneuvering his body-weight round and up. Unfortunately, one of the ledges he’d taken a running jump at crumbled away into nothingness under the grip of his fingers and the entire unstable platform gave way crashing down into the water taking Fane toppling with it. The crashing of rocks bounced and echoed off the walls of the chamber as Fane crashed hard into a wooden trap-door that seemed to be holding back spewing water which from the downpour outside was spewing heavily.

The noise of the collapsing column and platform rumbled around the cavern, surprised and momentarily distracted Carrington’s gun wavered just a fraction as his gaze swept around in search of what had made the noise.“The hell--” he uttered in slight disbelief when he noticed yet another lone figure here also. “Now, looks like we have ourselves a party crasher here.”

Rolling over he groaned holding his ribs and trying to regain air before he climbed back to his feet wincing as he assessed the situation at hand. There was no way to get up to the central dais from this level. No way unless… An idea came to him, and Fane unhooked a crow-bar attached to his pack. Lodging this firmly in behind the old wood, but the echo of a gunshot caused him to flinch and glance over his shoulder. His eyes zeroing in on the pair in a different section of chamber “fuck--” he cursed himself starting to put his weight into leveraging the leaky circular port with his full weight behind it, the planks creaked and groaned but didn’t give way just yet though more water started spitting through a few more gaps “didn’t realise we were scheduled in for a threesome today. I would’ve dressed nicer if I’d have known.” He glanced back at the pair knowing he didn’t have much time before he was very possibly riddled with bullets.

At the same time, Carrington eyed the man with a neutral gaze levelling the gun in his direction and cocking back the hammer once more. Momentarily distracted in the aim of taking out whatever other competition there might be.

That is, before the panels Fane was plying gave way in a massive rush of water that flooded the cavern starting to raise the levels of the pools below at a rather alarming rate. But also enough, so that Fane, crowbar in hand could dive in and vanish under the surging water as it elevated to the level he was attempting to reach prior and all Fane had to do was float the buoyancy of his bag helping to drag him up with the rising water until he fished himself out onto an alcove platform higher up the chamber.

The gunshot so close to her ear as she didn’t move quite fast enough for the asshole that had followed her had her head ringing. So the appearance of another person was just the icing on the cake. “Did someone send out a fucking memo?” she said, but didn’t move less she get the next bullet somewhere important.

But she didn’t have to wait long for an answer. Or as much of an answer as she needed. Water rushed into the cavern obscenely fast. The man holding the gun on her backpedaled, but the way they had come was already filling over. Faye didn’t waste any time. She snagged her pack and started running up the crumbling stairs. The water was right on her heels, and perhaps she should have been worried about the other man that was trying to get to the stairs behind her. But he had almost shot her, so fuck him.

Faye could swim, but she preferred not to. Running a hair’s breadth above the rising pools, she made a leap of faith, hoping the climbing ax she’d pulled from her pack would be able to hook in the crumbling section of stairs on the other side. It did. But barely. She slid down a good ten feet, but held on tight. The water rose, and she pulled the ax loose and snagged the edge above her, pulling herself up.

She barely took a moment to look around before seeing the item she’d come to claim. Stumbling towards it, she stopped at the dias, looking up above her to the open roof of the cave. How the hell was she supposed to get out. She didn’t get to think about it too long however. The third man was pulling himself up right after her. Faye didn’t have a gun, so she reached for the relic, hoping to snag it before anyone else could. A bullet embedded itself in the dias, three inches from her hand. “Leave it,” the man who’d held her at gunpoint panted as he pulled himself from the water. He had a gash over his eye, and was holding his side, nursing what was probalby a few broken or bruised ribs. He’d lost his pack and his rifle, but the gun was still absolutely present as he pointed it at Faye.

“You don’t know what you’re doing,” Faye said, raising her hands and backing away again. Apparently, this guy hadn’t seen the other man yet. At least he hadn’t pointed a gun at her. Maybe he was reasonable. She doubted it, but her options were limited.

“Oh, I know exactly what I’m doing, sweetheart,” the man continued. “My job. Now I’m going to take this little book, and my ride is coming to pick me up. We go our seperate ways, and never the twain shall meet. Either that, or I shoot you and take it anyway. Your choice.”

The water was admittedly very refreshing from the filtering humidity, but he swam with a single-minded determination towards the dais his body buoyed by the water pushing him along towards his objective. He didn’t know where the others were but what he did know was that item was his for the taking because months of hard work and graft were not going to waste today. Unfortunately, it seemed the pair he’d spotted over the other side had managed to clamber and muster their way up the ledges and broken staircase and were both making a beeline for the book.

A fact he observed as he resurfaced quietly a distance behind them, watching as the dirty-blond man pulled his pistol on the woman who had made a risky grab for the book. Commendable but stupid, though at least the gun-toting dude wasn’t focussed on his surroundings. Leaving just enough time for Fane to climb out of the water, his clothes utterly drenched and unholster his own pistol from a waterproof holster on his belt (purely for practical purposes) Fane made a habit of not killing people when he went about his missions and jobs. Still, it didn’t stop him from drawing it and clicking back the hammer the sound loud in the silence “drop the piece and kick it over to me, slowly.”

His eyes flickered to the woman debating on whether she would be an issue before they fixated back on the man taking him as the primary issue right now. “Come come, we don’t have all day,” and after a long moment of staring down the barrel the man seemed to have enough common sense to do as was asked of him and Fane slowly (keeping the gun trained on the man) crouched down and picked it up tucking it into his belt. Gesturing to Faye “pat him down would you love? Nobody wants any nasty surprises now do we?” While that was happening, Carrington looking none too pleased but maintaining his decorum mostly despite the turn of the tables Fane stepped over to the central plinth.

“Now, if any of you had happened to do any sort of research into this place. You would know there’s a final trial before you can claim the prize.” He gave the woman a slight side-eye wondering how good they really were if they didn’t know that fact. “And I don’t know about you but there’s a cabana on a beach somewhere with my name on it. I’d be loathe not to reach it.” Once sure in the knowledge that Carrington was at least under watch for now, Fane looked over at Faye before making an executive decision to unholster the weapon from where he’d tucked it and pass it over to her. “Now, why don’t you prove yourself to be more than a pretty face and stay where you are” he said to Carrington turning to look at Faye with no amount of trust but more than he had for the man “watch him, I want to know why we’ve all been sent to find whatever this is.” With that said and done, Fane moved over to the dais noting an individual circular bowl sitting on a pillar filled with earth in front of the stone manuscript itself, in front of this were three smaller cups engraved with a set of symbols. On one, what looked like a knife and a symbol for a warrior, another what looked like a symbol for grain, another for water.

Looking at the varying options, he mulled on it “to be worthy of reading this text… You had to prove yourself, pick the right one and identify your place amongst the people.” He rubbed his jaw, muttering to himself “no, there’s got to be more to it than a process of elimination. They’re too advanced for that.” And then it dawned on him, and Fane picked up the knife carving three lines into the soil, the knife replaced, next the seeds were tipped into the troughs he’d carved, soil patted over before the final cup was lifted… Water poured over the bowl.

“Life.”

For a moment, nothing happened, but then the pillar rumbled and began rotating sinking down and down until the bowl touched the ground leaving a path clear to approach the plinth. Fane stepped over the bowl, onto the platform and hooked his fingers in the stone lid of the monolith. It slid loose in a puff of dust that made him grimace before he reached in and withdrew the set of several scrolls within looking a little… perplexed though he was certain the temple dropped several degrees once he had them in hand. It was such a simple item though as he unrolled it and scanned the text his features dropped “this… isn’t what I was sent to fetch…” He frowned deeply turning the scrolls over and continuing to translate roughly before looking over at the others “were either of you told what you were collecting?”

Faye tried not to kill anyone if she could help it. Unless they were set out to get her first. She was a terrible shot anyway, unless the person was within about fifty feet. But neither of these assholes knew that. Though the second man that had shown up at least had the temerity not to point his gun at her. Seeing as how she was unarmed.

The man who’d tried to shoot her made a smart move, tossing his weapon. When she was instructed to pat him down, Faye lowered her own hands warily. She hated being told what to do like she was some amateur playing Indiana Jones, but the guy was right. Better safe than sorry. Faye moved towards the man who now held his hands interlocked behind his head. She patted him down, finding two knives strapped beneath his shirt, and a small .9mm tucked into his belt.

He looked at her as she disarmed him. “Careful there. I’d hate for it go off in your hand.”

“Pig,” Faye said, pointing Carrington’s own gun at him now. She took the one Fane offered back and tucked it away. “I didn’t read anything about a final trial,” she said to him. “My records were incomplete.”

The man only grinned at Faye’s comment and turned his eyes to where Fane was now muttering to himself. “Just a cabana?” He tutted. “I’ve got an entire island waiting for me once I get shot of all this. You could come,” he said back to Faye, who still held him at gunpoint. “I promise not to shoot you if you behave.”

“Do not piss me off, Dr. Who,” Faye said, eyes on Carrington but ears on Fane. He seemed to be working it out, so she stayed where she was, gun trained carefully on something non-vital. At the sound of shifting stone, Faye chanced a look over to see Fane moving towards another part of the dias. She frowned, but had to turn her attention back to her captive.

When Fane collected what he was after, and called out, Faye frowned too. “No,” she ventured. “Just that it was here. And it was an important manuscript. One of the first ever put down by the people that lived here. Thousands of years old.”

“Same,” Carrington said. He looked bored, and kept glancing at the sky.

Faye was about to tell him to sit down, but in the distance the muffled sound of something manmade started to make itself known. Helicopters.

“Looks like my ride’s here,” Carrington grinned. “Whatever that is, I’d hand it over,” he said to Fane. “My employer doesn’t ask nicely.”

Filtering through the manuscript he had pulled from its stone confines, Fane couldn’t help but frown what he was reading… Whatever this was, it left him with an eerie sense of foreboding. Something in his gut didn’t quite sit right, and until he could figure out why he was reluctant to pass over the artefact to some jumped up British wannabe who looked more inclined to blow the place to smithereens if it meant being dealt out a whopping paycheck.

“No details of the contents?” he clarified glancing down at the pages that he reverently turned, his eyes lifted at the thud of approaching choppers but something more pressing felt at hand. “It’s old… But from what I can tell it’s not as ancient as the city. This… from the bits I can decipher right now it’s some sort of doomsday manuscript.” His brows furrowed as he studied the text keeping a bit of distance between himself and the others “or at least… It’s part of one... I’d need more time to decipher the rest but...” Fane’s fingers tracked down some of the symbols “with the pieces combined the spirits of vengeance shall from their earthly tombs rise, righteous warriors sent forth to cleanse the earth of false prophets.”

He looked over at the woman, gauging her reaction to what he read as the sound of choppers grew noiser and wind and rain was buffeted in by the propellers. “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Fane countered, voice raising over the din of the choppers. He had a very, very bad feeling about handing it over and Fane gripped the manuscript tighter though his answer seemed to displease the Brit in the room.

Knowing he couldn’t do much until the gun was out of the picture, he waited until the choppers were practically overhead their luminescent floodlights shining through the hole in the roof. Using the distraction of their arrival to charge the woman and attempt to wrestle the gun out of her hand with a few sharp palm strikes.

Seeing this, Fane backed up a step pulling open his bag and shoving the text inside as ropes were flung down and black tactical-gear clad figures appeared at the roof of the basin hefting mean-looking assault rifles. They didn’t seem to be interested in talking however, nor about the well-being of their so-called operative instead, lifting up their guns and aiming at the trio on the platform below before pulling the triggers and the world erupted in gunfire that carved paths in the ancient stone. Fane dived out of the way and for a brief second thanked god for all the stone blocks here to provide cover as he wrestled to get his pistol out and fire off some shots at their attackers. One thug in attempting to avoid the bullets lost his footing, toppling over the edge and sailing from the sixty-foot drop and slamming into the dais before toppling into the water. His assault-rifle skidded on the wet stone, glancing off until it stopped teetering just on the edge seeming about ready to tip but not quite.

“You know how to use that thing?” he hollered across at the British guy, hoping that for the moment their former difficulties could be set aside until they avoided being shot up to high heaven.

Faye’s frown only deepened as the man read over the manuscript. She was very away he could be bluffing, but something in her gut told Faye that wasn’t the case. Not by a long shot. That this entire job had just gotten a thousand times more complicated. The appearance of the helicopters and the floodlights didn’t help. Faye was momentarily blinded, so she didn’t see the ropes, nor did she see the other man make a dash for her. He disarmed her, and Faye stumbled. She was reaching for the gun tucked into her belt when the first soldier hit the dias. It was only the crack of gunfire, and the explosion of the rock next to her face - sending pieces sharp as glass towards her - that made Faye move. An assault rifle intent on killing you wasn’t a sound you forgot.

She scrambled behind the ledge, pulling her weapon and chancing a look once there was a break in the barrage of bullets. It didn’t last long, and Faye fired off two or three shots at the men up above. She missed all three times.

Behind another bit of stone, Carrington was frowning fit to kill. The fucking double-crossing bastards. He should’ve known. Something like this… he should’ve known they were never going to let him leave the temple alive. It wasn’t the first time he’d been stabbed in the back, and he was certain it wouldn’t be the last. What he was certain of was that he wasn’t dying in some moldering South American tomb with a woman and a glorified librarian.

The assault rifle slid into range, and Carrington had it in his hand even as Fane was still speaking. He checked the magazine - half full - checked to make sure the rifle hadn’t jammed itself on impact (so it didn’t blow up in his face), and when he was satisfied, he turned and fired off several three round bursts. Three more men fell to the dias and didn’t move. He glanced over at Fane, tipping an eyebrow. “How about a way out? Since I’m doing the lion’s share.” He fired another round of bullets at the men still rappelling down into the tomb. Three of the four fell limp in their harnesses.

“We need to go!” Faye called out over the chaos. “Water’s the only way!” When Fane had flooded the room, the rising pools had all coalesced into one, and after a bit had started drifting in one direction. Faye had heard the rush of water as it poured over the edge of the mountain, and she remembered a small lake on her way up. Perhaps that was where the water poured out. If not… well, they were dead if they stayed here.

Bullets ricocheted off the walls and floors. The statues fanning the deadly spray of lead around the tomb and more than once Fane had to dive for cover. More sparks flew and broken shards from ornate murals decorating the cistern-like arches above showered down on the trio. This hadn’t been how he’d planned on today going at all. Typical really. Flashlights attached to their assailants guns swung this way and that between the flare of gun muzzles firing off their rounds without a care beyond eliminating their targets below. Once the other man secured the gun and started taking their attackers down in short, controlled bursts of fire Fane set about scrambling around to cover so he could try to figure out what it was they would need to do to get out of here.

As bodies dropped, Fane took the opportunity to seize one man’s arm and drag him into cover looting his body for his rifle and the bandolier strapped with ammunition should they need it outside. Fixing this over his chest he slung the rifle over his shoulder when the woman called out a blatantly obvious fact. Of course they needed to go. But-- her next point wasn’t actually half bad.

His eyes turned to the lake he’d all but created earlier in flooding the antechamber. It hadn’t swamped the entire place meaning it had to be funnelling out somewhere. It was then that he saw the ripple of swirling and gurgling water, highlighted by one of the several torches from above. “Over there!” pulling out his knife he scrambled over to where one of the long pieces of rope had snapped severing it and securing it about his waist. They were better off if they stuck together for the moment and he had no idea where those tunnels might end up. It was a risk, but considering they were the only ones not shooting at him one he was presently rather willing to take right now at least. “Tie on! Then we’re going to have to dive… It’s the only other way out of here.”

The woman was being gloriously unhelpful in stating the bloody obvious. The man was at least upping the body count. Marginally. Despite his distaste for being shot at, Carrington despised actually being shot even more. So when a bullet grazed his arm, he fell back behind the cover. A quick glance let him know it was only a graze, but it was a damn sight closer than he liked.

“What?!” he called to other man, glancing towards where he was pointing as the barrage of bullets continued. Eventually, the three of them - or the two that had actually hit something - were going to run out of ammo. Then they were well and truly fucked. A part of him wanted to ask this other person if he has lost his mind, but another part said it was the most logical solution. The water was running fast, and from his survey of the place Carrington knew wherever it went it wouldn’t take long to get there. Half a minute maybe. So against his better judgement, he shouldered his rifle, glaring daggers at the man already tying the rope around his waist, and strapped in too.

Faye, for her part, was trying not to panic. It was the water - she was a good swimmer - it was the part where they were going to be sucked under. Most likely shot out the other side into open air before she even had time to worry about holding her breath for too long, but it was still underwater.

“You coming, Annie Oakley?” Carrington called over. “Or do you plan to wipe them all out first?”

Faye glared at him, ducking down as another hail of bullets riddled the stone in front of her. She dashed over, tying herself off with the other two, her hands shaking so much she could barely get it knotted. Finally, she managed it. “Fuck off,” she said to Carrington, who only grinned at her.

“Ready when you are!” he called to Fane, and turned his attention to not dying when they ran for it and jumped.

The water was freezing, and it took Faye’s breath as they were washed away with the current. They were snagged and yanked and buffeted by each other and the water. Bullets sprayed the water all around them, and they were at the end of the pool and being pulled under so quickly that Faye barely had time to take a breath.

The world was upside down and sideways for the span of about fifteen to twenty seconds. The only sound was the rush of water and the pounding of Faye’s heart. Then there was light and air and falling, falling… falling…

The next thing Faye knew she was hacking up a lung on the banks of the lake below the mountain.

Carrington lay nearby, also coughing up his lungs, bleeding from a gash in his forehead. He blinked water and blood out of his eyes. “Anybody dead?” he coughed.

Up above the mountain, the choppers turned and headed towards them, searchlight moving through the trees.

With the signal for the go ahead, Fane took one last large lungful of air and dove with the others into the water kicking his legs to propel him through the water and dragging his arms round and back until the current caught them. And then they were dragged down in the suction of the rushing water, his back jarred against something along the way not that he knew what it was and before long they were tumbling out the other side gasping for air only to have it replaced by the cold hard reality of crashing into water below. Disorientated and a little shocked from the brisk landing Fane was shocked momentarily.

Until his mind came back to him, and he started to kick his legs swimming blindly in the one direction he hoped was up feeling the tug of rope grow taut under the weight of the others. Though it slackened as the other man who had tied himself in next to Fane seemed to come about and start helping to get them up. They reached the shore without too much issue, clambering out onto the banks before collapsing coughing up what felt like lungfuls of water onto the bank the humidity and sodden state of his clothes causing them to stick to his sink uncomfortably. Not that he cared, only thinking about replacing water with air and eventually he rolled over onto his back sucking in deep lungfuls of the stuff the rifle clunking under the act.

“Not yet,” he answered the Brit but the thud of choppers and sweeping search-lights swooping round caused him to groan and prop himself up. “We-- we need to get some wheels. Get away from here otherwise we very well might be.” Far sooner than he’d like in all honesty. “Can you manage with that ‘til we patch it up?” he asked the man in reference to the gash on his head. Pushing himself up, Fane pulled out his knife to sever the rope around his waist holding it out to the Brit to do the same. “You alright?” he asked walking over to the woman while wringing out his shirt some and pushing his hair back out of his eyes, offering a hand out to her.

Faye swiped her wet hair out of her face as she heard the coughing of the two men. Her own was making her see spots, and she knew she’d swallowed some water in the process of being spat out of the temple into the lake. She glanced back up where the choppers were starting to realize they’d made a run for it. The waterfall had to be fifty feet up the side of the mountain. They were lucky to not have broken their necks in the fall.

As one man answered the other’s question, Faye managed to turn onto her back, wheezing as she said a thank you to whatever was watching out for them that they’d made it through safe. “Takes more than a… army of gun-tottin’ lackeys and a fifty foot drop to kill me,” she groaned, finally sitting up.

A glance at the other two showed that the guy who’d stolen her gun was bleeding from his head. And from where the bullet had grazed his arm. Served him right, the bastard. The other man seemed unharmed. At least on the outside. They were all soaking wet and covered in mud, but they were alive. But the guy was right. They had to get going. They’d never make it on foot. “Yeah,” Faye said, not too proud to accept a hand up.

“I’m fine,” Carrington said to Fane’s inquiry, turning to sit on his rear for a moment. He dashed the blood and water off his face with a hand, and shot Fane a look of annoyance as he handed over the knife. But he severed the rope, tossing the useless bits in the water, and handed back the weapon as he stood. A glance at the woman was all he afforded her as Fane helped her to her feet. “I’ve got transport. A mile east of here. They don’t have ground troops yet. Just airborne.” He glanced up at the approaching choppers. “But it won’t take them long to regroup and send the men that are left down here after us.”

Faye glanced up at the choppers as well. They were close enough that the trees were blowing under the wind from the blades. “Well then I suggest we stop gawkin’ and get goin’.” She gestured with a hand that Carrington (who’s name she still didn’t know) lead the way. “After you.”

The jumping of a muscle in his jaw was the only indication of his annoyance. Otherwise he kept a calm outward demeanor. “I’m not stopping if you can’t keep up,” he said to Faye. “You either,” he said to Fane before turning into the jungle and away from the searchlights and soldiers.

“Well,” Faye said to Fane as they moved to follow Carrington. “I don’t know about you, but I preferred the hit squad. They didn’t talk near as much.”

Once the rope was severed, the woman on her feet and the man saying he was fine Fane looked at them both before dumping the rope deliberately into a nearby bush discarding it certainly out of side before grabbing a large bay leaf and yanking it down from its branch. “Then we head for that,” Fane raised his arm checking the strap about his wrist which had both a watch and compass embedded in it. Glancing in that direction, he pointed to a spot where a small tributary lead off from the lake. “If we stick to the water and cover of the jungle they won’t be able to track us,” at least not by their foot-prints and not so easily by air. Anything that gave them a head-start on getting out of here at least was something worthwhile and if they didn’t know which way to look their men would be more thinly spread.

Or that was what Fane hoped all things considered. It made sense in his head.

Explaining why, along the same idea of removing the traces of their presence here he pinched the corners of the large leaf between his thumb and index until the waxed surface was folded into an approximate bowl shape. “Stay out of the mud,” Fane said while wading a little into the water and scooping up enough it could hold without spilling and dumping it over the bank where they had emerged the water washing away any evidence they had been here. Instead of exiting the same way he’d entered, Fane moved a little further up towards the small waterway he’d pointed out in the direction they were to head following after the other man not that he knew his name.

“Yeah, sure, whatever Captain Hardass” Fane muttered in response to his comment, glancing aside at the woman as she fell in step with him unable to help the snort at her commentary. “I’m not sure what’s worse, listening to him insult everyone and everything or getting riddled with bullets.” Still, tilting his chin up as he eyed the sky the rain from earlier drizzling through the branches overhead in heavy droplets “so, what should I call you love?”

To his credit, Carrington only half-glanced over his shoulder at the other two as they moved off into the brush. He didn’t comment in return, merely flattened his lips together in annoyance and trudged ahead. If they got left behind, so be it. Other than the fact the relic was in the librarian’s pack. Though he supposed it was a mute point now, all things considered. Since his employer had tried to have him murdered. And it seemed to Cari - considering the excessive use of force, particularly if they wanted to simply kill him - that the powers that be had known the other man and the woman would be there.

If he had to chance a guess, it would be that they all worked for the same person, yet none of them knew it. It was a sound plan, he thought. Send in more than one operative, promising a fortune for the prize. Three heads was better than one. A bird in the hand… all that rubbish. Still, the fact remained that there was a price on their heads now. Or a bullseye at least. It would be safer to stick together. For him at least. The man could shoot, the woman… she was nice to look at, but otherwise seemed useless. But they would have to think about those things later. Right now they needed to get out of the bloody jungle.

Behind Carrington, Faye walked along, pushing aside brush and ducking beneath branches. The sound of the choppers was fading a bit, and she hoped Fane’s efforts on the bank would pay off. Or at least by them some time. She grinned as she stepped around a fallen boulder. “I think bullets probably sting a bit more.” A quick glance at him had her huffing. “Not ‘love,’” she said. “Folks call me Remy.” She looked at him again. “What about you?”

Now that he had a little opportunity to consider everything that had happened as he trudged along the path up the small ravine pushing leaves out of the way. Fane had come to a similar conclusion as Carrington, the sheer amount of force whoever had sent Carrington was more that simply for just one person. That whoever had sent those soldiers had more than likely known that there would be more than one person at the tomb, meaning, whoever had come either was very good at intel gathering or had set this whole thing up. Kill the three of them, keep the cash and the artefact? In this business, it was hardly too unbelievable that it might happen, in fact, the odds of that happening were higher than them not. Perhaps later they would clarify that fact, for now Fane was happy to continue pressing on along the path they cut hoping this guy seemed as decent at navigating as he was easy on the eyes. Not that he was thinking about that, though it was a passing observation he’d made.

Could he be blamed for that?

Even if the guy was a dick.

“Mm, yeah I think you’re right witticisms don’t really do all that much damage” he glanced at the other man’s back as they trudged on. Though when she spoke again he looked aside, “Remy huh?” he peered at her a moment before making a small noise of acknowledgement. “Locke,” he said simply and offered her a hand. “How ‘bout you? Unless you want me to keep calling you Captain Hardass,” he spoke up to the other man walking a few paces ahead picking his way through the roots where they stuck out of the ground at random intervals.

Faye had come to the same conclusion as the others. This was a set up from the get go. Taking out one person might require more than one man, but three choppers full? No, they knew what they were doing. Still, the guy up ahead had tipped them off. He could in on it. Possibly. Though Faye doubted it, considering she was a decent reader of people, and he’d been just as surprised as her the other guy. Plus he’d taken some collateral damage. Which could also be a ploy, but those men had come in intent on taking down whoever was in there. This was no precision drop. This was someone doing whatever it took to get their hands on the artifact they’d all three apparently been sent after.

“Remy,” she confirmed with a dip of her head. Like the Cajun boogeyman, Remy Lebeau. People back home called her that for the way she just seems to know the going’s on in the Quarter and the parish. Seemed to be able to get her hands on things other people could never find. And the way she might not be a killer herself, but she knew people. A lot of people. Double crossing her wasn’t a good idea. But anyway.

She shook the man’s hand. “Nice to meet you, Locke. Sorry it wasn’t under better circumstances.” Faye turned back to the trail ahead as Locke called out to their grumpy British companion.

“Winston.” And that was all he said of what to call him. “Now be quiet. There’re other things out here besides men with guns.”

Fane had thought along a similar line to Remy (as he now knew her name supposedly), in terms of the other man in the group. He could have been bluffing, or set to double-cross them but if he was planning on doing that why waste the time helping them get out of here unless he had some sort of intention to stay together. He could have just as easily shot them both and taken the artefact for himself had he really wanted which would suggest that presently it wasn’t in his interest to do so. Even so, Fane adjusted his grip on his back hitching it just a fraction higher and tighter as they continued to walk along into the depths of the jungle.

“American hm?” it was obvious, her accent for one not to mention the general way she carried herself it was something he could only ever attribute to people from across the pond so to speak. Still, he took her hand and shook it firmly once false-introductions were sorted giving her a small smile “likewise, so-- mind telling me why you were out after that manuscript?” No point in wasting time when they could settle his hypothesis of them working for the same person to bed.

“Like Churchill?” he eyed the man ahead and couldn’t help but snort under his breath, “no wonder he talks so much.” Still as he was called to silenceFane felt the rather childish compulsion to stick his tongue out, he hated being ordered to do things. “No shit Sherlock, where did you think we were? Disneyworld? Sheesh.” Though, for a time he did lapse into silence the only sound of the rain falling through the leaves overhead and noises of things alive deep in the dense growth around them being their company as they walked on and on. Until, it seemed in Fane’s opinion that they started to slow only then did he speak up “are we near?”

“Cajun,” Faye corrected, her accent betraying her Louisiana heritage. So she was very obviously American. She fell in step a bit in front of him and a few paces behind the man calling himself Winston. ”Got a call about a job from my usual go between guy. Hadn’t had one in a few months, so funds were runnin’ thin. I’ve been to South America before. If you can get past the malaria and the heat, it’s not bad.” She ducked under a low-hanging branch. “Job was for a company that calls itself Monarch. At least that’s the front. ‘Rare Historical Artifact Requisition.’” She made air quotes. “Aztec manuscript. Or at least something stored in one of their temples. Sounded easy enough. As you can see…” It wasn’t.

Up ahead, ‘Winston,’ who’s real name was Carrington Bishop - ex-special forces - glanced back over his shoulder at the two of them. Bloody loudmouths, the pair. He didn’t give a response to the man’s question, or his childish taunt. Instead, he held up a hand, signaling them to be still. He gave a nod, however, that they were close. But they should still be cautious.

After a quick survey of the area, Winston determined it to be safe and started to uncover the Land Rover from its hiding place. They were in soon enough, and covered their tracks as best they could before heading towards some form of civilization. In the far distance, the choppers were still sweeping the shoreline, but found no sign that anyone or anything alive had crawled out of the mountain lake anytime recently.

The correction earned a slight dip of his head in acknowledgement along with a slightly more sheepish smile. “I’ve never been one for accents,” he admitted honestly. Could speak a language for days but couldn’t generally place people by the native accents very well, at least, certainly not Americans. Still, her explanation of her contract caused him to mull over the details as they walked. “No, not too bad,” he agreed as they walked on through the tracks trodden by Winston. “Might have to do some digging, how much were they offering if you don’t mind me asking?” Fane wasn’t speaking overly loudly, considering she was just a step or so ahead of him it didn’t particularly warrant raising his voice.

Fane wasn’t typically one to let his mouth get the better of him, but considering an easy job had now turned into a man hunt and the possibility of his life being on the line? Well, he wasn’t in a very content mood to be dealing with people and their attempts to impose authority on a situation. Even so, nothing more was said to Winston and it was better off that way. He had the transport, Fane didn’t particularly fancy having to hike it on foot and once the signal was given to stop he did so waiting until the man did his checks and the vehicle uncovered. Breathing a quiet sigh of relief he swung the rifle off his shoulder and his pack before moving to take the shotgun seat. Once they were all in, Winston climbing behind the steering wheel Fane glanced down noticing a leech on his arm. With a grimace he sought out his knife scooping it under the smaller sucker and then the larger one before flicking the little bloodsucker off into the bushes.

The more distance they could put between them and the ruins the better, once they shifted from bumpy jungle tracks that more than once threatened to put his head through the roof of the car and onto smoother roads Fane let out a shallow breath. Reaching for the radio he tuned it into the local news stations where latin songs interspersed news updates read in rapid Portuguese. He wasn’t sure if the others spoke the language or not but he listened out for any news regarding manhunts and the like, after an hour during which Winston had his foot firmly to the ground propelling them along winding and equally (if not more) perilous traffic overtaking on both sides of the road. Fane sat back, feeling a little more relaxed now “well, whoever’s after us haven’t informed the authorities at least… Otherwise they would’ve released a news broadcast by now for the public to be on the look out--” Fane said after perhaps the third news-interval they had reached on the radio. “That’s something at least.” He glanced aside at Winston who merely grunted in acknowledgement, “I say we go for another few hours,” his clothes were still damp and the car was starting to smell explaining why he’d cranked down a window.

Faye had no qualms climbing into the back of the vehicle. She tossed her sodden pack into the floorboard and leaned back with a weary groan. “Fuck all this walking bullshit. Drive on, Jeeves,” she said, flicking her hand at Carrington. He ignored her and put the vehicle into gear. Once they were out on the road and meeting regular traffic, Faye unlaced her boots as she listened idly to the radio as Locke twisted the dials. Her feet were waterlogged to high heaven, and she rolled down the window and squeezed out her socks before tying them together and looping them through the passenger handle at her head. They would dry a bit that way. Her boots she turned upside down in the floorboard, and after settling back she stuck her feet through the middle of the front seats, wiggling her toes as she listened to what Locke had to say.

“You speak the language I’m guessing?” she asked. Faye knew enough to get by. And to not get killed. She could read it better than speak it. She glanced between the two men, sighing a bit as Winston merely grunted. “Don’t talk his ear off now,” she commented. Sitting back, figuring this far out they were in pretty good shape as far as being safe for the moment, Faye closed her eyes. “Wake me up when we get wherever the hell we’re goin’.”

Carrington merely glanced in the rearview at her, and then over at Fane. What bloody luck he’d get stuck with these two. At least the bloke seemed to have some usefulness. The woman… that was yet to be seen. At least neither of them seemed like they wanted to kill him. That was always a plus. They drove on, and he remained mostly silent through the traffic and the small town and villages here and there.

“I’m a polyglot,” Fane said by way of explanation to his comprehension of the radio station “eighteen languages and bits and pieces of several others,” it was more a fact than bragging. But it was a useful tool to have all things considered in their line of work. Communication could sometimes be the difference between life and death and it had gotten him out of most situations well enough that he was still here today. So he did his best to learn what he could. Remy managed to get some shut-eye, but the two men up front otherwise sat in silence Fane sitting staring out the window at the scenery shooting pass as they drove on. He’d asked a couple of questions, but it seemed like Winston wasn’t going to answer anything he had to ask.

Typical really.

So, it was only the radio for company and though Fane shut his eyes sleep seemed unwilling to come. Even when they arrived he merely glanced at Remy over his shoulder, slightly envious of how easy it seemed for her to pass out.

#explorer au #ex scene