sam, marry that girl.

Wicked fic: hoofbeats, heartbeats

metamorphagi — Sat, 02 Aug 2025 02:35:50 GMT

Story Title: hoofbeats, heartbeats
Fandom(s): Wicked (movie)
Rating: PG
Word Count: 6,070
Summary: Misunderstandings are a bitch. Or: 6,000 words of Elphaba realizing Fiyero and Feldspur were not, in fact, laughing at her that night in the forest.
Author's Notes: Canon divergence AU where the Ozdust doesn’t happen, so the status quo is still status quo-ing.

Elphaba Thropp prides herself on not letting things get to her. At least, not showing that they do. She hasn’t had a choice. It’s either that or drown in wave after wave of vitriol, laughter, condescension, and, most maddening of all, pity. She wouldn’t have survived this long if she weren’t able to shrug it off. Raise her spikes and shield herself.

But every now and then, she’s too slow in getting those spikes up and the words pierce her right in her exposed underbelly. One hundred and eighty-four days she’d lasted at Shiz without buckling; something was bound to give. Professor Lenx is no Dr. Dillamond, barely willing to tell the class to calm down, let alone soothe the sting with kindness afterwards.

She’d managed to maintain a façade of stoicism until dismissal, after which she’d promptly taken to the woods. The woods would not judge her. Neither animal nor Animal would spit the things her classmates had. Here, she could disappear. Blend into the foliage, as a certain egotistical prince had put it once.

She doesn’t know how long she walks, only that by the time she stumbles over a root system and has to steady herself against a tree, the sky is a deep twilight and hot tears are running down her cheeks.

She sits down on a nearby stump. Easier to break down while not face-planting into the dirt that way.

Get it together, Elphaba. You’ve heard worse.

And she has. There’s no reason today’s diatribe should affect her so; the dam had simply finally broken. It’s harder to escape at Shiz than it was at home in Munchkinland. At least there, for as much as Father reviled her, she still had the benefit of the Thropp name and knew the repeat tormenters well. Here, the name carries far less weight and the gauntlet she has to endure from people she hasn’t even met is endless. She doesn’t get a reprieve in her own room, either, albeit Galinda’s passive-aggressiveness has faded into white noise by now.

She does her best to suck in a breath through wet hiccups. Pressure builds inside her head, and angrily she tears out the elastic tying up her tightly bound hair. That helps, some, strands falling around her face in a curtain.

Eventually, aided by the faint, rhythmic sounds of nature around her, her sobs subside. However, that also means darkness has well and truly settled over Gillikin Country, and although she’s good with directions, she hadn’t been very focused on where she was going. She just wanted to get out, and she’d brought no lamp by which to light the way.

The moon, at least, is full, which might be enough to find the main road that she can follow.

It’s as she’s dusting herself off and doing her best to get her bearings that she hears in the distance her name being shouted and approaching hoofbeats. Normally, she might be wary of who in Oz’s name would be traveling through a forest on horseback this late — except, in this case, she can easily guess the traveler’s identity. Indeed, a moment later the moonlight glints off familiar flaxen hair.

Of all people. Of all times. How had he even found her?

Setting her shoulders, she regards Prince Fiyero with an imperious, “Can’t you get a better hobby than trying to run me over? That’s twice now.”

He smoothly dismounts, unruffled by her tone. “Actually, I quite enjoy this one.”

Elphaba crosses her arms protectively over her chest. Judging by her itchy, swollen eyes and the pull on her cheeks from dried tear tracks, she suspects the evidence of her breakdown is on full display. Not that there’s anything to be done about it now. To his credit, Fiyero doesn’t comment.

“Why are you here?” she asks tiredly. “To mock me?”

“Mock you?” He sounds genuinely surprised. “I was looking for you. You weren’t in the library.”

He would know, she supposes. He’s always hanging around being a layabout when she’s trying to read or do homework. Whether he’s already there or arrives later, his presence is inevitable. He doesn’t ever do any studying of his own, of course. When he does manage to locate a book, he rarely turns any of its pages, merely props up his feet on the polished wooden tables and plays coquet with the gaggles of students vying for his attention. Over two months he’s been here and everyone still acts like he’s a celebrity instead of their peer. Idiots.

Granted, she does appreciate the occasions Fiyero slinks through sections he has no business being in. It usually means she’s soon approached by the aforementioned gaggles asking if she’s seen him. She feasts on petty delight at their disappointment when she claims she hasn’t. Why exactly he slinks, she hasn’t asked. He thrives on attention; surely he’s not hiding from them. But whatever his motives, it’s none of her concern, even if sometimes she’s curious.

Never more so than the days he thanks her once everyone’s given up. Despite telling him she’d done it for the entertainment, not for him, he always sounds so earnest and regards her for long enough to be uncomfortable. Like he’s waiting for her to say something else. Then, when she doesn’t, he leaves without clarifying and she stares after him unable to help wondering what it is exactly that he’s expecting.

In any event, it’s annoying. There has to be somewhere else he could go to while away the hours.

She tunes back into the present conversation as Fiyero explains, “Galinda said you never came back after Professor Lenx’s class, so —”

“— you decided to costume yourself as some knight in shining armor?”

“No, I’m afraid I didn’t bring any armor, shiny or otherwise.”

“Witty.”

“I’m just here to offer you a ride, Elphaba,” Fiyero sighs. His voice has dropped slightly, losing its usual silver-tongued affectation the way it had upon their first meeting. His real voice. She hasn’t decided whether to interpret it as a compliment or insult that he doesn’t keep it up around her.

“It’ll take you hours on foot and this forest is a maze,” he adds. “I’d probably have gotten lost myself if it weren’t for Feldspur.”

She considers seizing on that statement, snarking about how he must have failed his princely lessons in addition to his academic ones, or bristle at him forcing his Horse to do all the work, or any number of things. But the events of the day have drained her, and if she’s being honest, the latter at least is unfair. She’s seen firsthand how much fondness there is between him and his steed. Fiyero wouldn’t have ridden Feldspur out here if the Horse hadn’t agreed.

That doesn’t mean she’s inclined to accept charity.

“I can make my own way. I always do.”

“Yes, but you don’t have to.” Fiyero cautiously steps towards her, as though anticipating her magic will blast him into a tree. “I know you think the worst of me. Message received. I want to help, that’s all.”

She wishes there weren’t so many shadows so she could better read his expression. Admittedly he at least sounds sincere, and, well, now that he’s mentioned it, walking home by herself in the dark with only a vague sense of which way to go sounds much less appealing than what he’s offering.

Presumptuously, he picks up her bag from the ground and hoists it over his shoulder. She wants to object on principle alone, but he turns away before she can and calls out for Feldspur. The Horse leisurely traipses over, masticating clumps of vegetation.

Squeamish at the idea of riding an Animal, Elphaba asks, “Are you sure it’s okay if I —?”

“Of course, Miss Elphaba,” Feldspur says. “That’s why we came.”

We.

At that, anger and sorrow rise inside her. Anger at what Dr. Dillamond had divulged, that Animals are at a faster and faster rate losing their ability to speak. Sorrow at the prospect that the blue-hued Horse in front of her could one day follow suit. What, she wonders, would Fiyero’s reaction be if his friend were to neigh and nicker instead of chatter and chortle? If no longer could Feldspur consent to being ridden? Would he do something about it? He’s a prince, maybe he could do something about it. Maybe —

“Elphaba?”

She is yanked from her thoughts to find Fiyero bent at the knee with his fingers clasped together, clearly waiting for her to move. Feigning confidence, she places her boot into his foothold and lets herself be lifted onto the Horse. Sitting directly on Feldspur’s back with nowhere to secure her feet is disconcerting — she eyes Fiyero’s well-worn, well-made saddle with envy — but she’ll survive.

As fluid as any dance step, Fiyero mounts up like he’d been born there and commands, “Hold on to me.”

She obeys without argument, just this once, hyperaware that Fiyero is all that stands between her and a cracked skull. As she loops her arms around his waist, she notes with mild interest that Feldspur’s tack appears to be largely decorative; there’s no bit in the bridle and the reins remain knotted to the pommel, unused. Apparently, Feldspur has as much of an affinity for pomp and vanity as his prince.

An embarrassing yelp is pulled from her lips as the Horse lurches into motion. Jostling every which way from the bouncing trot, Elphaba feels as though any second she’s going to tumble unceremoniously to the ground. Actually get trampled under Feldspur’s heavy hooves instead of almost getting trampled. How is Fiyero so calm? What would possess him to choose to ride all the way from Winkie Country to Shiz? How does anyone enjoy this? She can’t wrap her mind around it. They’ve barely even gotten started and already she wants off.

Fiyero grunts as she constricts him like a startled serpent. “Don’t laugh,” she warns.

Slightly strained, he replies, “I’m not laughing. You’re squeezing the life out of me.”

Well, how could she not, with Feldspur thundering across the forest floor, his powerful hindquarters rippling beneath her, branches bending perilously close around them? She stiffens a little as Fiyero’s hands cover hers and she glances up to see him twist around in the saddle. He seems infuriatingly at ease. “I won’t let you fall, Elphaba. I promise.”

Even with her long-practiced skepticism, something in the steady tone of his voice and relaxed posture makes her do as he says. Tentatively, she leans back, loosens her grip by a fraction — and, as promised, does not fall. On the contrary, as Feldspur’s gait lengthens into a methodical canter, she begins to gain some stability. Satisfied, Fiyero turns frontward.

“Sorry.” The word sticks in her mouth. “I don’t ride much.”

“I figured. Richest family in Munchkinland, I bet you were chauffeured everywhere you needed to go.”

“Oh, like you’re one to talk, Your Highness.”

Fiyero groans. “Don’t call me that.”

“I was being sarcastic.”

“Even so.”

“Why?”

He goes silent for a while. Feldspur’s strides, muted by the pine needles and damp earth below, are all that break through. She’s nearly sorted out an acceptable position to sit in when finally, Fiyero answers, “Not you.”

“What do you mean not me?”

“I don’t want — just, don’t.”

She stares at the back of his head, bewildered. Sarcastic usage or not, he should be puffing out his chest in self-importance. He preens like a peacock whenever someone calls him by his title; what’s special about her, specifically?

Her question goes unasked as she realizes he’s still holding onto her. Unnecessarily so. She freezes as he starts to lightly, hesitantly, brush the inside of her wrists, the motion too deliberate to be an accident, and his thumbs come to rest on her pulse points. He turns almost enough to meet her eyes over his shoulder but stops just short, like he’d forgotten whatever he planned to say. Beneath her fingers splayed across his hard abdomen, she feels his muscles shift with each hoofbeat to remain centered in the saddle. To test that very discipline, she experimentally digs the tips of her nails into his sides. Though a sharp exhalation escapes him — his straight-backed position briefly wavers — he does nothing to relieve the pressure. His shirt catches on the sharp points of her nails as she drags them downwards; yet, if anything, he tightens his grip on her.

Interesting.

She doesn’t know what to make of it. All she does know is that a small — very small, insignificant really, hardly worth mentioning — flutter materializes low in her belly, growing larger and larger the longer she stays flush against him. She swallows uneasily.

I want to help.

I was looking for you.

I won’t let you fall, Elphaba. I promise.

Hastily, she retracts her claws, pulls out of Fiyero’s grasp, and the diaphanous flutter is stamped out. She chooses not to acknowledge the way he stiffens at the absence of her touch.

This is stupid. She’s being stupid. Her compromised emotional state and anxiety over the riding situation is sending her imagination down a wild path, which is not acceptable. It doesn’t matter why he cares what she calls him, so it’s not a battle worth fighting. He can be Fiyero if he wants. Just Fiyero.

After what she estimates to be several miles, Feldspur slows to a trot then a walk, needing a respite from the weight. Fiyero dismounts gracefully; her, less so. He doesn’t look at her as they soon fall into step beside Feldspur (fair play, she can’t bring herself to look at him right now either), at which point the pair begin bickering.

“Getting lazy in your middle age, are you?” Fiyero goads.

“Keep running that mouth, young prince, and I’ll leave you here to take Miss Elphaba the rest of the way myself.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“I would.”

“Remember last time —”

“Do you remember last time?”

Elphaba fights off the smile that threatens to curve her lips at the incessant squabbling. Insouciance has been Fiyero’s raison d’être ever since they’d chanced upon each other in the forest months ago, but this is something else. The mask she’d identified long ago has slipped entirely from view, and Elphaba can’t help but be intrigued. She’s only caught glimpses beneath it before.

Eventually, he and Feldspur agree to a truce, not that Elphaba suspects it’ll last. Though she’d suppressed the smile, the kernel of jealousy at their friendship — brotherhood, really — is a tougher task. She’s had Nessa, but Father’s shadow has always cast a pall over them, much as Elphaba has striven to ignore it. And while she loves Nanny Dulcibear dearly, it’s not the same.

At the end of the day, she has no one. Not in the way Fiyero and Feldspur have each other.

To stifle her brooding, Elphaba comments, “You know each other well.”

“Too well, maybe,” Fiyero says. He pats Feldspur’s neck affectionately. “No one else has put up with me for so long.”

“Only because Their Majesties pay me a pretty penny.”

Fiyero scoffs in indignation; Feldspur answers with a chuckle.

The exchange flashes Elphaba back to Fiyero’s first day in Dr. Dillamond’s class, the cursory introduction he was asked to give. While he’d done so in his usual blasé fashion, there’d been a warm sincerity there, too. (For parts of it, that is. Much of the rest was pure bloviation.)

“Fiyero mentioned that you saved his life once when he was a child,” she says. “Drowning or something?”

Fiyero’s head snaps over to stare at her, inscrutable.

Feldspur answers in his stead, “Mm. He fell through some ice while playing on a pond and I pulled him out. A gangly little terror he was, ten years old with a set of ears he hadn’t yet grown into. Still hasn’t done that, mind.”

“Now wait a minute —”

“Burr in a hoof, that one,” Feldspur continues over Fiyero’s protest. “He’s got a knack for wriggling under your skin and staying there.”

“Don’t listen to him, Elphaba. I’m a joy to be around.”

She snorts. “Could’ve fooled me.”

Feldspur laughs, but he does so alone. A muscle in Fiyero’s jaw twitches, then he leans over to whisper something in the Horse’s ear. Feldspur nods his assent and ambles on ahead. Not far, still in plain view to lead the way — but out of earshot.

“So, answer me something,” Fiyero says quietly. “Why do you hate me so much? Because I’ve gone over the last two months in my head a thousand times and I can’t figure it out.”

Elphaba blinks. “I don’t hate you, Fiyero.”

“Don’t you?”

“Of course not.”

“But you don’t like me either.”

“Not really.”

“Why?”

Elphaba appraises him slowly. While he’s not in formal dress and his hair is tousled out of its usual perfection, even in the dim, the quality of his clothes is unmistakable: supple leather boots toed in bronze, shirt embellished with gold thread, quilted riding vest dyed the deepest of blues to match his eyes. To say nothing of Feldspur, his coat brushed until it glitters, his body draped in raiments of silk and fine-weave wool, a monogrammed medallion gleaming around his neck.

Royalty through and through, the both of them, whether Fiyero wants to be addressed as such or not.

Her gaze flicks up to his. “Forgive me if I don’t have much sympathy for pampered princes.”

“Says the daughter of a governor.” Elphaba shoots him a glare, which he ignores. “It isn’t that. You’ve been hostile since the minute we met, before you even knew who I was.”

Elphaba grits her teeth. This is not a conversation she’d ever wanted to have. Especially not now, right when her evening had, dare she think it, started to improve from the disaster it was before. She doesn’t want to relive the fleeting moment of humanity she’d felt. It’d ended the way things always do: with her the butt of a joke.

“I deserve an answer, Elphaba,” Fiyero presses.

“And I deserved to not be some kind of game to you!”

“A game? What are you talking about?”

She thinks of that butter-wouldn’t-melt smile, his surprise but not disgust at the color of her skin, the easy parrying of her rote speech. The way it’d almost seemed like …

Then the other shoe had dropped. Feldspur’s laughter, Fiyero’s shushing followed by a pathetic who-me? expression when she’d caught him in the act. The offering of a ride as though she was incapable of walking ten minutes to campus by herself. As though he hadn’t humiliated her for his own titillation.

She relays it all to him, every ounce of pent-up bitterness, fueled in no small part by tonight’s events. Professor Lenx’s class, yes, but that other thing, too. The ghost of him dances along her fingertips; the flutter rattles at the bars of its cage. It’s too much.

Instead of shame, apology, or another round of laughter, however, Fiyero’s face is a study in pure bafflement. He shakes his head like she’s being the unreasonable one. “Elphaba … it was me Feldspur was laughing at, not you.”

“And why exactly would he be laughing at you?”

“Because he found it hilarious that the girl I was trying to flirt with kept shooting me down.”

Elphaba’s breath hitches in hesitation. After what she’s witnessed of Fiyero and Feldspur’s bond, it would be thoroughly within Feldspur’s nature to snicker at his friend’s charms failing. More so than snickering at the girl picking leaves off her skirt that he’d nearly run over. It’s hard now to imagine that the Horse — or indeed Fiyero himself — would be so mean.

Her pride decides that’s a distinction without a difference. Whatever the pair’s intentions, “You flirt with everyone.”

Fiyero lets out a growl of aggravation. “There’s no winning with you, is there? You know, for someone who suffers judgment from others, you’re remarkably judgmental yourself.”

“Here’s what’s not going to happen,” she hisses, poking him in the chest for emphasis. “I’m not going to be lectured by a man whose entire lifestyle is performative.”

“Excuse me?”

“You may have everyone else under your spell, but not me. You go around claiming you don’t care about anything, when you care more than all of them combined and are one of the unhappiest people I’ve ever met. Maybe I am judgmental. But at least I’m not lying to myself.”

Stunned silence crackles in her wake. A silence she fully relishes —

— for approximately thirty seconds.

“Sounds like you’ve got me pegged,” Fiyero says leadingly.

He’s awash with smugness, far from the shock he’d been in a moment ago. It’s unnerving, and more than that it makes her realize that in her knee-jerk anger, she’d said too much. While she’d picked up on his nihilism the day he arrived at Shiz, she’d also stormed out halfway through his mission statement. No, her assessment could only have come from noticing him, watching him — and he knows it.

“You’re not hard to figure out,” Elphaba replies loftily. “We’re in most of the same classes and Galinda constantly yaps about you to her friends.”

It’s not a lie. Just not the entire truth either.

Given Fiyero’s raised eyebrow, he doesn’t believe her.

“The point is,” she continues, “I don’t trust you.”

“Why? Because of something that didn’t happen? I told you, that night wasn’t what you thought it was.”

“I don’t care. I’m playing the odds.”

Fiyero’s mouth thins, his cocky demeanor vanishing. “So that’s it? Not even the truth is going to change your mind?”

“I don’t have the luxury of trusting people. Especially not ones brought up with a silver spoon in their mouths who haven’t experienced hardship a day in their lives.”

“You’re wrong about me.”

“No. I’m not.”

At her conviction, hurt begins to creep into all the handsome angles of his face. She can’t say a small part of her doesn’t feel guilty for putting it there, but as soon as she envisions Fiyero doing what everyone else does, cackling and jeering and taunting, the guilt dissipates.

She can’t take a chance that he’s different. She just can’t.

She watches with some discomfort as Fiyero’s mask slips into place as though it’d never left. His mouth twists into an empty smile, in polar opposition to the one he’d had for the past hour. She doubts anyone at Shiz would be able to tell. They haven’t so far. They see his dimples flash and melt in the honeyed timbre of his voice and hang on every word he says.

“Come on then,” he drawls. “Feldspur gets cranky when he has to wait.”

“Fiyero —”

She doesn’t know why, but as he goes to move past her, her hand darts out to grab his. His skin is warm, palms rough with callus from years of swordplay. He looks at her through wounded eyes, but she can think of nothing else to say. What is there to say that hasn’t been said?

So, as abruptly as she’d reached for him, he pulls away and calls out, “Feldspur! Time to go.”

Elphaba hadn’t thought she could ever miss Fiyero’s presence. And yet, she does.

It’s weird to walk into class and not have a cheeky smile or wave thrown her way. It’s weird being in the library without him lounging like he owns the place. It’s weird to realize that she hadn’t avoided him in her place of refuge nearly as much as she thought she had.

Like the time Dr. Dillamond had partnered everyone off to critique the other’s assignment, and when Fiyero handed his over, she’d discovered it was … fine. Not up to her standards, but not bad either. The thesis statement was coherent, the sources were solid, and it was the required length. While she’d had to polish up the paper’s grammar, syntax, and structure, it’d taken barely a quarter of the time or effort she thought it would. She’d glanced over at him during her second pass-through and saw him actually reading hers, teeth gnawing absently on the cap of his pen. He’d had a correction for her, no less, that she was off by a day on when the Great Drought was officially declared (“Couldn’t forget that even if I tried — anniversary’s the same day as my birthday. The midwife called mine an ‘inauspicious’ birth. Which I guess it was, since I’m the only heir to the throne”). It’d been a side to him she hadn’t expected, and a coin in the jar of evidence she’d been inadvertently compiling to support her theory that there was indeed more to him than he liked to show.

Or the time she’d spotted him and Avaric Tenmeadows chatting up a storm a few tables away. She’d been ready to shut them up, but stalled at realizing it was Vinkun they were speaking. While Father had not skimped on tutors, the language of the West had not been on his list of priorities. It’d been fascinating to see Fiyero so animated. It had never occurred to her that he might feel isolated. That forging a connection with someone who shared his culture might be comforting. The intent to chastise them had died in her throat, and she’d resumed her homework. More than once she’s wondered whether Avaric thinks she has an unspoken vendetta against him, for she does her best to pivot whenever the two are conversating. Something about the way the molten syllables drip off Fiyero’s tongue makes it hard to focus, which altogether defeats the purpose of being in the library.

Or the time she’d been searching for an Alchemy textbook and almost had the living daylights scared out of her, for there he was on the ground, leaning against one stack of books with his feet braced against the opposite stack, blankly contemplating the engraved ceiling. It’d been the first time she’d seen him hiding — there really was no other word for it — and she’d kicked his knee to get him to move. Instead of doing so, he’d yanked her down with a hissed, Quiet! He hadn’t elaborated and she hadn’t cared enough to pry, just reached past him to fetch the book she needed and went about her day. Incidentally, that’d also been the first time one of his admirers had asked her if she’d seen him, and she had the privilege of lying. When next she ran across him similarly out of sight, she knelt down of her own volition, he asked her which book she needed, and once more they parted ways. No harm, no foul.

There’s a Fiyero-shaped void in her life is what there is, and she doesn’t like it.

Others notice, too: For a full week, she has to listen to Galinda lament that he’s grown distant.

“Did something happen?” Galinda demands one evening in their room after, apparently, her toss-toss-ing yet again fails to work on him. “That night in the woods. He hasn’t been the same since.”

With a noncommittal shrug to belie her quickening heartbeat, Elphaba replies, “You should ask him, not me.”

“I did! He said it was nothing. But it’s not nothing if he’s thinking. It worries me.”

“Oh, no, how dare someone think.”

Sounding to Elphaba one complaint away from stomping her foot, Galinda repeats, “You’re sure nothing happened?”

Elphaba settles for an exasperated glare rather than an answer. Mainly because she doesn’t know how to articulate one. Galinda wouldn’t listen to any of the context, she would shut her ears off after learning Elphaba is technically the cause of her precious prince’s bad attitude.

Galinda’s sculpted brows pinch together. “Okay, so if it’s not that … something with his family?”

She gestures at Elphaba’s desk where the daily Ozian Post sits, a publication Elphaba’s positive Galinda has never once flipped through. “Snow is forecast for the Vinkus Mountains,” she reports dryly. “And Chieftain Marilott and Baxiana are set to hold an audience next week about a water rights dispute between some of the villagers. Maybe Fiyero is super stressed about that.”

Galinda throws up her hands in exasperation and flounces down on her bed. “I don’t understand.”

Elphaba has no interest in consoling her roommate, nor put up with any more dramatics. So, summarily she stuffs her books and notebook into her bag and announces, “I’m gonna finish up in the library.”

Galinda’s response is muffled in her comforter. Assuming it requires no acknowledgement, Elphaba strides out of the room — but not to the library. Tonight, her target is the other end of campus.

However, having not thought much about her plan besides the direction in which she’d be walking, it isn’t until she’s approaching the West Dormitory that it occurs to her this probably isn’t one of her brightest ideas.

But she’s here now, isn’t she? Elphaba is many things, but lacking courage is not one of them. Taking a self-assuring breath, she climbs the stairs to the top floor and knocks on a door at the end. There’s only one otherwise empty private suite on this side, the mirror of hers and Galinda’s, and she can’t imagine they’d stick a prince in any old dorm room.

Her already-slapdash strategy goes awry immediately: It is not Fiyero who opens the door but Avaric, clearly as surprised as she is.

“Uh … hello, Elphaba,” he says. The tattoos of blue diamonds that curve around his left eye and trail down the side of his neck are as striking as ever against his ochre skin.

“Hi, Avaric. Is Fiyero around? I need to talk to him.”

Avaric raises his eyebrows but complies, “Yeah. One sec.”

He retreats into the room. She can’t hear what he says within, but she does hear the distinct sound of objects crashing to the floor and, “She’s what?”

A moment later, Fiyero takes Avaric’s place at the door. Given the hour, he’s dressed simply, a loose linen shirt over a pair of Shiz-branded pants. The shirt he’d only bothered to button halfway, leaving her to try very hard not to notice the dark hair spread across his chest.

(It doesn’t work.)

“Hi,” is all the greeting Fiyero affords her, his hands jammed in his pockets.

She gestures vaguely at where Avaric had disappeared. “I figured you’d have this place to yourself.”

“Why, because I’m too self-absorbed to have a roommate?”

“That is what you pride yourself on. Or what you tell people you pride yourself on, anyway.”

His jaw is a little too tense, his eyes a little too sharp to adequately conceal that he’s still upset. “What are you doing here, Elphaba? It’s late.”

“I know. It’s Galinda. She said you’ve been ‘moodified’ lately — her word — and won’t stop harassing me about it.”

“You’re here on Galinda’s behalf?”

“No, mine.”

“What do you want me to say? It’s true what I told her.” His voice takes on an odd edge. “Nothing happened.”

Elphaba glances behind Fiyero into his room. This is quickly becoming a conversation she doesn’t want being eavesdropped. Fiyero ushers her out into the hallway and shuts the door behind him, then crosses his arms expectantly. Through the slight sheerness of his shirt, she spots blue diamonds not dissimilar from Avaric’s snaking around both biceps. An Arjiki thing, it would seem. Curiosity piqued, she makes a note to find out the meaning of the tattoos later.

Returning to the task at hand, she asks, “Are you punishing me or something? Making Galinda worry, avoiding the library, avoiding me, is this all because I didn’t bend to your will?”

“Bend to my will? Elphaba, all I asked was for you to get over the grudge you held against me over a miscommunication.”

“Well —”

“Which you didn’t, and strangely enough, I take that kind of thing personally, especially when I’ve done nothing wrong. You should be happy I’m not darkening your doorstep anymore.”

“It’s not you specifically that I don’t trust, Fiyero. I don’t trust anyone.”

“Sounds like a lonely existence.”

“Better than laying out the welcome mat for mockery.” She bites the inside of her cheek in consideration, then, unable to resist, asks, “What does it matter what I think of you, anyway? You’ve got all the friends and admirers you could ever need.”

“You said Galinda talks about me,” Fiyero says. “What does she talk about?”

“What everyone else does,” Elphaba replies, puzzled by his change of subject. “That you’re handsome and royalty. She spent an hour yesterday fantasizing about the interior decorating of your family’s castle. I made the mistake of informing her you have two of those, although one is —”

“That’s my point,” Fiyero interrupts. “People care about my birthright, not me. Everyone except you. You don’t care about any of that. You never have.” A corner of his mouth ticks up. “And don’t pretend you haven’t paid any attention to me.”

“Knowing some Tigelaar trivia doesn’t mean I pay attention to you.”

“No, but the other stuff does.”

“What other stuff?”

Holding up one finger after another, he lists: “Everything between us in the library. Remembering what I said about Feldspur in a two-minute introduction months ago. Checking whether I had any letters to send since you were going to the post box. Asking what the Vinkun traditions are for Lurlinemas. Lending me a book you thought would help for exam prep. It did, by the way.”

“Congratulations.”

“How many people here do you think would do any of that?” She assumes the question is rhetorical. “You treat me like a person, not a thing. My own parents don’t even do that.”

And you treat me like one. You always have.

She digs her nails into her palms in an effort to quell her brain’s unhelpful commentary. “So what? It doesn’t mean anything.”

“It does to me.”

The nail-digging is woefully ineffective, for something else Fiyero had said is dragged to the forefront of her mind:

Feldspur found it hilarious that the girl I was trying to flirt with kept shooting me down.

She’d brushed him off by accusing him of flirting with everyone. Which is true — he has the entire school wrapped around his finger. But the way he’s looking at her now, the way he’d looked at her in the forest, it’s … different. He’s perfected the art of a mask, yet he lets it fall around her, over and over.

Fiyero narrows the distance between them by a half-step. “Tell me again you’ll never trust me. Say you don’t care for me, and I will walk away. But I need a reason, Elphaba.”

Nervous energy she refuses to give in to fills her veins under the intensity of Fiyero’s gaze. There would be no escaping or deflecting this time. His explanation of the night they met does, in retrospect, maybe make sense. But being told that and believing that are two separate things. Believing he’s been genuine from the beginning, that his nicety and candor have never had strings attached … if she were to accept those things as fact … she must accept the rest as fact, too.

The girl I was trying to flirt with.

I was looking for you.

I won’t let you fall.

Anyone thinking of her in that way would strike her as wildly suspicious. For someone like him — crown prince of the Arjiki, desired throughout all of Oz, charm wrapped in seduction wrapped in silk, a face armies would go to war for — to think of her in that way is inconceivable. And even if he did, somehow, a lifetime of experiencing the worst of humanity doesn’t lend itself to willful vulnerability. Whatever promises Fiyero could swear, she can’t stomach the thought of opening herself up to that kind of pain and embarrassment.

“I’m not asking for your hand in marriage here,” Fiyero says, almost amused.

“I know,” she flushes, “I just … don’t understand.”

“Which part?”

“All of it. I’m not that girl, Fiyero.”

He takes another half-step forward. “What do I need to do to convince you that you are?”

“I — nothing. You can’t.” His closeness is distracting.

“Fine. Your trust, then. Can you give me that?”

She searches for earnestness, feels the heat in his stare. Before her self-doubt can put a stop to it, she surrenders, “Yes.”

Fiyero grins, a real one, one that finally reaches his eyes. It sends an unexpected, though not unpleasant, shiver up her spine. “Well,” he says, “that’s a start.”

Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. fic: The Kid Was Fussy, Okay?

metamorphagi — Tue, 08 Oct 2024 23:44:06 GMT

Story Title: The Kid Was Fussy, Okay?
Fandom(s): Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.
Whumptober 2024 Day 7: Only for Emergencies
Rating: G
Word Count: 1,014
Summary: Daisy and Robbie are allowed to babysit one time and one time only.

Daisy and Robbie are allowed to babysit one time and one time only.

Flint usually doesn’t mind watching his baby brother, nor do the Fitz-Simmonses mind hosting playdates if they’re stateside. LMD Coulson, even, proves to be a surprisingly — or perhaps not so surprisingly — capable caregiver. Daisy by herself has watched Francisco several times without incident. Which is why Mack had only had marginal reservations about allowing her to babysit tonight so he and Elena could celebrate their anniversary. He still has trouble reading the man who’s only recently capitulated to Mack’s nicknames, so even though he’d believed Robbie wouldn’t be a threat to his son, he was still hesitant.

But Daisy’d be with him, so no harm done, right?

Wrong, apparently.

Everything seems normal when he and Elena return home in good spirits. Cisco is delighted to see his parents, yet not so delighted as to suggest he’d been plied with sugar throughout the night. Daisy and Robbie aren’t harried or eager to leave, indicating Cisco hadn’t been too much of a handful. The house doesn’t look any more of a mess than usual.

All is well until Cisco realizes his babysitters aren’t staying as Daisy and Robbie say their goodbyes and begin to head out. He squirms to be let down from Mack’s arms, which Mack obliges, and toddles over to the pair waving his hands about. Mack is at a loss; he’s never seen those gestures. They’re purposeful rather than chaotic, so clearly not just the random movements of a toddler. First he extends his hands with a giggle, then makes a whoosh sound, glancing from Daisy to Robbie then back again.

“¿Qué estás haciendo, mi amor?” Elena laughs.

Cisco’s too young to answer in full, and Daisy responds innocently, “No clue what he means.”

Too innocently.

“No, no, no, I know that tone of voice,” Mack says with suspicion. “What happened?”

Daisy and Robbie exchange a look. Not very reassuring. Robbie tries, “Nah, man, just kid stuff. You know.”

“What ‘just kid stuff’?” Elena asks, now catching on. She turns to Robbie and lets out a string of stern Spanish that’s too quick for Mack to parse. Robbie responds with another defense of himself.

“Whoosh! Whoosh!” Cisco interrupts. “Brrrrr!”

Mack crosses his arms over his chest expectantly.

“Okay, listen,” says Robbie, caving, “he wasn’t interested in any of the books or cartoons or anything. We had to get creative.”

“Creative?”

As fast as his feet will carry him, Cisco goes to his toy box and retrieves both his Nerf sword and box of blocks. He shoves them at Daisy and Robbie, then sends a smile to his parents. Mack glares at the pair of them.

“Yeah, yeah, fine,” Daisy submits.

She motions for Robbie to follow and they take a seat on Cisco’s play mat. Daisy dumps out the blocks and begins building a tower. In counter to Cisco’s excited claps, Mack scowls as Daisy releases a low-level quake that sends her tower of blocks tumbling back down. She keeps the quake going for Cisco, who tries to build his own tower. He succeeds only for a few moments before the vibrations topple it, but there are no tears in sight.

The alarming developments are not done.

Robbie requests the lights to be shut off, with which Elena complies, baffled. Then the room is suddenly alight again — from hellfire. The sword in Robbie’s hand flares into an inferno and casts everything around it in flickering oranges and yellows.

(All right, maybe it’s less of an inferno and more of a sluggish smolder, but that is not the point.)

With a different kind of whoosh, the regular lights are turned back on and the sword is not only out of Robbie’s hand but in the sink being extinguished by running water. Elena’s expression is as infuriated as Mack feels.

Seeing their faces, Daisy begins, “Listen —”

(“Again!” Cisco exclaims.)

“You started an earthquake —”

“No, he was having fun —”

“And you, you freaking — you set our house on fire —!”

“I think that’s a bit of an exagg —”

(“Again!”)

“I cannot believe —”

“They were tremors —”

“On. Fire.”

“Barely!”

The adults’ back-and-forth is halted by Cisco beginning to wail. It’s not lost on Mack as to why: the arguing, and his fun aunt and uncle no longer providing alien- and demon-fueled entertainment.

Mack twice breaths deeply in then out. Willing his blood pressure to lower, he makes himself admit that, all right, there appears to be no damage to the house from either earthquake or fire. Certainly there is no damage to Cisco; the opposite, if anything. There’s not even damage to the sword, Mack notes incredulously as he glances into the kitchen. Just as Robbie’s powers inexplicably spare his clothes, so too did they spare the Nerf.

Still, Daisy and Robbie aren’t S.H.I.E.L.D.’s two most lethal assets for no reason.

“You were supposed to be normal babysitters,” Elena scolds while Mack picks up Cisco to calm him.

“I’m sorry,” says Daisy. “We didn’t mean any harm. Are we disqualified from babysitting duty?”

Mack looks at Elena in silent conversation. Coming to a consensus, he answers, “It means you’re on probation.”

“Probation?” Daisy brightens. “I’ll take it.”

She leans over to kiss Cisco on the forehead, followed by Robbie testing the absolute limits of Mack’s patience by snapping his fingers to produce a small flame. Cisco’s sniffles are replaced by a giggle, which is the only reason Mack doesn’t immediately declare a probation violation.

“Nos vemos, pequeño,” Robbie says with a smile.

Cisco gives a pudgy wave. “Bye-bye.”

Once the pair leave and Cisco is summarily put to bed after what has apparently been an eventful evening, Elena raises an eyebrow. “Probation, huh?”

“Was that okay?” Mack asks. He’d thought they’d reached a consensus.

“Yes, okay. It isn’t like I have not used my powers to make Cisco laugh.”

It’s a fair point, and one Mack can’t say didn’t factor in. “You’re right.”

“I’m always right. And you,” she adds, pecking him on the lips, “are a big softie.”

Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. fic: Beware the Jabberwock

metamorphagi — Tue, 08 Oct 2024 23:38:26 GMT

Story Title: Beware the Jabberwock
Fandom(s): Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.
Whumptober 2024 Day 6: Regret
Rating: G
Word Count: 2,193
Summary: Created by Dark Dimension magic, the Framework is a world all its own — which means it can be portaled to like any other.

Dr. Elias Morrow dies in an industrial accident, leaving his modest estate to his two nephews, Roberto, twenty-three, and Gabriel, twelve.

At least, that’s what Robbie gleans from snooping. Though, does it really count as snooping if it’s technically your house? It’s jarring, waking up in a bed that’s his own, yet not his own. He doesn’t recognize his bedroom, nor the rest of the house. It’s nice, nicer than his actual home, that’s for sure. There are no engine parts strewn on the kitchen table or car manuals on the bookshelf.

No, that’s not entirely true. There are car manuals — but they clearly haven’t been touched in years. On the table instead are books of concepts and blueprints way beyond his understanding, which Robbie at first assumes belong to Gabe. Then he sees the framed diploma on the wall: It’s his name on there, Caltech conferring upon him a master’s cum laude in mechanical engineering.

It makes his head spin a bit, until he remembers Gabe’s voice from long ago in quite literally another world.

How come you didn’t go back and finish school? We’re doing okay now. If you went back, maybe you could be an engineer, like Tío.

“An engineer …” he mutters to himself, running his fingers down the wooden frame.

He takes in the other photos scattered around the living room. Many are the same: Mom, Dad, Uncle Eli, him at high school football practice, Gabe at a science fair. One in particular catches his eye, however, of what appears to be his graduation. Various colored tassels hang around his neck as he rests his hand on the back of Gabe’s wheelchair. It gives him pause. He’d have thought that if Robbie — this Robbie — did go back and finish school, there’d have been no accident. That his path, and Gabe’s, would’ve been set on too different a course to end up on that same stupid road. No accident, no paralysis, no Ghost Rider.

A regular accident, then? Maybe Gabe was in the car with Mom and Dad when it crashed and survived where they didn’t. Or maybe it was the same as in the real world, except Robbie’s injuries hadn’t been fatal, so he’d had no occasion to beg the universe for help? Or was it none of those things and Gabe had simply been born that way?

Five minutes he’s been in this world and he’s already frustrated. It’s disconcerting to not know even the most basic of facts about his life.

The Rider had warned him about this, that this world could be alluring. Distracting. In fact, this was the exact reason the Rider didn’t want him to go into this dimension in the first place, seeing as how he could not follow. The constructed world was nearly perfect — but it existed in a reality all its own without a hell for a demon to attach itself to. At least, the Rider was not willing to gamble his own existence by jumping into a dimension that might swallow him whole.

Robbie himself, however, mortal and moping, the Rider was reasonably sure could survive if he were careful.

Which had felt so utterly patronizing that Robbie had walked through the portal mid-warning. Besides, it wasn’t like he could just not come. He wasn’t about to let a robot armed with the Darkhold have free rein over the people he’d come to consider … well, not friends, really, but coworkers. Allies.

The crux of it all is that regardless of what the intrepid S.H.I.E.L.D. team is or isn’t, they’re people he’s honor-bound to rescue. Maybe they can do it themselves — but he’s not about to take the chance that they can’t, that they’ll be trapped in this place forever under Aida’s thumb to do with what she will. Robbie knows all too well what it is to be someone’s puppet. If he can spare others that fate, he’ll do it no matter how strange or dangerous the circumstances.

The smell of smoke hitting his nose brings him out of his ruminations. He looks down to see it seeping from beneath his fingers, the wooden picture frame beginning to char. He drops it in alarm, glass shattering upon impact with the floor.

Robbie stares at his hands. Though there’s no active flame, he can feel the power running through his veins. It’s not exactly the same as he’s used to, like drinking off-brand Coke, but it’s close enough.

He doesn’t understand. The Rider had said this world couldn’t accommodate him, and Robbie doesn’t feel him inside his head, so how …?

Robbie jumps at the sound of a phone ringing. He reaches into his pocket for his cell, and finds nothing. The ring is coming from the kitchen wall — an honest-to-god landline. No bells or whistles, not even caller ID. Tabling the power mystery for later, he picks up the handset.

“Hello?”

“Robbie! Glad I caught you. You headed into work yet?”

He doesn’t remotely recognize the voice, nor does he have the slightest clue where “work” is. “Uh, no, not yet. What do you need?”

“One of the guys called out, some family emergency, and half the DMV metro has decided to have car troubles today. Mind filling in for old times’ sake?”

“Fill in as … a mechanic?”

“You said if I ever needed a favor —”

“Yeah, that’s fine, just …”

He has no idea if it’s fine. For all he knows, wherever he works would cap him for missing a day. But that’s a bridge he’ll cross when he gets to it. Fixing up some rides would not only be a welcome return to form but give him ample opportunity to learn some more about this place.

“Can you give me that address again?” he asks.

“You serious?”

“Moved on to bigger and better things, man, what can I say?”

After some indignation, the guy on the other end does give him the address. Robbie manages to find a map of D.C. in his office and charts the route to the shop.

The Charger sitting pretty in his avatar’s garage is a sight for sore eyes. Apart from having apparently been retrofitted with seatbelts, she looks the same. Sounds and feels the same, too, as he starts her up and eases out onto the road. While using a portal for transportation has its novelty and convenience, there’s nothing quite like the rough purr of his baby’s engine.

The only thing that mildly dampens his enjoyment is the realization that if ever there were a time to obey the speed limit, it’d be now. With the Rider, having a lead foot never mattered — the power that imbued the Charger with regenerative capabilities and pyrokinesis also prevented cops from noticing her speed.

Now, he’s got no demon to fend off law enforcement, and although he doesn’t know what the penalty here is for speeding, he assumes it’s more than a fine. Which is heat he definitely doesn’t need. He’s got a mission to carry out.

The farther he drives, the more he decides speed isn’t the issue anyway. It’s the surroundings. Everything is gray and uniform, with HYDRA symbols stamped on every available surface. Electronic highway signs tell people to report their neighbors. Dilapidated neighborhoods are a dime a dozen. Even the few people that actually walk the streets look miserable. The only familiar thing about any of it is that his car gets double-takes of admiration. He wonders if his avatar had gotten special dispensation to keep it. There is very little variety in the other cars he passes.

He walks into the shop with what he hopes exudes confidence, even as he takes in with disgust all the HYDRA propaganda posters littered on the walls. Required reading, no doubt.

“Reyes!” comes a voice across the shop. Its owner Robbie recognizes in person no more than he did over the phone. With a proffered uniform, the man greets, “Appreciate the help. Got a full slate for you as soon as you get dressed.”

Robbie nods, then heads into the back room to change. He hopes he can get the lay of the land quick enough to point him in the direction of how to find the team. If HYDRA’s running the show, he doubts S.H.I.E.L.D. will be up and running out in the open, which means it’ll take precious time to figure out where they are.

“A flat tire?” Robbie blinks in bewilderment as Phone Man — whom Robbie has since learned is named Perry — tells him the reason for pulling him from an accident repair job. “That’s what you’re sending me out on a call for?”

“What, you’re too good for it?” says Perry, frazzled and perturbed. “The call came from a HYDRA number, it’s top priority.”

If Robbie never hears the word HYDRA again after all this is over, it’ll be too damn soon.

“All right, I’m going, I’m going.”

The address leads him to a deserted stretch of highway outside the city, which makes him a little apprehensive. It doesn’t seem like a normal place a HYDRA agent would be. Then again, even after several hours of being in the shop conversing with both ex-work buddies and customers alike, the biggest things he’s gathered are that this world well and truly sucks, and that HYDRA has a habit of popping up when it’s most inconvenient for its citizens.

The vehicle is easy to spot, at least, halfway onto the road’s narrow shoulder and predictably emblazoned with HYDRA’s ostentatious sigil. A young woman leans against the side, looking annoyed rather than concerned or in trouble. Maybe he can delay, ask her some questions. While it’s been a good decade since he’s had reason to charm anyone, he can give it a shot.

“Need some help, ma’am?” he asks cheerily as he approaches with a toolbox. “We got a … call …”

He stares at the woman, stunned. She stares back at him, equally so. Because it’s not just a woman, it’s Daisy. She looks different, hair past her shoulders with a drab wardrobe and distinctly less eyeliner, but it’s unmistakably her. He’d know her anywhere.

“Robbie?”

She recognizes him, too, then. Thank Christ.

Dryly, he replies, “Surprise.”

“Wait … you’re you? Real world you?”

“Yeah, I’m me. Mostly.”

“How? And what do you mean ‘mostly’?”

“Long story. Short version, I’m here to help.”

“That’s the best news I’ve heard in months,” Daisy says with a tired yet brilliant smile. “God, I can’t wait to see Aida’s ass get lit up.”

If only.

“About that … Ghost Rider’s not in the building.”

“Excuse me?”

“Part of that long story. I was able to portal to this dimension, but he couldn’t.”

Daisy grimaces. “Not gonna lie, it would’ve been useful to have that firepower.”

“Well,” Robbie says, trying not to be offended, “there is this.”

He focuses on the frenetic energy that sluices through his every cell down to the very marrow of his bones, then watches with satisfaction as a ball of fire forms in his palm.

Daisy’s eyes go wide. “Okay, hold up. You’re an Inhuman?”

“I think so.” Robbie extinguishes the fireball with a sizzle. “It’s probably the closest Aida could get to what I actually am.”

“Nice of her to activate your powers. That makes one of us.”

“You can’t quake anything here?”

“Nope. I still have the gene, but I haven’t gone through terrigenesis. Guess Aida didn’t bother making sure you hadn’t since that showdown with Eli seemed pretty final.”

As shameful as the feeling is, he can’t help but be a little happy that he’s here. It may not be a physical realm, and it may be run by the worst humanity has to offer, but he’s as close to being on Earth and his own person as he’s likely ever to be again. No fire except that which he can make himself. No brimstone or unholy screams or blood, guts, and ichor staining his hands. He tries not to think about the fact that once the team gets out of this place and Aida is dealt with, he’ll be bound once more for hell.

This world, Earth, Daisy, it’s all fleeting.

Focusing on the woman in front of him and not the after, he asks, “did you really call for a flat tire? You don’t know how to change one yourself?”

“Of course I know how to change one. There’s no spare in this thing, and the car called the closest mechanic. It was either try to get somewhere on foot or wait for a tow.”

“And your plan was what? Steal the truck?”

“Maybe. I don’t need powers to commit grand theft auto.” Daisy glances down at the hand that a few moments ago had held a fireball. “How’d you get yours anyway?”

“No idea. I think the accident Gabe and I were in still happened, but it’s not like I could Google it. Aida really went full fascist, didn’t she?”

“Absolute power, blah blah blah. So, are we gonna go or what?”

“Go? Go where?”

Daisy grins. “How’d you like to become an enemy of the state?”

Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. fic: SSDD

metamorphagi — Tue, 08 Oct 2024 23:32:24 GMT

Story Title: SSDD
Fandom(s): Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.
Whumptober 2024 Day 5: Sunburn
Rating: G
Word Count: 1,509
Summary: In which Daisy and Robbie get stuck in rural Utah.
Author’s notes: Premise is in reference to 4x05 when Daisy says, “[Getting off the plane] would put you in rural Utah. You think you're pissed off now ...”

“Don’t say it. Don’t you dare say it.”

“I wasn’t gonna say anything.”

They walk for another two minutes beneath the blazing sun.

“But you did rag on rural Utah, and now we’re —”

“— stuck in rural Utah. Yes, I’m aware of the irony, Reyes. Can’t believe you won’t just jump us somewhere.”

“I can’t. I told you, I need my chain for that, and they took it.”

“Some all-powerful demon you’ve got inside you, can’t even make a portal without a prop.”

“You’re one to talk. What do you call your gauntlets? Without those, you’d break your arms.”

“Those aren’t props, they’re … accessories. Like your jacket.”

“My jacket is for effect. Or was.”

“Aren’t you fancy.”

“Whatever. We can’t change where we are, so can we just be civil?”

“That depends on how big this stupid desert is. Do you know where exactly they dropped us?”

“No. We should probably keep walking east. Otherwise, if we’re already west of Salt Lake, we’ll hit more desert in Nevada and be even worse off than we are now.”

“Yeah, and if we’re east of Salt Lake, we’ll get a whole lot of nothing until Colorado. I know my geography, too.”

“I never said you — look, it sucks either way. I’m just saying we might have better luck going east.”

“And if you’re wrong?”

“I don’t know, I’ll make it up to you.”

“By doing what?”

“I’m sure you’ll come up with something. You’ve got plenty of time.”

“Understatement.”

As the hours pass and they come across no signs of refuge, Daisy wonders whether the Rider really needs that specific prop to portal-jump, or whether any conduit would do. Could he make a dried-up stick work? Or an animal bone? It wouldn’t carry the same panache as a spiked hellfire chain, but it’d do the job. Then again, if that were possible, the Rider would’ve done it by now. Whatever misgivings she may have with him and Robbie at the moment, she doesn’t think he’d prolong this on purpose.

The only benefit is that the sun finally has begun to dip. The temperature falls quicker than Daisy had expected, almost enough to allow her to enjoy the breathtaking sunset, and the sweat cools against her skin. She would kill for a glass of water right about now. Some trail mix wouldn’t hurt either. She’s got another two days or so for the former and three weeks for the latter, though, she’ll be fine.

She will not die in goddamn rural Utah.

The desert is as unforgiving at night as it was during the day. The goons had not been considerate enough to let her keep her jacket any more than they’d let Robbie keep his (a loss she estimates accounts for about eighty percent of his upset with their present situation), which she hadn’t minded much while trekking through high noon but would very much like now. And despite being joined by someone who can start his own fire, the place is so barren as to lack any fuel for said fire, so it’s all stupidly pointless to begin with.

“Are you sure you don’t —”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

She’d refused his offer to lie next to her for the warmth back when it was a reasonable temperature. Pride is all that keeps her from recanting now; other than being not in a desert, she can’t imagine anything better than what amounts to electric blanket.

Whatever. It’s not like she was going to get much sleep anyway on a bed of salt and sand.

Day Two is more of the same. Only worse, because there’s still no water, and she can see her skin start to redden. Under nicer circumstances, she could be leisurely working on a tan. Instead, she’ll be on her way to winning a lobster impersonation contest, with the added fun of a tank top-shaped void in the center of it.

It marginally helps for Night Two, though. The burn radiating heat from beneath her skin makes for an almost pleasant evening temperature. She does her best to focus on that part. The alternative is focusing on how sweat-sticky her jeans are, how she’s going on a third day of the same underwear, how her left boot keeps coming untied, how there is still no sign of civilization on the horizon, and how Robbie remains completely unaffected by their environment.

Other than the concern written in the furrow of his brow, that is.

Day Three blows.

At least Maveth hadn’t had the summer sun Simmons needed to contend with.

Daisy can see the blisters forming on her shoulders and is having trouble recalling a time when her mouth wasn’t dry.

The stars twinkling in the night sky are pretty, though.

She doesn’t register much of Day Four. After the second time her legs give out from under her, Robbie scoops her up and the rest of her consciousness is composed of heat and mirages.

She wakes on Day Five propped up in an unfamiliar bed with feeble rays of sunrise filtering through coarse linen curtains. On the nightstand sits a cup of water that she eagerly downs in one swallow, beside it a bowl of damp rags. She attempts to get out of bed to figure out where the hell she is, only to be speared with pain. She looks down to see her skin is worse off than she remembered: dark red, peppered with pustules, and the feeling of being stretched too tight. It stands out starkly against her unburnt torso where her shirt had been, of which she is currently bereft, along with her bra.

After that particular discovery, she finds she’s not alone in the room; her grunt of pain, it seems, had alerted Robbie, who had been sleeping on the floor. “Welcome back. How are you feeling?”

“Like shit.” Despite the water, her throat feels like sandpaper. “What happened?”

“Couple hours after you passed out, I found this place. Told the guy and his wife we were hiking and got lost. They said we can stay as long as we need.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah, you’re uh … you were in pretty bad shape. I thought you were dead when I got here. So did they.”

She does feel like death. She tries to maneuver into a more comfortable position, and gets another stab of pain for her efforts.

“Don’t move,” says Robbie unhelpfully.

She’s only been awake for a few minutes and already she’s sick of this. “Did you call anyone?”

“Yeah, shouldn’t be long now. S.H.I.E.L.D. couldn’t get here right away. Believe it or not, they don’t have a base in the middle of the desert.”

“Middle of this desert, maybe. Where are we?”

“I asked the same thing. There’s not much out here.” Robbie reaches into his back pocket, pulls out a state map, and points a few inches west of Salt Lake City.

You won, then, she thinks, heading east was best. She decides not to mention it.

“Did Simmons give a prognosis?” Daisy asks with another glance down at her blistered arms.

“No, she said she’d need to see you first,” Robbie says. He nods toward the nightstand. “Compresses and painkillers in the meantime. No touching the blisters in case they burst.”

She flicks the edge of the comforter that’s drawn up over her chest. “So was getting me half-naked your idea?”

“What? No, that — no.”

“It’s too bad you’re not sunburned too,” Daisy laughs, “it’d hide that blush of yours.”

“I swear, I was outside when Mrs. Emerson —”

“Would you relax? You’re many things, but a peeping tom isn’t one of them. I trust my virtue is safe.” Half because of the pink tinge to his cheeks and half because she really can’t do it by herself, she adds, “I could use the help, though, with the compresses.”

“With the … Simmons should be here soon, she could do it better.”

“It’s not rocket science.”

Following another moment of deliberation, he nods and helps turn her onto her stomach. She bites her tongue against the discomfort. Gentler than she expected, Robbie brushes aside her hair and nudges down the sheet, then grabs one of the damp rags and squeezes out the excess water.

“Might be a little cold,” he says, and places it over one of her shoulders. It’s cool, and the towel’s scratchy, but to her instant relief it leeches away some of the heat. Robbie pauses to ask, “Is that okay?”

“Yeah, definitely okay.”

He continues, placing another towel and then another until her back and shoulders are covered. It’s the best she’s felt in days. Once he’s done, he comments, “You know, this is gonna itch like crazy once it starts to heal.”

She’d been trying very hard not to think about that part, or about all the peeling that’s coming her way.

Instead, she focuses on how Robbie hasn’t moved from his spot beside her, and, wishing she could see his face, she smirks, “Good thing I know a guy who can rub me down.”

Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. fic: So It Goes

metamorphagi — Tue, 08 Oct 2024 22:05:56 GMT

Story Title: So It Goes
Fandom(s): Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.
Whumptober 2024 Day 4: Hallucinations
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1,788
Summary: “I’m gonna kill him.” The declaration is more growl than speech. “I’m gonna fucking kill him.”

Everything hurts. Every bone in her body, every muscle, and her head feels like it’s going to explode. Fitz had been correct about the shortage of painkillers, if not about anything else. There’s nothing in the Lighthouse except some old ibuprofen, which does little to help either her headache or the throbbing in her neck.

She hasn’t slept for two days, not since the … surgery. She hasn’t been able to. Every time she closes her eyes, she sees The Doctor, then Fitz, then Fitz who decides The Doctor had the right idea. She sees Jemma crying and Deke horrified, and the robots programmed to hold everyone at gunpoint. She hears the clatter of medical instruments and that brogue that once had been soothing. She feels screws slowly piercing her skin, a scalpel slicing her open, tweezers pulling, pulling, pulling, pulling. She feels her powers return, which gives her both a sense of normalcy (oh how she’s missed them) and utter terror (Earth, quaked apart). She manages to do what Fitz asked, put the gravitonium in the ball to close up the Fear Dimension, and she has an hourlong nosebleed from the concentration and pain.

Jemma offers to suture her. She refuses. She does it herself, or tries to. It’s not very pretty, but it’s functional. The Lighthouse has those, at least, medical supplies. Not just the bandages, but the instruments as well. Of course, Fitz wouldn’t have been dissuaded by a lack. He’d have used his pocket knife, scissors, a goddamn safety pin if he had to. All in the name of necessity.

If he’d just talked to her, explained —

Daisy swallows around a lump in her throat as what feels like never-ending tears well in her eyes. She’s sick and tired of crying, but she can’t help it. She’s exhausted and she hurts.

Jemma had wanted her to stay in the medical bay for longer, something Daisy had summarily rejected. The last thing she wanted was to be poked and prodded more, especially without anything to dull the sensations. She’d accepted a Gatorade for the electrolytes, then had drawn the line and retreated to her room.

She’s been in the dark since, even the low-wattage Lighthouse bulbs too bright. No meals either, she can’t imagine actually eating anything. Mack and Yo-Yo had attempted to visit; them, too, she’d turned away. She’s not in the mood to be felt sorry for, and she’s definitely not in the mood to have Fitz’s actions softened or explained. Granted, she doesn’t know that they would, but there’s the chance. A high chance in Mack’s case, given how close he and Fitz are. Were, she hopes yet cannot count on. Jemma’s out of the question, of course.

Thus here she’s lain, alone and aching and cold beneath the covers unable to find a comfortable position no matter what way she arranges herself.

She’s at her wits’ end. So, she tries the only other thing she can think of. While it’s not something she wants to resort to — surely it’s not mentally healthy — it’s worked before and she’s desperate. She also can’t say she hasn’t missed him, mirage or no.

She closes her eyes and lets her mind drift.

Someone raps on her door, urgent and immune to her requests then shouts to go away. She thinks at first that finally they’ve retreated, except then she shoots up in bed, startled, as the lock is broken and the door swings inward. Of all the people she expected, Robbie Reyes was not one of them, yet he stands, backlit from the hallway.

Her shock is such that she can’t manage to tell him to leave, something he takes as encouragement. He shuts the door behind him. The metal sizzles as he casually welds it to the frame, what with having ruined the lock.

Daisy’s voice is hoarse. “What are you doing here? I thought you were off killing your way through space.”

“I was. Then I sensed that something was wrong with you, the Rider jumped us here, and a very confused Agent Davis filled me in.”

“You sensed something was wrong? From another dimension?” she frowns. “How?”

The heavy chain Robbie wields with such precision releases a deafening clang as he unravels it and sets it on her cluttered table. He takes the liberty of pulling over a chair to her bedside. “I don’t know. It’s hard to explain.”

“No, I mean — you sensed me? Or the Fear Dimension?”

“What the hell is a Fear Dimension?”

“It’s … a long story.” Which leaves the other option, the one she doesn’t understand. “So, me, then.”

“That surprises you?”

“Uh, yeah, that surprises me. The Rider’s got to have better things to do than check up on me.”

“He does,” Robbie acknowledges, “but I don’t. Someone I care about is in trouble, I’m not gonna let that slide. Since I don’t have many of those and I’ve been doing what he wants, he made an exception.”

“And I’m one of those not-many?”

“Yeah, Daisy. You are.” His hand twitches as though to reach towards her, but ultimately it stays where it is. Though she can’t see his eyes very well in the feeble light that peeks through the crack beneath the door, she can feel their intensity. “Didn’t you know that?”

“You strolled through a portal with an evil book of magic, forgive me if I wasn’t holding my breath for you to come back anytime soon. Let alone for such a dumb reason.”

Robbie’s tone is quieter than usual. “A dumb reason?”

Daisy shakes her head. It’s too much. “You’re wasting your time. I bet there are plenty more scores for you to settle.”

Whatever had stopped Robbie before doesn’t now as he leans forward to touch her. His fingers are light, barely a whisper as he brushes them along her neck. Her shifting must have exposed the gauzed-over incision enough for him to notice. “I’m not wasting my time. What happened?”

Daisy shies away from him even though the wound has already started to scab, even though she knows he would never hurt her. Really, she should’ve let Jemma dress it when it was still fresh, avoid or minimize what is bound to scar, but she’d been rather pissed at the time, unable to look at even an extension of Fitz. She’s still rather pissed.

“It’s nothing. A scratch.”

“Doesn’t look like a scratch.” Noting her discomfort, he drapes her hair back over the wound, concealing it to the world, and traces her jawline instead. She shivers, and not from being cold. “Daisy, tell me.”

She doesn’t want to. She doesn’t want to relive again what she already does every minute of every hour since it happened. But he’s earnest, and he’d crossed literal dimensions to get here —

And he’s the one person who’d met her before anyone else. Jemma, Yo-Yo, Mack, they’d all met her and Fitz at the same time, if not earlier. They love him dearly. They’re conflicted.

Not Robbie.

Robbie who had to be threatened to work with S.H.I.E.L.D., yet had bought bandages for her in the middle of a blackout. Who managed to send her a sign while trapped between two planes of existence. Who trusted her wholly with his brother, the thing most precious to him. Who had traveled here through an interdimensional portal from hell because somehow, he could sense her suffering.

No, Robbie would not go to the mat for Fitz — but he would for her.

Surrendering, she recounts everything. The future, Kasius, the Fear Dimension … the surgery. All of it. Robbie absorbs her words with little reaction, which with every passing word drives more and more apprehension into her heart. Had she been wrong in her assessment? If she can’t count on him, nor those she considered her friends, her family, who can she count on? Only herself. And if she’s the only one who has a problem with any of this, maybe she’s the one in the wrong. Maybe Fitz, The Doctor, the hybrid, was right and she’s overreacting —

Daisy startles at Robbie’s voice, as much by the suddenness as the response itself.

“I’m gonna kill him.” The declaration is more growl than speech. “I’m gonna fucking kill him.”

Daisy expects to see amber irises, the Rider’s bloodthirst poking through. She finds none. Robbie’s own dark brown is all that’s there; the bloodthirst is his. It’s unnerving and comforting all at once. More than that, it’s gratifying to a degree she hadn’t expected.

Something in her chest loosens. The fact that he’s ready and willing and able to murder someone for hurting her — someone he knows … She’d have been okay with perfunctory empathy, a pat on the shoulder. Not that she would ever ask Robbie to kill anyone, but the gesture, that she will take as-is.

She squeezes his tensed arm to keep him from marching down to the cells right this instant and turning Fitz into a pile of ashes. “No. No, don’t, just — stay with me. Please.”

He obeys with reluctance, and at her gentle tugging gets up from the chair to settle beside her on the bed. Satisfied that he won’t move, she slides down to lay her head on his lap. She burrows into the supernatural warmth that seeps into her bones. Which serves only to make her emotions float even nearer to the surface, for allowing Robbie to access his powers means that perhaps even Ghost Rider, an uncompromising demon whose moral scales permit brutality, is on her side. Even he has determined Fitz’s methods to be extortionate.

The sobs come at that realization, thick, heavy sobs that dampen Robbie’s jeans and smudge what’s left of her mascara. She holds onto him like a lifeline. Because that’s what he is, her only lifeline in an ocean of loneliness and pain. He eases off his jacket and covers her with it, enveloping her in his scent. She doesn’t know when that smoke-and-leather had become familiar, let alone calming, but somewhere along the line it had.

Robbie pulls her yet tighter to him, slowly soldering her broken pieces back together, and lets her cry until at long last she falls into welcome sleep.

He isn’t there when she wakes up. No warmth, no jacket. Her pieces are still scattered. She tries to sink back into the gilded dream that had seemed so real, desperately wanting to feel Robbie’s solace for a moment more. One moment, that’s all she asks.

It’s to no avail. He’s gone. He never was here to begin with. He’s in a hell of his own far away from hers, unreachable.

The tears come again. This time, there’s no one to dry them.

Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. fic: Jailbird

metamorphagi — Tue, 08 Oct 2024 22:02:45 GMT

Story Title: Jailbird
Fandom(s): Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.
Whumptober 2024 Day 3: Wrongful Arrest
Rating: G
Word Count: 2,619
Summary: Robbie learns the hard way that the untimely death of Director Mace means the warrant out for his arrest was never cleared.

Things are going well, for the first time in he can’t even remember how long, which means they’re bound to go to shit soon.

And they do.

If he weren’t riding high from cheap, greasy diner food eaten in good company, maybe he’d have noticed being tailed, but he was, in fact, riding high. To see Daisy after over a decade of bloodshed — only a few years here, though, which he still can’t wrap his head around — to see her smile at him had felt like things were finally being set to rights. He’d dreamed of her, but that didn’t measure up to the real thing, not by a long shot.

The Rider had been angrily whispering at him for several minutes, in retrospect. Robbie’d just tuned him out. After so much time together, he’d learned to do that effectively. Usually he didn’t bother, because the Rider inevitably got his way in the end. At the diner, however, he really hadn’t wanted to have his mood dampened by being reminded that it wasn’t just him and Daisy sitting there, there was another. There is always another.

Even when the first of what became four cop cars pulled up on him as he stopped to get gas afterwards, it hadn’t triggered his radar. Unable to keep the grin off his face, he’d greeted, “How can I help you, officer?”

The response had been to take advantage of Robbie’s surprise to wrench him around, slam his head against the cruiser, slap too-tight handcuffs around his wrists, and shove him into the backseat. Not a word about why he was being detained, just trussing him up like a pig for slaughter.

Which has summarily landed him in an interrogation room at the station downtown. His wrists remain cuffed, but at least now it’s to a table where he has enough room to get the circulation going. The clock on the wall tells him he’s been in here for three hours, and not a soul has come to visit. For a good half-hour he’d tried to get some acknowledgement, to at least be told why he was being held, but all he was met with was a silent, opaque two-way mirror. He’s positive there’s someone behind it, probably multiple someones, which makes the whole thing all the more unnerving.

We can snap these cuffs easily, the Rider reminds him unnecessarily.

And be tased for doing it? No, thanks.

Most of the time, he prefers to actually talk aloud to the Rider, which makes it feel more like an actual conversation. But the last thing he needs right now is for people to think he’s mentally unstable.

These officers are nothing, they’re useless.

I agree. Shut up.

The Rider’s indignation at that is palpable. Nevertheless, he for once takes a backseat. That’s been a benefit, too, to the arrangement they’d come to long ago: Robbie gets a modicum of lenience. The Rider trusts him enough, at least, for this. For now, anyway.

After all, it’s not the first time Robbie’s been in an interrogation room.

He stares at himself in the mirror. He’s older now, much older. The last time he’d been in here, he was fresh-faced with a mop of curls falling into his eyes and dreams of doing something productive with his life. He’d refused to let the street-racing charges derail that. He’d succeeded, at the time; the judge had given him only a few days in juvie and a bunch of community service.

He can barely remember that kid anymore. It feels like a whole other life.

In fairness, it was a whole other life. That kid had been killed.

Robbie digs the heel of his palms into his eyes until he sees spots. A few hours ago, he’d thought he’d be home having dinner and a movie with Gabe, whom he’s talked to only briefly on the phone since he returned. Gabe had laughed at him in the way only a little brother could and told him to go attempt to be charming then share all the details later.

Which — shit. Unless the officers had decided to be courteous — unlikely — Gabe has no idea where he is. Robbie’s probably got a dozen missed calls and texts by now. Does Gabe think the Rider had yanked him away again without a chance to say goodbye? Or that Robbie had gone after someone rather than go home?

“Did anyone call my brother?” Robbie asks the mirror. “He’s got to be worried. Detain me, whatever, just let him know. Please.”

He gets no response. Robbie bangs his hands against the table in frustration. He earns himself nothing but an echoing clang and shot of pain for his efforts. Small tendrils of smoke begin to hiss from beneath the unforgiving metal.

Stop it, Robbie warns. I told you I would handle this.

Only trying to help.

Well, don’t.

The smoke dissipates. Robbie’s edge doesn’t. Usually he has more control over his powers, whether the Rider’s choosing to be a dick or not. Having them be used without his consent is unpleasant. If he doesn’t even have reasonable control after all this time, then …

Stop whining, boy, scoffs the Rider. Your melodrama got old fourteen years ago. All high and mighty, like you and I aren’t the same.

I don’t need you.

Don’t need me? Look at you. Pathetic. This is why it’s better when I’m in charge. I’d have us out of here in no time. Take half of this police scum with us. Earth makes you weak —

Robbie drops his head against the table with a thud.

Five hours, forty-two minutes.

Robbie counts every second.

Well, he tries to. He has to start over a few times thanks to the Rider purposefully getting him off track with his constant goading. Robbie’s patience is razor-thin, both with the Rider and L.A.’s finest. He doesn’t want to be here, he wants Gabe to know what’s going on, Robbie himself wants to know what’s going on. The metal he’s attached to has grown slightly malleable beneath the unnatural heat of his hands, and this time he can’t even blame the Rider for it.

He’s taken to staring at his thumbs. He’s broken more than his fair share of bones, has dislocated joints, been shot, stabbed, run over, hit … but he’s never intentionally injured himself. Maybe now would be the time. If he can pop one digit out of place, he’d be a step towards getting out of here without having to actually set anyone on fire. It’s stupid that he’s squeamish about it at all, after all the shit he’s done.

He grimaces anyway. With his luck, the Rider would call him an idiot and refuse to heal him, making him do it the old-fashioned way with ice and aspirin. He wishes he had a paperclip or safety pin on him to jimmy the cuffs, but he’s got nothing. The cops’ frisking had taken everything but the clothes off his back.

Right as Robbie braces himself and starts to push down on his joint, the interrogation room door swings open. He doesn’t recognize the man that walks in, but judging by the suit and haircut, he outranks the beat cops. His hands clutch a thick manila folder.

Robbie eyes him warily. “So, you gonna tell me why I’m here?”

The man laughs a hollow laugh. “I’ve sat across from a lot of criminals, Mr. Reyes. Robbers, drunk drivers, murderers, you name it. You? You’re a real piece of work. Maybe I shouldn’t be surprised it’s taken so long to pin you down. Handsome, unassuming, gainfully employed. Yep, you’re the type that gets away with things.”

Get away with things? Robbie thinks. I fucking wish.

Robbie doesn’t let his astoundment show. “You didn’t answer my question. Detective …?”

“Dumas. You’ve got some balls on you, I’ll give you that. Pretending like you don’t know why you’re here. All right, I’ll play your game. How about we start with cold-blooded murder? Fifty-three counts — that we know about. Never mind remorseless, you’re proud of them, have ’em spray-painted on a First Street wall for everyone to see. Then, of course, there are the poor bastards who were tortured before they were murdered. Property damage, we’ll throw that in, too. I’ll admit, I was stumped when you fell off the grid, but I see you’re back.”

“Sorry, who exactly do you think I am?”

The detective makes exaggerated air quotes as he replies, “ ‘Ghost Rider,’ according to the folks we spoke to on the street. Too sensational for my taste.”

“Sounds like a lot of hearsay to me. What evidence do you have?”

“You want evidence? Sure, I’ve got plenty.”

Dumas places a tablet in front of him and presses Play on some security camera footage.

Some familiar footage.

Robbie watches himself stride down the middle of a prison block, terrified prisoners scuttling back into their cells, one of which spews black smoke and hungry flames.

It would be a bald-faced lie to say he’s forgotten about that. He recalls perfectly well the fear on Niguero’s face as he revealed his other half, the feeling of Niguero’s skin bubbling off his bones and hot air boiling his lungs until his body gave out. Robbie doesn’t regret the act itself, really. Locked up at the time or not, Niguero had still been the leader of the gangbangers who put Gabe in the chair and saddled Robbie with the Rider. Guilty by association.

No reason to confess to all of that, though. “You’re tripping.”

Incredulous, Dumas gestures to Robbie’s person. “You’re wearing the exact same outfit as we speak. Jacket, jeans, Vans, driving gloves. Are you claiming that’s a coincidence?”

Confidence is key, offers the Rider.

Yeah, no shit.

“I am.”

“Fine,” says Dumas, and swipes right on the tablet. It’s not the Rider who’s in frame this time. It’s Robbie in his human form, arriving then departing from the prison with the other S.H.I.E.L.D. agents. “Wanna explain that?”

“I was freelancing with S.H.I.E.L.D.”

“Freelancing? That’s what you’re going with?”

It isn’t that Robbie’d thought this was all a joke, exactly. Though none of what Dumas has said is incorrect — minus some pertinent information about why he was at the prison in the first place — it’s hard for him to believe that after all this time they’re seriously trying to prosecute him. Not least of which because in exchange for helping S.H.I.E.L.D., Director Mace had sworn he’d clear all this up. Bury it.

This, he thinks as he studies a disdainful Dumas, is not burying.

With as level a tone as he can muster, Robbie says, “I think I’d like my phone call now.”

“A phone call? That’s funny.”

“I know my rights. I’m entitled to a lawyer.”

Dumas glares at him, then gets to his feet with a screeching of his chair. Looking like he’d like nothing more than to break Robbie’s arm, he unlocks Robbie’s handcuffs from the table, drags him up, and pushes him forward. “Come with me.”

Robbie is escorted to another section of the precinct and monitored carefully by a set of burly guards as Dumas motions for him to make the call. Robbie dials the number that’s as ingrained in his brain as his own.

Four rings pass, making him fear she won’t pick up. She hadn’t mentioned going on any kind of imminent mission, but S.H.I.E.L.D. does love to classify things. The line clicks over in the middle of the fifth ring, and Daisy answers blearily, “Hello?”

“Hey, I need a favor.”

“Robbie?”

He winces at the rough sound of her voice, and glances up at the clock. 2:27 a.m. Apologetically, he explains, “Sorry to wake you, it’s just — I’m sort of in jail.”

“You’re where?”

“Jail.”

“Yeah, no, I heard you. I meant, why?”

“There’s been some kind of mixup. They’re charging me with murder. Murders, plural.”

“You did murder people.”

“Daisy, this isn’t a joke. They’ve got CCTV footage from the prison. I thought all that was supposed to go away?”

“They’ve —?” He can hear rustling on the other end that he guesses is Daisy getting out of bed, for when she speaks again, she sounds much more alert. “Maybe — Mace probably didn’t have it high up on his priorities list since you were sucked into hell. Then he was abducted into the Framework.”

“And killed,” Robbie finishes. “So, no one cleared me?”

“I had no idea. I … never thought about it. It’s been one thing after another and you’ve been gone. But nothing like this has come across my desk.”

“Mack, then?”

“No way. He’d have told me.”

“Great. Nothing better than go-getter cops chasing a cold case.”

“Okay, so, what is it exactly you want me to do here?”

“You’re number two at S.H.I.E.L.D. You can’t tell these guys to fuck off?”

“Pretty sure that’s called abuse of power.”

“You’re really gonna hang me out to dry?”

“Do the crime, do the time.”

“Daisy.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” she replies irritably, “at a reasonable hour.”

“Wait, no, hang on —”

“Have fun.”

Click, dial tone.

Robbie pulls the receiver away from his ear and stares at it in incredulity. Did she just —?

You’d rather rot in here waiting for that girl to do something than get out? The door’s right there, kid. Two guards and a stiff are no contest.

I swear to god, one more word.

Robbie places the handset back on the hook and turns around to face an unimpressed Dumas. “My lawyer, she, um. She has to get a few things in order. Won’t be able to come by until morning.”

“Unlucky for you.”

“Nah, man, unlucky for you. Fifth Amendment’s still a thing, last I checked. You can’t force me to say anything.”

Pure contempt is the response Robbie receives.

“Holding cell,” Dumas snaps at the guards. To Robbie, he promises, “I’ll see you soon.”

“Can’t wait.”

Robbie squints in the bright daylight as he steps through the precinct doors and walks down the front steps. The lighting in his cell had been terrible. Dumas’s face, however, when Robbie collected his belongings and strode past him free as a bird had more than made up for it.

Daisy leans against the side of a S.H.I.E.L.D.-issue SUV dressed in a sharply tailored suit and oversized sunglasses, her hair drawn up into a severe bun. It’s all showmanship, he knows that much, but he isn’t complaining. About the freedom or the outfit.

“Took you long enough,” Robbie complains. “Whatever the police budget is for, it sure ain’t the holding cells.”

“Sleep well?” she asks testily. “I didn’t. Do you have any idea how much of a pain in the ass it was to make this go away? Get in.”

Robbie slides into the passenger seat as commanded. “I’m sorry my wrongful arrest was inconvenient for you.”

“Wrongful? Those charges were legit.”

“Maybe technically —”

“No, literally, and Detective Dumas wasn’t easily swayed either. Mack had to get on a damn videoconference with him.”

“I’ll call to thank him.”

Daisy briefly takes her eyes off the road to scowl at him. At least, he assumes that’s what she’s doing. Her sunglasses reveal nothing. “Oh, Mack gets a thank-you? Are you trying to make me turn this car around?”

Robbie resists the smile that tugs at his lips. He doubts she’d appreciate it. “Yeah, Mack gets a call. You’ll get more than that.”

Daisy readjusts her grip on the wheel. He’s pretty sure she’s not scowling anymore.

Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. fic: Drift, Adrift

metamorphagi — Tue, 08 Oct 2024 21:59:25 GMT

Story Title: Drift, Adrift
Fandom(s): Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.
Whumptober 2024 Day 2: Trust Issues
Rating: G
Word Count: 1,373
Summary: Robbie pays Daisy a visit after Coulson’s death.

Part of her is happy to see him. It’s been a year since last he stood in front of her. A very, very long year.

Part of her is surprised. Vanishing through a hellfire chain portal seemed like a pretty one-way ticket.

Part of her wants to slap him, because —

“You knew! You fucking knew!”

Robbie watches her neutrally as she storms down the hallway. At least he doesn’t pretend to not realize what she’s talking about, she’ll give him that. “I couldn’t tell you.”

“Oh, no, you really could have.” The agents who had been milling around wisely retreat in self-preservation.

“I was in another dimension, I couldn’t have even if I wanted to.”

“That’s bullshit, and you know it. You could’ve found a way. Like telling me before you left for that other dimension.”

“He asked me not to.”

“I don’t care if he begged you on his knees. You should have told me. Or are you going to say keeping secrets from me was part of Coulson’s deal, too?”

“No, that was my choice, just like it was Coulson’s not to tell you himself.”

“I already got mad at him, and now he’s dead. You’re not. Did you think you could just waltz right in and everything would be fine?”

“I’m not gonna apologize for making a promise to a man who prevented a magic android from framing you to subjugate humanity.” He sounds exhausted. Well, join the club. Her year hasn’t been rosy either.

“I trusted you when no one else did. I vouched for you. Then I find out about Coulson’s deal and that you knew about it? I don’t care what you promised him, that’s not something you get to keep to yourself. Not from me.”

“Not from you? My life doesn’t revolve around you, Daisy. I don’t owe you anything, I never asked you to vouch for me, and I’m not gonna be baited into a guilt trip.”

“You should feel guilty.”

“There’s a long list of things I should feel guilty for. That promise isn’t one of them. Don’t take your grief out on me.”

“I’m not taking anything out on you. I’m holding you accountable.”

“You’re projecting. Didn’t even say hello before yelling at me. It’s not me you’re really mad at.”

“I am very mad at you, actually.”

“Well, you shouldn’t be. Coulson made the deal.”

“With you.”

“With Ghost Rider.”

“Tell the son of a bitch to face me then, I’ll yell at him, too.”

“I’m sure that would be very productive.”

“You think I’m scared of him?”

“I think you’re lashing out at someone you know you can’t hurt.”

“Wanna test that theory?”

“Do you?”

The look of pity on his face is enough for her to quake him against the wall and pin him there. If he called upon Ghost Rider, he could probably break her hold, but he stays put. No flesh melting off bone, no flame pushing through his skull like exhaust. Like this is all just a game. It’s infuriating.

Robbie grimaces at the pressure against his chest and the unforgiving concrete at his back. “You treat all your friends like this?”

“Friends? We aren’t friends.” She walks up to him to put her hand directly on his chest. He lets out a quiet grunt of discomfort. “A friend would’ve helped us get back from the future.”

“I can’t time travel or —”

“A friend would’ve closed the Fear Dimension.”

“I had my own dimensions to —”

“A friend would have helped stop Graviton.”

“I didn’t know about —”

“A friend would’ve told me!” Her voice hitches on the words.

Robbie sighs. “Look, I asked Coulson if he was going to. I thought he should have.”

“Oh, don’t shift the blame.”

“I’m not shifting anything.”

“Yes, you are! You just don’t want to take responsibility.”

“I don’t have responsibility to take. Coulson’s the one who suggested the move, and Ghost Rider’s the one who accepted the deal. If you haven’t noticed, he doesn’t bend to my will. I have to bend to his.”

“You didn’t with Mace. Gabe got you to —”

A ring of amber glows to life in Robbie’s eyes. In an instant, he fights through the quake. It goes no further than that, but the reminder of his power is there all the same. Voice low, he warns, “Keep my brother out of this.”

Okay, maybe on that one thing he has a point. Weaponizing Gabe won’t get her anywhere, friend or not.

“I’m saying you could have tried harder. You know what Coulson meant to me.”

“What other option was there? What was your plan for taking down Aida?”

“Well, I —”

“There was none. The Rider jumping into someone else to surprise her was the only way.”

“It didn’t have to be Coulson.”

“Who, then? You?”

“Maybe! Fitz is good enough at hacking to do what I did, and Coulson could’ve helped Simmons.”

“It was his choice, Daisy. He chose to take on the Rider, he chose not to tell you about the deal, and he chose to ask me not to tell you either. That’s just the way it is. You getting pissed at me isn’t going to change any of it.”

Daisy grits her teeth. He’s right that she can’t change anything, but that doesn’t mean she can’t still be furious about it. “Why are you even here? After everything, why is now when you show up?”

“Because the Rider wanted to be sure Coulson held up his end of the deal. That he didn’t figure out some new way to extend his life.”

“He — you’re here to dig up his corpse?” Daisy asks in queasy disbelief. “I hope you know how to swim because you’re gonna have to wade through a whole lot of the South Pacific.”

“I know. The Rider’s satisfied.”

“Then why the hell are you here?”

“Because I’m not satisfied.”

“I told you, Coulson’s not —”

“It’s not Coulson I care about.”

Daisy goes silent, her chest heaving. She knows what he’s not saying. She’s known it from the moment he entered the hallway. He has no other reason to put up with her being argumentative, nor a reason to show up at the base at all. Except knowing about it and dealing with it are two different things, and dealing with it is not something she has the capacity to do.

“I didn’t ask you to come, and I don’t want your pity,” she snaps. “Leave me alone.”

“It’s not pity. And I’m not leaving until I get what I came for.”

“Yeah? What’s that?”

“This.”

She protests as he wraps his arms around her, wholly not goddamn interested in what he wants. Entirely aware that with the creature currently making its home inside his body nothing she does do could actually move him if he’s not inclined to let himself be moved, she nonetheless gets her elbows between them and tries to push him away.

He permits only some of it, leaving his hands on her shoulders. The weight and heat of them feels both grounding and claustrophobic. “Get off me.”

“Daisy.” Robbie moves one of his hands up to run his thumb along her cheekbone. “It’s okay.”

“What is okay? There’s nothing about this that’s okay.”

“It’s okay to break.”

There isn’t pity in his eyes. What there is, is sympathy, hurt, for her. Which only serves to piss her off — what right does he have, he of all people, to feel that when he’s the one who kept the cause of that hurt from her in the first place?

“It’s not,” she objects. Her voice is thicker than she’d like it to be. It’s unfair for him to be here, let alone trying to comfort her. It’s unfair, and he can’t — he doesn’t even know her — he hasn’t been around — he left —

Her protests are weak this time as he pulls her once more into him. She doesn’t want his touch, and yet, she’s craved it. It’s the worst possible situation for him to come back for, the worst timing, but all the same … he’s come back. Coulson’s gone but Robbie isn’t, he’s here, even if only for a brief moment.

“I miss him,” she whispers, and breaks.

Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. fic: Devil’s Backbone

metamorphagi — Tue, 08 Oct 2024 21:50:39 GMT

Story Title: Devil’s Backbone
Fandom(s): Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.
Whumptober 2024 Day 1: Race Against the Clock
Rating: G
Word Count: 1,182
Summary: Once everything settles down, then what? She has no idea how long he’ll be gone this time, or if he’ll ever come back at all. She hadn’t thought he was coming back the first time; a second time, or third, or fourth, is a gamble she’s not inclined to make.

He’s tired. The weary set of his shoulders as he steps through the portal he’d created out of thin air screams as much.

The making of it, that was clearly second nature to him. He bore the same comfort with it that she does with her own powers. She’d seen the tiny smile grace his lips as he prepared to dazzle them all; he likes having his powers. She can’t fault him for that. She knows more than most that undercurrent of delight and satisfaction at being able to manipulate matter no one else can.

The price, though, the impossibly high price, is something he pays alone. Breaking her arms and exploding her capillaries is no picnic, but she’s pretty damn sure Robbie would take that over having his body used to fight and kill enemies he didn’t even know existed.

And there’s … the other thing.

The thing Daisy’s been too busy to spare a thought for but which came barging to the forefront the minute she’d gotten the alert about Robbie’s Charger being stolen. She’s not stupid — he’s into her, no question. He’d made no effort to hide it. Which would be thorny enough if it weren’t for the fact that, psychopathic androids aside, it’s been nice having him around again. Partly because of him, and partly because he comes bearing impenetrable armor. No matter how powerful the opponent, no matter how much bad luck Daisy attracts, he always emerges unscathed. He can’t die, and even his injuries have a short shelf life. Getting backhanded by her in a junkyard or being at ground zero of a nuclear bomb while impaled by carbon spikes in a box full of quantum energy, it all pans out the same in the end: Robbie, alive and mostly well.

She’d almost forgotten what it was like to see him dismantle his enemies like they were flies to be swatted, so consumed as she’s been by killer robots and fascist video games. His unbridled confidence, the swing of his chain, the seamless transition from Robbie to the Rider and back again. Seeing him weaponize his raw power one moment, and the next speak with such quiet calm she almost had to strain to hear him.

She has no desire to know anything more about the Rider. If she had any say over things, she’d make sure he never left his cage. Robbie himself, however, that’s someone she wouldn’t mind knowing more about. Even if it does put her a little off-kilter that he’d made an unmistakeable overture, because it means that somewhere within all that time of burning through enemies in hells she can’t imagine, it had been she who took firm root in his mind.

She doesn’t know what to do with that. At the moment, she can’t do anything with it, given that the man in question has stepped into a blurred veil of magic separating Earth from whatever forsaken dimension birthed the Darkhold.

And that? Is not something she can abide.

The last few months have been too hectic to think about much more than the here and now, let alone about Robbie, but that won’t last forever. Once everything settles down — and things will settle down, if her intrepid team’s extensive experience with pissing off the government is anything to go by — then what? She has no idea how long he’ll be gone this time, or if he’ll ever come back at all. She hadn’t thought he was coming back the first time; a second time, or third, or fourth, is a gamble she’s not inclined to make.

Choosing not to sweat the probably very important details, Daisy turns from the portal to Coulson. “I have to know.”

Coulson doesn’t seem all that fazed at her declaration, nor does he have to ask what she means. To be fair, this is the least batshit crazy thing that’s happened in the past twenty-four hours. Sounding fully aware he’ll be overridden, he tries, “You have no idea what’s on the other side of that thing, Daisy.”

“No, but I know who is on the other side.”

Worry and understanding written in equal measure on his face, Coulson nods. “Your turn to jump into a portal to nowhere?”

Daisy lets out a short laugh. “Yep.”

She spares a moment more to look at him, then May, then the rest. After everything they’ve endured, she has faith they’ll be just fine. Dealing with a bunch of suits and congressional hearings should be no problem.

As the edges of the portal begin to close in on themselves, Daisy leaps through —

And falls to a hard stop on the rocky terrain with a yelp of pain. Not her most graceful entrance.

Dusting herself off with a wince, she sees Robbie whirl around to stare at her. She can’t really blame him. Probably he’s wondering whether she’s a very convincing hallucination. That sounds like the kind of thing one would find in hell.

Seeking to dispel that notion, she walks over to him, places her hands on his shoulders, and releases a low-level quake. She’s quaked him before; he knows what it feels like. Maybe a hallucination could try to emulate it, but not the real thing.

Which he concludes, too, judging by the relief — and ongoing confusion — in his expression.

“Thought I’d see what all the fuss is about,” she shrugs before he can speak. “Since you spent so much time away without even a phone call.”

In bafflement, Robbie deadpans, “Bad signal.”

“Excuses, excuses.”

Robbie stares at her some more, grip clenching and unclenching on the evil book of evil that has been a royal pain in the ass. Then, finally catching up to what’s going on, he seethes, “Have you lost your goddamn mind? What were you thinking following me here?”

“I was thinking that I’m not okay with having no idea where you are. Also, you were the one who agreed that you’ve had a terrible, painful, and lonely existence. Pro tip: If you want to reassure someone that you’ll be okay, those aren’t the words to use.”

“You said those words.”

“You agreed with them.”

“It’s too dangerous, Daisy. I’m not even me most of the time, I told you that. Ghost Rider’s the one who takes over, and for good reason. Unless you’ve got an unkillable demon inside you, too, that you haven’t told me about, it’s suicide. I can’t protect you, and the Rider won’t.”

“I can protect myself.”

“No, you can’t.”

“Watch me.”

Daisy crosses her arms over her chest, daring him to argue further, and gets in response a muttered string of Spanish that doesn’t sound very complimentary.

She ignores that and raises an expectant eyebrow. “So, which way first?”

Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. fic: Sometime Around Midnight

metamorphagi — Tue, 18 Jun 2024 01:35:03 GMT

Story Title: Sometime Around Midnight
Fandom(s): Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.
Rating: PG
Word Count: 738
Summary: They’re two of the most dangerous people in the world, but for now, all Daisy feels is safe.

She likes walking at night. There’s far too much light pollution in L.A. to see much of the stars, but the endless blanket of nothingness above is comforting all the same. The temperature cools enough to make long sleeves pleasant instead of just a statement. It’s freeing, too, to walk around without any fear or feeling like she needs to thread her fingers around her car keys with her head on a swivel. The buzzing beneath her skin from the million and one creatures and objects around her waiting to be manipulated renders any potential danger a nonissue.

“What’s a pretty little thing like you doing on her own so late?”

Daisy smiles to herself. Even without a voice to accompany it, the unique vibration of Robbie Reyes shines through the white noise of all the rest.

“I don’t think pickup lines are supposed to sound threatening,” she says, slowing her pace just a fraction so he can catch up.

“I was being — it wasn’t a pickup line.”

“A threat, then? You should know better than that by now.”

Daisy takes her hands out of her pockets and points them downward, causing the pavement to shiver just enough to be unsettling. Still a far cry from their first meeting, when she cracked the ground beneath his feet and sent him to his knees. He’s been on his knees since, too, but it’s never taken a quake to do it.

“You wake up on the wrong side of the bed or something? Retract those claws, girl.”

Daisy has a retort to that prepared as she turns down an alleyway — What would you know about my bed? perhaps — but opts for the truth instead, just this once. “Sorry. Long day.”

Robbie grabs her hand to tug her to a stop. His handsome features are marred by a frown, every trace of playfulness gone. “Daisy.”

She leans forward to smush her face into his chest, inhaling the familiar scent of old leather and motor oil. Robbie stiffens in surprise before slowly wrapping his arms around her.

She supposes she can’t blame him for being tentative; until now, things had never been like this, so serious and fraught. They work better as strangers. As enemies. Or pretending as such, anyway. This isn’t the first time he’s weakened her armor, each kernel of information he drops about himself heightening her intrigue, but this is the first time she’s let him penetrate it.

The fact that he can’t die helps. That much she’ll admit. She’s a walking cancer to everyone else, a hazard to anyone who gets too close, but not him. Hell, she’d tried to kill him in the beginning, and it didn’t take.

He’ll always be here, in one form or another.

She calms, a little, as she shuts out the rest of the world to listen to the beat of his heart and tune into the specific timbre of his vibrational frequency. Frequencies plural, really. His, steady and low, and the Rider’s, frenetic and high. The latter’s barely noticeable at the moment, however. The demon inside him doesn’t usually bother to rouse itself anymore when she’s nearby.

“Cariño,” Robbie murmurs, the endearment soft as silk on his tongue, “you’re scaring me.”

She lets out a weak snort. “Ghost Rider’s got jokes. Come on, I’m not scaring —”

“I mean it. Are you in some kind of trouble?”

She doesn’t want to tell him — she can’t tell him, not yet — but she doesn’t want to lie either. Quietly, she asks, “Just hold me?”

“Yeah,” he says, so immediately and without question that it makes her start to cry.

Once she starts she can’t seem to stop, for a certainty getting snot and makeup and tears on his beloved jacket, but he doesn’t mention it. He merely does as asked, holds her so tightly it almost hurts — almost burns, like he’s trying to keep her in one piece long enough to cauterize her wounds.

He could kill her like this, she muses, if he wanted to. Sizzle her flesh and char her bones with the touch of a finger. In turn, she could quake his organs apart, maim him so thoroughly it’d take the Rider a week to stitch him back together.

They’re two of the most dangerous people in the world, the pair of them, and maybe one day that’ll be a problem.

But for now, all Daisy feels is safe.

The Falcon and the Winter Soldier fic: Clippers

metamorphagi — Wed, 29 May 2024 11:38:43 GMT

Story Title: Clippers
Fandom(s): The Falcon and the Winter Soldier
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1,662
Summary: Dr. Raynor had recommended it, though Bucky suspects she wasn’t the only person involved. These days, there’s a whole pack of people with say-so over his life, getting their jollies by hanging freedom over his head. She said it might help with people’s perception of him if he looked less like he did as an assassin. If he looked more like the young war hero who fought Nazis.

Dr. Raynor had recommended it, though Bucky suspects she wasn’t the only person involved. These days, there’s a whole pack of people with say-so over his life, getting their jollies by hanging freedom over his head. She said it might help with people’s perception of him if he looked less like he did as an assassin. If he looked more like the young war hero who fought Nazis.

(Saving the universe counts for nothing, does it? he’d wanted to say but didn’t.)

It had irked him, the suggestion. Perhaps because it wasn’t really a suggestion. Dr. Raynor had thought he was resisting just to be contrary. He hadn’t had an issue with dressing like a twenty-first century civilian, after all, nor concealing his metal arm beneath jackets and gloves, so what’s the problem, James?

(That’s different, he’d wanted to say but didn’t. That’s so I don’t frighten anyone. So I don’t get stared at and invite questions people don’t want the answers to.)

All right, maybe part of him was just being contrary, because he’s already at his wits’ fucking end with how many conditions and surrendering of liberties this goddamn pardon has. But as he stands at the mirror, sharpened scissors in hand, it is not contrariness that makes him hesitate.

Nor is it the unfamiliarity of cutting his own hair, for he’s done that many times before, both before the war and since. He’s even got a picture to reference of some duck-lipped model showing off what Bucky can only describe as Generic Modern Man Haircut. He’d be Just Some Guy walking down the street with it, which is exactly what the government wants.

So, he does it both because he must and because any reason he can think of to not do it sounds pathetic, and although it’s not the fresh sort of cut he’d get from a proper barber, it’s serviceable. A few strategic passes of gel to disguise any unevenness and he’d be good to go.

(He’d tried that once, in Romania, having a professional touch up the ends, had even managed to tamp down his discomfort through the shampooing and smalltalk. The minute the man brandished the scissors and approached Bucky’s head with them, however, it was all he could do to not take those scissors and stab the man in the carotid out of pure reflex. He’d made it to the alleyway outside before expelling the street mici he’d had only an hour earlier, overcome by how easy the murder would have been. How natural. How he could have eliminated the entire shop of innocents before anyone knew what hit them. Erase the security tape, if there was one, and slip back into the ghost he was for seventy years. He’d returned in the dead of night to leave an envelope with a note of apology and a wad of lei and, needless to say, from then on the only blades that touched his hair were his own.)

He doesn’t recognize the man staring back at him in the mirror, once all is said and done. Which is a bit ludicrous; it’s a haircut, not plastic surgery, and for most of his conscious life he’d had short hair. This shouldn’t be any different. Yet, still he stands there in the bathroom with scissors in his hand and a sink full of brunette strands, for far longer than is reasonable.

He sucks it up, eventually, adjusts to the new length — or lack thereof. In fairness, some of it is easier. Showers are shorter, his hair tie budget is nonexistent, the drain clogs with less frequency, and he doesn’t look quite so much like a drowned rat when it rains.

Dr. Raynor is pleased when he shows up. She says it suits him, that it makes him look normal, that folks will have a harder time recognizing him as the Winter Soldier.

(They already don’t recognize me, he wants to say but doesn’t. I could be standing in front of a newscast about myself and no one would notice. I spent the better part of a century in the shadows — you think I don’t know how to hide?)

“James,” she says in that self-righteous way she does so well, “this is progress.”

She must be right, for she’s got that fancy, framed degree up on her wall that says she’s right, and there’s the goddamn pardon thing that means he cannot step one foot over the line no matter how ridiculous that line is. He utters a thank-you to her, white-knuckles his way through the session, and continues trying to cobble together a life.

Sam brings it up one day, after Walker, the Flag Smashers, and Bucky’s tentative integration into the Wilsons’ orbit. “Meant to say, looks good, man.”

It’s an innocuous statement, really. Well, it should be. Sam regards him a little too long, a little too probingly, for Bucky to believe that it is, in fact, innocuous. Sam’s gauging his reaction is what he’s doing, so Bucky denies a reaction that permits any gauging at all. The slight frown that appears between Sam’s brows tells him he succeeded.

Sam keeps up the ruse nonetheless, following it up with a playful insult as to Bucky’s cutting skills. He texts him the address of someone who is, allegedly, the best barber in Louisiana, tells him he made an appointment for tomorrow afternoon. Bucky goes. It’s not like he’s got anything better to do these days.

He’s the only white guy in the place, which elicits both stares from the other patrons and a hearty laugh from the barber resetting his station. “Sergeant Barnes?”

“How’d you guess?” Bucky deadpans, earning himself another laugh.

He’s gotten better at controlling his fears, his impulses, so the barber’s array of scissors and razors does not send him straight into the alleyway like it did years ago. The soul food from around the corner stays firmly in his stomach. The barber himself — Marcus — is jovial, considerate, and does his best to counter the uneasiness Bucky knows must be rolling off him in waves. Some good-natured shit-talking to cap things off.

Despite it all, when Marcus asks, “Just maintenance, sarge? Or you lookin’ for something new?” Bucky pauses.

And pauses some more, prompting Marcus to ask again, “Mr. Barnes?”

“Sorry,” Bucky says, realizing he’s a few more seconds of silence away from making Marcus genuinely concerned. “I just, uh …”

“I got a few suggestions, if you need,” Marcus offers. “Bit of fade on the sides, or —”

“No,” Bucky blurts out.

Marcus holds his hands up. “All right, no fade then.”

“That’s not — I didn’t mean —” Bucky takes a deep breath through his nose, exhales through his mouth. “I’m not trying to be rude, it’s …”

Bucky looks in the mirror again. Takes in the same face he’s seen for the past seven months, ever since Dr. Raynor gave him the suggestion-that-wasn’t-a-suggestion. He trusts in Marcus’s talents, that even Sam would find it worthy of a compliment.

(He can’t say he’d turn down a compliment from Sarah either, flirting ban be damned. It’d be Sam’s own fault, anyway.)

“I’m growing it out,” Bucky declares, as much to himself as to Marcus.

“Okay, cool. I can see it.” Then Marcus adds, almost pleads, “I gotta at least clean it up. No disrespect, but did you use a hacksaw?”

Bucky lets his mind drift as Marcus’s twang launches into another story. Half an hour later, he comes away with a list of must-watches and must-eats, plus a full pamphlet on how to not fuck up Marcus’s handiwork. After a generous tip and firm handshake, Bucky emerges from the shop feeling … not strange, exactly, but something.

The unspoken change, once it’s noticed in the months afterwards, garners him a variety of responses from the Wilson clan. When Bucky’s birthday rolls around, Sam and the giggling boys go in on a smorgasbord of scrunchies and clips that Bucky’s fairly certain were designed for a six-year-old girl. More seriously, a tin of pomade that Bucky knows is damn expensive.

For Sarah’s part, several hours later, the pain-pleasure of her knotting her fingers in his hair as she gasps out his name like a prayer is, he thinks, a resounding endorsement.

(Dr. Raynor would — possibly literally — smack him in the face with disappointment if she saw. Walker’d taken care of that, though, of her say-so having any bearing on his choices. Not that Bucky plans on sending the man a thank-you note or anything.)

As it nears his shoulders, Bucky supposes it does make him resemble the Winter Soldier. More than the bright-eyed draftee who gave his life for god and country, anyway, or the subject of the post-Snap government’s rebranding campaign.

Except, in his reflection he also sees the fugitive who’d been coaxed by his elderly neighbor into Sunday dinners of enough sarmale and mămăligă and papanași to give even his metabolism a run for its money. The man who’d been gifted new life, goats, and an affectionate nickname by Wakandans who never once looked at him with fear. The reluctant soldier who stood side-by-side with a talking raccoon and Asgardian god against an alien onslaught.

And maybe it’s silly to put so much stock in something as simple as hair. Maybe Bucky’s value system is in worse shape than his ability to tell fact from fiction when he wakes from a dream (a memory?).

But when he stares into the mirror with the Louisiana heat sticking hair and clothes alike to his skin, a house full of scampering feet, bickering, and hot breakfast just outside the door, it is not the Winter Soldier or James Barnes The Upstanding Member of Society that he sees. He sees himself. Just himself.

“You good, Buck?” Sarah asks when he comes downstairs, worry in her eyes. “You were in there awhile.”

“Yeah,” he wants to say — and does, because he can, because it’s the truth. A smile creeps onto his face. “I’m good.”

Ted Lasso fic: shadows, sweet shadows (won’t you come for me)

metamorphagi — Wed, 20 Sep 2023 00:38:21 GMT

Story Title: shadows, sweet shadows (won’t you come for me)
Fandom(s): Ted Lasso
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 4,196
Summary: No matter how fast light travels, it finds that darkness has always gotten there first.

She’s too late, far too late, to fix him. He doubts anyone can, really. By his reckoning, there’s not enough to fix, the pieces of him that once were unblemished long since rent apart. They’d been put back together before, many times, until it just wasn’t worth it anymore to do so again (and again, and again). A bone broken once, twice, can be reset and good as new in a few weeks, but break it enough times and it’s never the same no matter how sound the cast and rehab.

Perhaps he’s lost the metaphor.

Anyway, she came too late. Which is the worst bit of all of it — and there are a lot of bad bits — because she’s the sort of light he thinks could have fixed him, back when there was enough material to work with and he weren’t so used to the him he’s become. She listens, she remembers, even the most offhand of statements divulged carelessly through a mouthful of toast at breakfast take root in her brain. It’d been unnerving — forgetting is usually best, in his experience — but he’d learned eventually she did it to help, not to harm.

He knows she’s too late, too, is the thing, it’s not like he only figured it out after they’d imploded. Which exacerbates it all, because the longer he’s with her, the more he lets her into the very marrow of his bones, the more it’s going to hurt. Not him alone, he’s used to that, whatever, he can deal with it. But this — he — will hurt her to one degree or another, it’s inevitable. She ought to get out while she can, while she’ll be able to years from now think of him with a shrug — if she thinks of him at all — just some guy who occupied her bed for a few months while she waited for someone worthwhile to come along.

The honorable thing to do would be to break it off clean. Actually, the honorable thing to do would be to have shut this down to begin with. Keep on the way he’d been going. He could live on scraps of affection, or things he pretends are affection, that’s fine, he’d been doing it since he learned the difference between a parent like Mum (praise, hugs, and bedtime stories) and a parent like Dad (… other things).

Yet days, weeks, months pass and he can’t do it. He’s neither kind enough nor strong enough to let her go the way she deserves. She’s wasting her time with him, and it’s unfair to let her do it.

But frankly, whether it’s fair doesn’t cross his mind. He hasn’t the energy to care or to consider how the outcome could be more favorable. She’d chosen him of her own volition, he’s going to see it through to its inescapable end.

Which it will, because nice things rarely stick around in his life. (Sometimes that’s his fault, if he’s honest with himself, but that’s beside the point.) He’d driven Mum away, he says things that earn him purple bracelets around his wrists from beer-soaked hands, he gets laughed at and yelled at for his brain being unable to put letters in the right places.

(It was better to act like he had no interest in that, being literate, he’d learned that long ago. Better for teachers and classmates and Dad to think football’s all he cares about, if it means not being called stupid, looked at like he’s stupid, scolded for messing up or not reading fast enough. They’re probably right, none of them take an hour to read a single page because the letters won’t stop swimming and when they do they don’t make sense, so it has to be him that’s the problem, right, so yeah, better to leave books to those who can read them properly and he can kick a ball around a pitch instead. Not much reading to be had there.)

It isn’t that he doesn’t realize she’s pecking away at his layers bit by bit, he’s not an idiot and being sneaky is not her strong suit. He notices when she starts to invade his closet space. He notices when he goes to the shops and buys her favorite shampoo because the bottle she has is nearly empty. He notices when some nights the bed is used solely for sleeping, when some nights one of them stays over.

He does it more than her, he notices that, too, and he finds ways to rationalize it to himself — her mattress is more comfortable; he forgot to buy coffee and needs to use hers; his neighbors are remodeling and the noise is irritating; the cleaners are coming in the morning and he doesn’t want to get in their way; any number of things, each more pathetic than the last, not all of which are even true — because otherwise, that means he does it because he wants to, because she’s familiar, because she’s one of the few people who actually likes him these days, and he craves it.

It’s soft is what it is, and he’s spent half his life striving to be anything but that.

He fails at it, not being soft, he can feel its throbbing persistence, but if he can’t kill it outright he will bury it alive and hope that one day it finally croaks. He can’t let it come to the surface, he won’t. Dad’s voice is a steady drip of poison in his ear that eats him from the inside out until the only way he can stop it is to submit, so he does.

(There is no stopping it, of course. What he means is, he can slow it. Even if he could stop it, it wouldn’t matter, the poison’s corroded any parts of him that once were saveable. If there were any such parts at all, anyway, which he doesn’t entirely think there were. It’s hard to remember what it was like to breathe free and clear. The morning of his fourteenth birthday, he thinks is the moment — which he doesn’t do often — think of it, that is — for he runs headlong into a wall of confusing blankness before he can get very far. That’s the last time he reckons he was his own person and not the host to a parasite that burrows its head deeper and deeper any time he drums up the courage to dig it out. Try to dig it out. Never works.)

So he weighs the scale.

On one side: Her.

He still doesn’t understand why she gives him the time of day when she could have anyone else. He’s not a nice person, he’s a mess, he hasn’t spoken to his mum in years, he’d rather stuff his own organs in jars than expose her to his dad despite exposing himself to his dad every damn day.

Which is exactly what’s on the other side: Dad.

He wishes it were a competition. That would make him less of a selfish coward. But it’s not, he’s not, there’s no doubt in his mind.

She’d burrowed her way inside him, too, god help him, but the consequences of ending things with her versus the consequences of resisting Dad? No contest. The worst he’s ever gotten from her is icy silences or expressions of frustration. Cutting — but verbal, her hands kept to herself.

She doesn’t give him scars and bruises for reasons she doesn’t explain in addition to the ones she does explain. In her company, it never happens that one minute he’s standing there behaving (thinks he’s behaving), the next he’s on his arse with his cheek aching or in hospital with a fracture spiraled through his arm that causes the doctor to ask him a whole bunch of questions he answers with lies.

(Dad, though. Dad.)

She wants him to bare himself to her, show her his vulnerable underbelly, as if he hasn’t already done that more so with her than anyone except Mum. Doing anything further would risk not being able to flip back over for Dad, who already pierces his feeble armor as it is.

So the idea of choosing her, choosing anyone, over Dad makes his heart pound and his breath hitch, makes his hands grow clammy with sweat.

It’s paralyzing, and he can’t do it.

This ain’t my fault, he says after a day of baiting her finally brings things to a head. I never wanted any of this, you were the one who said we should be more.

Stop it. Stop pushing me away. I’m sick of it.

Then stop making me into something I’m not.

They’ve done this dance before, spinning in careful circles like ballerinas avoiding a loose floorboard. Not that they’re very good at avoiding it. They dance right over it constantly, sometimes without noticing, and it weakens with every hop, skip, or jump. It’s always been when it’ll collapse that’s the question, not if, and right now the screws holding it in place are unwinding fast.

I’m not making you into anything. There’s more to you, I know it. I’ve seen it.

There must be, is the thing, because she’s not a liar and she wouldn’t have tolerated him for this long otherwise. She values her time too much to be wasting it all on him. He can’t see it, why she even bothers with him, but if she says so then there ought to be something.

Which is fucking terrifying. Terrifying and unacceptable.

I love you, she says.

I didn’t ask you to.

The sneer he can feel on his face is an old friend, plastic melted to his skin, too bonded to separate even if he wanted to.

(He does want to, sometimes, even though he knows it’ll peel his skin off right with it, because he hates seeing that look on her face and he hates that he’s the one who puts it there.)

I didn’t ask you to love me either, but you do. You said it.

I only said it so I could keep fucking you.

No, you didn’t, and you bloody well know that. You’re just too goddamn scared to admit it.

She storms to the door, opens it. A storm is behind her, too, rain lashing the windows and slickening the floor. She’s got a sneer of her own as she leaves him, ugly and sad and vicious in a way he’s not seen before.

Or maybe that’s not how it went.

Maybe it’s the way he replayed it in his head later.

Which must be the case, because he doesn’t think she’s sneered a day in her life. He might be that cruel, however, tell her she means nothing to him. Act like it hadn’t taken him weeks to work up the courage to confess to her and weeks before that to realize it himself. He’s not sure what he is or isn’t, what he’ll do or not do, what he wants or what he doesn’t. Who he loves or who he doesn’t. He’s fumbling around blindly with no frame of reference.

He tries, though, usually. Fumbling around blindly is better than doing nothing, isn’t it? Whether it works is another question entirely, but his whole life he’s tried to do things.

Is pushing her away trying? It doesn’t feel like it, now that she’s abandoned him for doing exactly that.

He hastens to the door she’d slammed behind her and runs out into the rain. She’s already in her car but has barely begun to reverse, so he raps on the window. She stares at him as rain sluices down his face and soaked top. He wonders if she’s considering releasing the brake, letting the car roll over his foot. It’d end his career, that, and he’s not entirely sure he’d blame her.

She doesn’t, she’s too kind for that. Instead, she puts the car in park — not off, he doesn’t get that courtesy — the wipers racing back and forth along the windscreen, and steps out. She regards him stiffly over the roof. He’s allowed no closer, the action says.

“What?” she shouts over the downpour.

Words fail him. Not just the right words, which is usually the case, but any words at all. She resembles a drowned mouse more than a woman, with her hair falling in ropes, her mascara running down her cheeks into foundation that’s hanging on for dear life. Her top has been rendered transparent, clinging to the skin and bra beneath. Bizarrely, it’s the latter that makes him pause. It’s an unremarkable garment — beige, two or three years old, the clasp at the back bent out of shape. Perhaps that’s why, the unremarkability.

Somewhere down the line, she’d stopped making her appearance performative. Sure, lace and red and leather are littered throughout her drawers, but for special occasions now. Because she’s grown comfortable around him, comfortable enough to wear the things that have had one too many washes, or sometimes nothing at all; she can’t be bothered, and she doesn’t care if he sees her when she’s not magazine-ready.

It’s such a ridiculous thing to get caught up on, the color and condition of her bra, yet he does.

Might be she thinks he looks pitiful, might be he looks like he’s about to have a breakdown, he can’t quite tell through the water and the way his porchlight shifts the shadows on her face.

What he does know is she lets him walk around the car, her eyes narrowed. She glances down at his bare feet, of all things. “You’re not wearing shoes. Why aren’t you wearing shoes?”

“Didn’t have time.”

“Okay.” Not a shout this time, for he’s close enough to hear. “What do you want?”

It plays out in his head the way it would for someone better, someone deserving. He’d give some grandiose, eloquent speech — or maybe not so eloquent, maybe stumbling and bumbling would do the trick, that could prove more endearing — then there would be silence cut through by the fat, heavy raindrops bouncing off the ground, a roll of thunder off in the distance for effect. Or not, the thunder may be too much.

Then right when he would think there’s an equal chance of being yelled at or her driving off, she’d fist her hands in his hair hard enough to hurt and draw him down into an indelicate kiss. They might fuck on top of her car, or in it, or possibly they’d make it into the house first, he doesn’t care which. They’d get pneumonia regardless, no doubt, it’s really fucking cold and wet out here.

It doesn’t happen like that, though, why would it?

Because “I dunno” is the response he gives her instead of an eloquent-or-stumbling-and-bumbling speech. Not even a “you, kid, I want you,” said in the way old Hollywood stars said it, Humphrey Bogart or Burt Lancaster, all suave and sophisticated. No, he’s more of a Brando — charming, yeah, but a right bastard.

More of one but not one, not any of them. All he says is, “I dunno.”

It’s the worst thing he could say, worse than nothing at all. But he says it anyway, and he watches as her face hardens. She shoves him out of her way. He lets her, then he lets her drive off, squinting into the car’s highbeams as if blinding himself will burn her out of him.

(It won’t. She’s been carved into his ribs since she told him her name under strobing clublights and there’s no spackle or sandpaper in the world that can fill them in again.)

She doesn’t return to him, as well she shouldn’t. She’d told him ages ago that she was done with that sort of thing. That she’d dated too many arseholes she came crawling back to and that she wouldn’t do it with him.

Who says you’ll need to? he’d asked, hiking his jeans up past his thighs. He hadn’t meant it any type of way, but she’d looked at him some type of way.

What’s the alternative? Be together forever?

God no.

It’d been obvious, at the time, that all there was between them was sex. At the time, she’d been little more than a convenience, as he was to her. Reliable and warm but temporary, intended only to last until she found someone who could do the boyfriend thing proper or Man City finally reeled in his line.

What I mean is, he’d continued, now pulling his top over his head, if you get bored or whatever, then you can leave. I don’t give a shit.

She’d laughed, nose scrunching up in that way it does. You’re a lot of things, but boring isn’t one of them.

All right, if I piss you off, which I probably will.

Thanks for the heads-up. See you tomorrow?

They hadn’t normally scheduled their encounters, but match days, those were a given. Whether he was riding a high — if the match went well — or needed to blow off steam — if the match went poorly — they were at their best afterwards.

Count on it.

He’d given her a wink, copped a quick feel, and nowt was said again about it. She’d taken it to heart, too, he finds, as days pass without so much as a text. He’d told her he’s not a bloke she ought to crawl back to, and so she hasn’t.

He shouldn’t be glad for the lack of matches Richmond’s got at the moment, he should be upset that the team tripped and fell over itself in its first Carabao Cup outing earlier this year, stalled now as they are for a week. He should be upset over that because without a Carabao Cup there’s one fewer chance to make Man City see they should recall him, one fewer opportunity for Dad to find fault in him. But he’s not upset about it, which does upset him and leads him to pacing around his room, too much energy trapped inside him. It writhes up his legs, down his arms, beneath his tattoos, ready to leak out of the swirling, inked-black pores.

Dad has gotten on him about this, too, the moving (a fucking joke that is; if there’s anything Dad isn’t, it’s still), and usually he can stop it if he tries — it isn’t that he can’t stop, it’s that he doesn’t realize he’s started — but he can’t now, he feels like something bad will happen if he does. He gives it a try anyway, forces himself to stop pacing, sit down, and just be — and immediately feels like he’s going to explode into a burst of blood and distrust.

Pink mist, that’s what he’d overheard from the dibbles when they came round once years ago asking about a man down the street who got himself a suspicious bullet through the skull.

“’Bout time Janice did him in,” Mum had said after they left, lighting a fag. (“Oh, no, me boy and I, we got no idea on that awful business, swear down. Sure you don’t fancy a brew, loves?” is what she’d said to them a moment before, voice pitching up all sweet-like.) “I’d have done it years ago, if I was her.”

(Would you have, Mum? he’s nearly asked a dozen times since, bloodied his tongue to stop himself. What gives him license to cast stones? What’s he done over the past nine years? Roll over and take it, that’s what he’s done. Yes, Dad, no, Dad, I’m sorry, Dad, I won’t do it again, Dad, I promise please I swear, Dad. You’re hurting me, Dad. Who’s he kidding, Janice Jenkins has more balls than he ever will.)

So he gives up on the sitting thing and permits his feet to take him where they will. As it happens, that’s out his front door, through his neighborhood, and into the heart of Richmond. Takes longer than he anticipated; he hadn’t ever considered the logistics of walking from his place to hers.

His heels are raw by the time he gets there, which is going to make training tomorrow a pain in the ass. He hadn’t thought about the shoes he’d slipped on, and these aren’t made for walking any real distance. Come to think of it, he hadn’t put on socks. That part’s probably more the culprit, the not-wearing of socks. Either way, blisters.

His finger stops over the doorbell, unable to press it as the idiocy of this plan — too generous a word, that, there was fuck-all planning involved in this — washes over him. Dad would laugh himself into a fit if he could see him, perched on her doorstep like he’s got any reason or right to be here. So he retracts his finger, turns around to go back the way he came, maybe spray himself in the face with the garden hose when he gets home, see if it’s enough to make him forget his stupidity.

Doesn’t work, of course it doesn’t work, he hasn’t banked enough goodwill with the universe for that (has he banked any?) and he’d forgotten about the motion-detector app she has on her phone. She greets him with an expression blanker than the slab of white marble on the island in his kitchen. If the marble were like to murder him, anyway, because there’s a lot more hostility emanating from her than there is from his kitchen island. The blankness and silence continue, a game of chicken that he’s pretty sure he’s going to lose.

“You stayed,” he says, losing. “With me. It weren’t supposed to — I never had that before.”

She stares at him like he’s gone mad. “What?”

“No one stays.”

“No one — I didn’t stay, I left you a week ago.”

“I mean that you did longer than anyone else.”

“You came all the way here to say that?”

“I — yeah — no, I just …”

He can’t say it. He’d like to think it’s because he simply has too much to say that he can’t get it all out, that all he needs is a few minutes to get everything straight and intelligible.

Which isn’t the truth. Well, it is, he has a lot he wants to say. But pride and ego and stubbornness and fear, all the things she’d accused him of, keep it buried. Saying it and meaning it, actually meaning it, is several bridges too far, no matter how much she’s made him realize that perhaps he does, in fact, mean it and it’s not, in fact, her cunt that he misses. Well, it is, he does miss that, but they’re part and parcel. One comes with the other.

Her voice is quiet. “You just what, Jamie?”

He’s always been a man of action — moving, always moving, stuttering, always stuttering — and so he is now, too. Aware he’ll probably get a slap for it, he grabs her round the waist and kisses her, trying to convey what he can’t say.

She pushes him off her immediately, as expected — but she doesn’t slap him, she doesn’t even put any more distance between them. She looks up at him with wide green doe eyes that have only a quarter the amount of affront he thinks they should.

Bolstered by her response, or lack thereof, he presses his luck. He does it slower this time; she could back away, if she wanted, shut the door in his face or smash over his head the bowl that holds her keys, and he’d allow it.

“Why won’t you tell me?” she sighs against his lips. He kisses her again without an answer, the one thing he can do; or, the thing he can attempt to do. She pulls back before he can and scoffs, “You think I’m gonna be that easy?”

He had, kind of, but putting in the effort is no hardship. He’s never minded. He enjoys it, really, and he doesn’t understand blokes who don’t. Who could possibly not enjoy getting someone off, watching them keen beneath your fingers or tongue, edging them with a finesse that brings them near to tears?

Well, their loss. He enjoys it.

With her more than anyone before, as by now he knows precisely the balance of getting her off quicker or longer, he knows what she wants when she wants by the way she responds, he knows whether the way she’ll pause and look at him means she wants it slow and gentle on silk sheets or hard and fast bent over a table.

The rest he’s rubbish at — speaking, feeling, thinking, existing — but this? Whipping her into a froth until she’s wet and begging for him? Oh, this he can do. It’s the reason she’d gotten with him in the first place, innit.

In the aftermath as he toys with her mass of curls and she sleeps contentedly in his embrace, so relaxed and trusting despite the wrongs he’s done her, things seem clearer than ever.

This’ll last, he decides, believing it with the arrogance and naivety that has doomed him before and will again. We’ll make it work this time. I can change, for her.

(It doesn’t

and they don’t

and he can’t.)

Ted Lasso fic: Borrowed Splendour

metamorphagi — Wed, 20 Sep 2023 00:32:55 GMT

Story Title: Borrowed Splendour
Fandom(s): Ted Lasso
Rating: PG
Word Count: 6,042
Summary: Loving her comes in stages. Too small to notice at first, when it counts, and then all at once, later, when it doesn’t.

Loving her comes in stages. Too small to notice at first, when it counts, and then all at once, later, when it doesn’t.

No — when it matters most but he can’t do anything about it because she’s with Roy and she’s happy — happier than she ever was with him — and what, he’s supposed to throw a spanner in that?

Sure, he’s imagined it. He’s only human. But all it takes is, afterwards, imagining the look on her face, and that’s enough for the twisted, jealous creature inside him to crawl back into its hole with a whimper.

(Until the next time it emerges, anyway, and it always does, and it burns more each time, like the creature has gnawed off its own leg to escape the cage Jamie put it in.)

It’s his fault, really, of course it is, that he missed the signs. After all, there’s nothing as soft as love, and softness is weakness, something he’s tried to bury his whole life. He shouldn’t have let things get as far as they did in the first place. Keeley should have been a string of hookups at best, conversation no deeper than asking her which hair gel he should choose. Yet somehow, months had passed, and a string of hookups became What do you want for supper? and Maybe we can go to one of those plays you talked about and I love you, Keeley.

It became comfortable.

Comfortable and warm and light and soft.

And, well, that was just too much, wasn’t it? It was a different monster inside his chest, back then. A monster of doubt, of cruelty, of pain, and that monster Jamie had not been strong enough or committed enough to keep at bay.

It was inevitable she’d cut ties, really. Maybe part of him had been goading her into it, even, trying to prove the pattern of everyone leaving him and hating him.

So, she had. Dressed to the nines with Bex mingling somewhere across the room, paid to look but not touch, there in the ballroom did half a year end. No fuss or objection, just Keeley’s quiet, direct We’re done, and that was that.

The silence in his house had been deafening. Faced with having only his guilt and the well-fed monster inside him for company, he’d opened his phone, downloaded the first dating app he could find, and within a quarter of an hour he had a girl hook, line, and sinker.

Which are you looking for? she’d messaged him. Hookup or girlfriend? ’Cause I’m not looking for a boyfriend, and I’m only in town for a conference anyway.

He’d taken a minute to consider, sorting through a variety of responses, before settling on the truth:

I don’t want to be alone.

She’s a good lay, and somehow manages to make financial audits sound almost interesting. Good enough that he doesn’t mind when she passes out next to him without asking if she can stay over.

Maggie, he remembers later. Her name was Maggie, and in the dark, he could almost pretend she was someone else.

Ted Lasso is a fucking wanker. Jamie hadn’t paid him any mind at first, confident that he’d be gone within the month.

But Ted Lasso is not gone within the month. On the contrary, he gets buy-in. From everyone. The players start to like him, start to listen to him, despite his abysmal CV giving them no reason to. Even the press warm to him, a little.

Not Jamie, though. He’d be lying if he said part of him didn’t want to submit to the man’s hokey Midwestern charm — a small part, mind, one Dad could stamp out with the lit end of a cigarette, but a part nonetheless. The rest of him, however, knows better than to dole out any trust and rails against it. In his experience, the kind of man Ted purports to be doesn’t exist. Sooner or later, that hokey Midwestern charm would turn to cutting remarks, training not ending till they puke, and thinly veiled threats. Ted Lasso doesn’t actually practice what he preaches, not for good. He would turn eventually.

Turn he does, and Jamie’s reminded once again of why he’s right to be skeptical of men like Ted. In the dressing room, Ted looming over him, voice hitting a bass Jamie’s never heard from him before, it takes every last shred of willpower to hold himself together. His jaw throbs from the clench of it, his muscles scream with the tightness of a marathon run, his veins buzz with energy that makes him want to either run or hide, he’s not sure which.

And it only gets worse, seeing someone new take over his position, blending in with the team in the sort of seamless way Jamie never had.

It all combines to rub him raw, a knee skidded along the road, little pebbles of asphalt wedged beneath preventing it from healing. The asphalt is Ted fucking Lasso and every accented word that comes out of his mouth grinds him deeper beneath Jamie’s skin. Pretty soon, Jamie thinks he’ll have to find a scalpel to properly scourge the man.

He takes to sulking inside his house after training, when his mobile trills with a text from Goodman.

You coming? We’re at Crown & Anchor, Coach wants to talk to us about something.

Jamie ignores him.

Not that that helps, for Goodman can be a persistent bastard when he wants to.

We’re breaking the treatment room curse tonight. Coach says we’ve got to bring something special to the club at midnight.

Come on, man. It won’t work unless you’re there, too.

Please?

Jamie rolls his eyes and types back:

Curses ain’t real, mate. I got better shit to do.

It eats at him, though, the idea that he’s the only one who won’t be participating. He’ll be left out, left behind. It’s stupid, Lasso’s plan, if it can even be called that. Yet he find himself distracted enough to get smoked by the sim on FIFA, which by itself is enough to make him pull out his mobile. Not to text Goodman, though. He needs a third party, someone who’s never steered him wrong before.

Fifteen minutes later, he’s watching Keeley walk up to him, a handful of words from her making him feel like a petulant jackass.

“Maybe someday you should stop battling the people that just want to help you,” she says, and it rattles around in his brain all throughout the drive home. He wants to rebel against that, call her up and tell her she’s wrong, that people don’t want to help him, certainly Ted fucking Lasso doesn’t want to help him. Even if he did want to, it would only be for Jamie Number Nine, football prodigy, it would only be to help the team win. It wouldn’t be for Jamie Just Jamie, the council estate kid with a chip on his shoulder.

I can honestly say you are the best athlete I have ever coached.

That was a heck of a goal out there, by the way.

Jamie grits his teeth. Ted had seemed sincere, then. Even as high as Jamie’s walls were — are — he hadn’t sensed falsehood in what Ted had said. That despite decades of coaching, Ted thought Jamie was the best, Jamie who doesn’t even play Ted’s sport. That despite Jamie’s goal making no difference on the scoresheet and his left-foot cross being rubbish, Jamie was worth complimenting anyway.

He didn’t have to. He could have berated him like Dad did for not scoring more goals, or ignored him like George Cartrick would have, but he didn’t. Because that’s just Ted’s way, loath as Jamie is to believe it. He threw Sam a bloody birthday party, for Christ’s sake. He’d censored the photos of Keeley’s tits in Jamie’s cubby. He’d put up a handmade, saccharine sign that no one asked for. He’d gone out and bought everyone a book tailored specifically to them.

(Not that Jamie had read his book — it’s hard enough parsing out the letters of a text message on a good day; parsing out an entire book, probably full of metaphors and other fancy literary shit, was too daunting to undertake when he didn’t care about Ted to begin with — but in the days following, he’d heard the lads discuss them, sometimes sounding actually excited by what their respective books contained, and once or twice Jamie had had a fleeting regret that he didn’t remember so much as the title of his.)

Still, in spite of the evidence Keeley’s urged him to consider, it’s fucking terrifying, the prospect of coming crawling back, tail between his legs, soft, offering up a piece of himself to the entire team for Ted’s curse-breaking charade. Sure, he could bring with him something pointless, something he doesn’t care about, but that’s hardly a sacrifice, is it? He wanders aimlessly through his barren house, finding nothing that likely would qualify. May as well not even go then.

He almost does exactly that — until he remembers the box stashed away in the understair storage, the box not even Keeley has seen, the one with the few items from his childhood that still contain positive memories.

God, he hasn’t seen these boots in months. Hasn’t even thought about them. They’re like-new, despite being given to him the better part of a decade ago, just a few scraps of grass and caked-on dirt marring the spikes. By the time Mum had given them to him, he’d been too far along in his career to be able to use boots like those. They would’ve cost a lot for Mum, but were unacceptable on a real pitch. But they mean something, enough to where there’s a brief, sharp pang in his heart at acknowledging they would be thrown away or burnt to a crisp or whatever it is Ted Lasso has planned, and surely that qualifies.

He checks the wall clock; he’s late. A blessing in disguise, for it gives him a reason to not show up at all. They’ve probably already finished the whole thing. Showing up now would just make things weird and awkward for everyone, and it’s not like they’re expecting him to come anyway.

Shoving his every thought down, he grabs his keys and speeds out of the driveway, fingers drumming against the wheel as he edges closer and closer to Nelson Road, Mum’s boots resting beside him on the passenger seat.

It goes fine. It goes great, actually. Every cell in his body seizes up at the prospect of baring himself to everyone, but he does it. He talks about the boots, about Mum, about Dad, about how ever since Keeley had given him that figurative thump on the head he’s had to look inward at what he’d let himself twist into. He’s had to imagine the look on Mum’s face if she knew how selfish and mean he’d become, and it’s a look that he never wants to imagine her having again.

They don’t laugh once he’s done like he’d feared. They welcome him, seem to want to let everything be water under the bridge even though he knows he doesn’t deserve it. His heart lifts with the grace of forgiveness; for the first time in ages, he feels almost buoyant.

Of course, it doesn’t last. Good things never do for him, and he shouldn’t have allowed himself to get so complacent. Uri awakens him with a phone call at five a.m. to gleefully inform him that Man City wants him back.

Jamie numbly takes it in, the realization only fully dawning on him after he hangs up. He’s going back to Manchester. To Dad. After everything he’d said last night, all the laughter and happiness, it’s come to this. Lasso had used him.

Jamie pulls up the text Lasso had sent him last night.

Thanks for sharing that story with us, Jamie. Your mom sounds like a real nice lady. See you at practice tomorrow. Gotta make sure you’re in game shape!

Screen swimming as angry tears build, Jamie summarily deletes the text chain and blocks Lasso’s number. He won’t fucking need it where he’s going.

Keeley is a creature of habit. Always has been. It was one of the things that made it easy to be with her — she was a lighthouse flame burning constant, her habits meaning he usually had a good idea of where she would be. The thoughts in his head could be threatening to swallow him whole, his world could be on the brink of collapsing, yet still he knew, he knew, that every day at a quarter past noon, she would be getting coffee at the café five minutes from the club.

It’d be simple to catch her right as she’s leaving work. And he plans to, really. But as soon as he sees her, a content expression on her face as she pulls her fuzzy blue jacket closer around her, he freezes. He hasn’t seen her in ages, not since he’d relegated Richmond. She’d been wearing Roy’s jersey that night the way she used to wear his, which had added fuel to his resentment, but god was she striking even from his vantage all the way down on the pitch.

She’s out of sight for several minutes by the time Jamie gets the wherewithal to move again. Tamping down his anxiety, he jogs to close the distance, waits for her to step inside the coffeeshop, then walks in himself. Just as he’s about to lose his mettle once again, she turns around, her eyes meeting his.

“Jamie?”

Music to his ears, her voice is.

“I’m not stalking you,” he begins, even though it’s only arguably true.

After that, he loses the plot entirely, words coming out in a fast scramble. Keeley’s expression doesn’t change as she hears him out, nor does she seek to throw him a life preserver by cutting him off.

“I’ve just been trying to build up the courage to say hi, so …” He swallows, takes a breath, and finishes lamely, “Hi. Is that okay?”

It feels like for-fucking-ever before she replies. Then, “You deleted my number?”

“Yeah.”

She waits for him to order a coffee of his own, black, then nods in the direction of the least-desirable seats, those without any sort of view and the sound of toilets flushing — but also the seats that are the least visible. “How are things?” she asks, blowing on her coffee before gingerly taking a sip.

“Do I need to answer that?” He’s checked Twitter. Those who hadn’t seen the interview itself have seen the internet in the aftermath, and Keeley’s entire job is to know what’s going on on social media.

“No,” she says with a small, sympathetic smile. “You said you wanted to talk?”

He scratches at the table where the lacquer has started to peel away, in an effort to get rid of some of his nervous energy. It’s been a fucking shit day. “I wanted … I mean, I was thinking …”

God, it would sound stupid to say aloud. It sounds stupid in his head. Heat creeps up his neck at the shame at being in this situation in the first place and embarrassment that he can’t so much as finish a sentence, apparently.

But Keeley just gazes at him in that same patient, unassuming way she used to when he was dragging his feet on something important. In the end, he doesn’t need to say a thing. She knows him too well. “You want to come back to Richmond.”

“D’you think they’ll let me?”

“By ‘they,’ you mean Ted?”

“Yeah. Didn’t exactly leave on good terms, did I? Weren’t great before that either.” Jamie picks at the lacquer some more. “What if he doesn’t … want me?”

Keeley snorts. “Ted thinks the world of you, Jamie. Don’t you know that?”

No.

Yes.

I don’t know. Not after —

“Oi!” Keeley interjects. “Stop it.”

“Stop what?”

“Stop getting all up in your head.”

He takes a swig of his coffee to avoid responding. Of course, that doesn’t stop her.

“Why did you leave City?” she plows ahead. “Thought Roy was taking the piss when he told me he saw you on that stupid dating show.”

Imbuing every drop of indifference into his voice as he can, he replies, “What, doesn’t sound like something I’d do?”

“No, Jamie, it doesn’t.”

“Well, I did.”

Keeley studies him, tapping her finger against her cup. Then, finally: “If I ask you something, will you tell me the truth?”

He should say no. Knowing him well means being able to hurt him in ways most people can’t, use things he’s told her against him. But he’s never been able to resist her, and he’s bloody tired of putting on a front.

“Go on then.”

Her eyes are soft, her voice softer. “Is your dad the reason you left?”

Jamie sucks in a breath. “What? Why would you —”

“Because I’m not an idiot,” Keeley says. “We were together for six months, you think I couldn’t figure out that your dad’s an arsehole?”

“But you — you never said anything.”

“I guess I wanted you to tell me on your own.”

“Sorry.”

“Well, better late than never.” Keeley checks her watch and curses. “Shit, I’ve gotta get back. I have a call with Dubai Air in ten minutes. Promo stuff.”

Jamie feels a surge of panic rise in his chest. “No, Keeley, don’t —”

“Talk to Ted,” Keeley says. She squeezes his shoulder. “I’m here if you really need me, you know that, but I’m the wrong person for this.”

With a swish of her ponytail she’s gone, leaving him bereft but for cooling coffee and a knot in his stomach.

“Got time?”

Jamie gives no preamble as he walks into Dr. Sharon’s office, clicking the door shut behind him. He’s been avoiding this for two weeks, but can’t anymore. It’s gotten under his skin, this therapy shit, the unpleasantness only ameliorated by voicing the troubles in his head, by having Sharon guide him through what it all means and what he can do to make sense of it.

If she’s taken aback by his abrupt entrance, she doesn’t let on. She silences her mobile and sets it face-down on her desk, the better to ignore it. “Good to see you, Jamie. It’s been a while.”

Jamie drops into the chair opposite her as he had every week since he returned to Richmond. Like clockwork it’s been; until Wembley, that is. Jamie follows her movements as she pulls out her notebook. Even after the dozens of sessions he’s had with her, even knowing they ultimately make him feel better, it still gives him anxiety when she does that.

She’d shown him once what was inside, which helped. It cut down on the mystery, seeing his name written in neat cursive on the cover page, the contents within dedicated to him and him alone and stored in a locked cabinet. Knowing there’s a record out there of his darkest fears and deepest insecurities makes him nearly break out in hives, but nothing and no one, she’d promised, could compel her to show it to anyone.

He begins, “I’ve been …”

You want to go, Jamie? Don’t you forget where you came from!

“… busy.”

Sharon nods in that inscrutable way she does, like she already knows what happened at Wembley. Maybe she does. Some of the other lads see her, they could’ve said something.

The thought of that makes his stomach twist.

“I’m glad you’re here now,” Sharon says. “How are you?”

“Fine.”

Sharon says nothing, the question implied.

He clears his throat past the lump that’s formed there and bounces his knee, trying to get the nervous energy out. “The, um. The nightmares came back.”

Look where you are now, twaddling about with a bunch of amateurs.

“Why do you think they came back?” Sharon asks.

“Same reason as before.”

Don’t turn your back on me, you pussy.

“Your father?”

“Yeah.”

“Did he call you again?”

“No, he … he came to Wembley.”

Sharon nods again, but there’s visible sympathy in it this time. He doesn’t know whether that makes him feel better or worse. “I see. And what happened?”

Jamie doesn’t want to tell her, doesn’t want to relive it yet again, doesn’t want another person to know how weak he’d been and that Dad had reduced him to a husk, the way he used to.

But Sharon’s different, he knows that much, and he knows he wouldn’t have been able to push back even the small way he did if it weren’t for her.

He draws in an uneven breath, and speaks.

He skips the session Sharon had scheduled for him later in the week, ducking his head when he sees her in the hallway. The specter of Wembley still hangs over him, and their last session had featured more tissues than Jamie would have liked. But he drags himself there for the next, nearly three weeks after Man City’s massacre. Sharon greets him not with her usual impassivity, but with an unimpressed raised eyebrow.

“You missed your appointment,” she says.

“Yeah.”

“Would you like to talk?” she asks, even now giving him an out should he want it. “We can pick up where we left off.”

“No,” he says. “I don’t — not about my dad.” His hand is fully healed, the loss is behind them, and Dad hasn’t texted in days, but whenever he closes his eyes, he still sees the sharp fluorescents of the dressing room, feels Dad’s flesh shift beneath his fist. Diving back into that isn’t an option, not yet.

“All right,” Sharon agrees.

Dark eyes probing but patient, she waits, and waits some more, waits so that eventually the silence will be so oppressive that Jamie has to speak. Has to put voice to the things he’s been thinking about for longer than he cares to admit.

Finally, he submits. “What do you do when …”

“When what, Jamie?”

“When you fuck things up.” His skin feels itchy, stretched too tight over the bones beneath. He hasn’t felt like this in a while, since those very first sessions. “Like … badly, but it’s too late to fix it.”

“What did you fuck up?”

He says the name on an exhale: “Keeley.”

Sharon’s expression doesn’t change, but there’s a flicker in her eyes that he’s long since learned means he’s said something she can pounce on. It’d unnerved him initially, but he’s come to almost appreciate it, for it means she has an idea of how to help.

“Keep going.”

“She was the best thing in my life and I threw that away,” Jamie says. “Didn’t think I’d ever lose her, and then I did.”

“What happened?”

“More what didn’t happen.”

We’re done. See you around.

You’ve really helped me to feel good about this decision, just by … being you.

Have a good night, Jamie Tartt.

Jamie can’t force the truth out, so he clenches his jaw and tugs at his sleeves instead.

Sharon waits several more minutes for him to elaborate, but once it’s clear he won’t, she prods, “Have you talked to her about this?”

“No,” Jamie says. “We haven’t talked much at all since I came back.”

“Why not?”

“Dunno. Feels too hard now.”

“How come? You said she was a good friend to you.”

“She was. She is. It’s just — it’s different.”

“Different how?”

“Dunno.”

“Jamie.”

He glances up at her before looking away again. In little more than a mumble, he answers, “’Cause I love her.”

He can feel Sharon’s confused frown even though he can’t see it. “I thought you knew that already. We’ve spoken before of your relationship.”

“I didn’t know it was real.”

“And now you know?”

“Yeah, I — yeah.” He swallows. “It … hurts.”

“Unrequited love tends to do that.”

Sharon doesn’t say it unkindly, but the word lances through him and festers like a rusted nail.

Unrequited.

Keeley had loved him once, but no longer, and he has only himself to blame for that. She has Roy now, anyway. Jamie probably crosses her mind only when he’s right in front of her. As well he should — she’d spent enough time on him, she oughtn’t spend any more of it than she has to.

“What do I do?” he asks. “Tell me what to do.”

Sharon sighs. “You know it doesn’t work that way. I can’t tell you —”

“Just once. Please. I need help.”

“What is your goal?” Sharon asks instead. “With Keeley. What are you trying to achieve?”

“Dunno,” he lies. And it is a lie, a great big one, because he knows exactly what it is he wants to achieve.

While Sharon’s voice is free of judgment, there’s clear warning in it. “Sabotaging her relationship is not a very noble goal, Jamie.”

“I’m not — I don’t want to sabotage anything,” Jamie objects. He takes a tissue from the box on the desk and begins to worry it between his fingers for something to do, fine scraps of paper becoming a small pile on his lap. Squirming under Sharon’s expectant gaze, he offers, “I just — I want her to know that she meant something to me, I guess. That I wasn’t playing her or … or faking it or something. I don’t think she knows that. Shitty thing to do, though, innit? I don’t have any right.”

“Of course you’re entitled to your feelings.”

“But I shouldn’t say them, not to her. It’s not fair.”

“Maybe not. But you would only be expressing yourself — respectfully — right? No sabotaging?”

“Right,” Jamie says. He wants to mean it.

Well, no, he does mean it. He can’t bear the thought of hurting Keeley or damaging their friendship, and he can’t hurt Roy either, not after he saved him from spinning clear off his axis in the dressing room.

All the same, the idea of never getting a second chance with her, never being able to convey just how much he regrets not treating her the way she deserved … that’s unbearable, too. Even if he doesn’t merit that second chance, that to even think of it is selfish, he wants it. He aches for it — to hold her again, kiss her again, prove to her that her faith in him was not misplaced.

“Right,” he tells Sharon again.

Sharon’s voice is gentler than usual as she replies, “This is a good thing, Jamie. There’s a difference between expressing what you’re feeling, and acting upon those feelings. The fact that you know there’s a difference is a mark of how much progress you’ve made.”

“Is it?”

“Yes. A year ago, would you have hesitated to go after something you wanted? Whether or not it was wise or hurt someone else in the process?”

He thinks about the fights with Roy he instigated, the look on Sam’s face every time he insulted him, Nate’s palpable misery that Jamie encouraged. Keeley’s frustration when he shut her out.

“No,” he allows, “probably not.”

A year ago, if Keeley had shown the slightest interest, he’d have tried to worm his way back into her life. In fact, he almost had done just that, with only inconvenient geography keeping him from going further. At least, further than one night.

And what a night that had been. He’d knocked on her door genuinely only to thank her for her efforts to help him, then she’d propositioned him, and that was that. The barrage of feelings he’d felt in the afterglow, the depth of those feelings, had done him in.

He hadn’t slept at all, caught up in the rightness of her curled into his side, her cold feet warming against his leg, her arm slung lazily over his chest, fitting against him as snugly as if she were meant to be there. He hadn’t appreciated that enough when they were together, not nearly enough. He’d taken it for granted like he did everything else in his life.

Having it again even if just for a few hours, his arm beginning to tingle from where she was lying on it, the darkness in the room slowly giving way to morning’s pale blue, well. Something shifted inside him, though he hadn’t wanted to acknowledge what it was because while she showed enough interest to fuck him, she hadn’t shown enough to take him back.

Not that he’d asked. He’d rationalized it as not caring, but really it was knowing she’d reject him. He couldn’t have handled that. Not then, and maybe not now either. So he’d panicked, extricated himself from her embrace, dressed, and left without so much as a note. Drove back to Manchester right then and there, blinking the fatigue out of his eyes and pretending he didn’t still have the scent of her burnt-sugar lotion rubbed into his skin, the feeling of her hips, her thighs, her breasts inked on his fingertips, the sound of his name gasped from her lips seared into his very bones.

Sex is all it was, he told himself, fun and familiar but ultimately meaningless, and it was just the endorphins that made him think he felt all those things.

(It wasn’t. And it was, because it had to be.)

“Jamie?” Sharon prompts.

“Sorry.” Sharon looks at him pointedly — he shouldn’t apologize so much for thinking and reflecting, she says — so he amends wearily, “Just … you know.”

He rubs absently at his chest. Mostly he’s gotten used to the constant ache beneath his ribs, but sometimes it bothers him, like an old injury that complains when the weather changes.

“Will it stop?” he asks.

“Will what stop?”

“The … hurt.”

Sharon studies him a moment, considering. “Do you want it to?”

Jamie grabs another tissue and begins mauling it as with the first. The obvious answer would be yes, because who would want to feel this way?

It’d be a fucking blessing to be able to interact with Keeley without feeling his heart skip, to see her holding hands with Roy and not have to white-knuckle his way through keeping his face unaffected. To not get a whiff of her perfume as she walked past and be bombarded with the memory of his bathroom strewn about with her cosmetics, of her running late and asking him to plait her hair while she put on her eyeliner because he was better at it than she was.

Yet when he opens his mouth to answer, no sound comes out and he just stares at Sharon, answer-less.

“You don’t have to decide now,” she says. “But you will have to decide, Jamie. You have to keep moving forward, however you choose to do it.”

He doubts this is what Sharon meant. She probably meant he should take some time to think it through, to come up with a proper plan of action. Ask Keeley if she wants to grab a cup of coffee after work to discuss press stuff, perhaps. Tell her he found a pair of her earrings that had dropped behind his chest of drawers, maybe, and would she come back to his place to get them? Or simply say he wants to speak with her, and they could go for a walk around Richmond, find a bench on the green.

Something decent, normal, somewhere she could tell him to fuck off if she wanted to. Then he could bring up the real stuff.

Rebecca’s father’s funeral is, he reckons, not what Sharon had in mind.

It’s entirely his fault, he knows that, but it hasn’t helped his resolve that all day Keeley has been sending him … looks. Giving him a once-over, complimenting his suit, glancing at him during the eulogy, beckoning him over to talk. He knows better, he does, honest. And yet.

And yet, here he is standing in front of her futilely pouring his heart out like a chump, watching the realization slowly dawn on her the longer he speaks. She always knows what to say; now, she’s silent.

He almost kisses her. It’s a near thing, his stomach swooping like the split-second pause of anticipation on a roller coaster before the cars plunge downward. Her mouth is parted, her eyes wide and searching. She hasn’t recoiled from him, hasn’t shied away, hasn’t moved at all. Roy and decency be damned, his ego thinks she might even let him kiss her, if only for the briefest of moments, if only because she’s so floored by what he said that she doesn’t have her head together enough to stop him.

A shameful part of him even hopes she would, just to feel her again and know there’s a part of her that still stirs for him. She’d looked at him this way the last-first time he told her he loved her, too. Of course, that time had yielded a positive reaction. Not this time.

He stutters forward a centimeter, his body thrumming. God does he want this. He’s dreamt of it for months, how it would happen, what it would feel like, where it would lead. He wants to cup her face in his hands, take in every bit of her, feel her lips on his. Make her feel the way he should have done all along.

But he doesn’t because everything about this is wrong. It’s the wrong place, it’s the wrong time, she’s not his to kiss, and he’s not the guy who steamrolls over others anymore.

No, what he does is leave her standing there. You did it, the not-quite-Sharon in his head says. You ruined your friendship, she’ll never speak to you again, but she knows now. You achieved your goal. Aren’t you glad?

No, he’s not.

He’s never wanted to achieve something less, now that it’s over and done with. It doesn’t feel like the right thing. It feels like shit, like he’s been put in that fancy blender he bought himself years ago because it seemed like the thing to do once he had money to burn, even though he can’t cook worth a damn.

It feels like trying to stretch a rubber band past its limits, every step away from her harder and harder. Only he can’t let it snap him back because he’s not sure he could properly stop himself. Not to force himself on her, god no, but begging — begging, he would do. Right here right now in Rebecca’s childhood home, holding Keeley’s hands in his and begging her to take him back, swearing beyond all doubt that things would be different.

(They would be different. He knows they would, and he knows she knows they would. Doesn’t matter. Too little, too late.)

He needs some air.

Vaguely he hears someone ask him if he’s all right, but he can’t be arsed to turn around and check who it is, let alone reply. It’s just as well: The answer would either be a lie or get him chastised, neither of which he wants.

He strides outside, no clue where he’s going, and eventually finds himself in the Weltons’ backyard. It’s quiet here, the voices of all the guests barely audible. Jamie sits down against the brick exterior next to a rosebush, not giving a shit about the damp soil staining his absurdly expensive trousers.

He breathes in for four seconds, holds for four, breathes out for four.

In four, hold four, out four.

It doesn’t work the way it did when Sharon was walking him through it in her office, but it gives him something to do, at least. Something other than relive Keeley’s stricken silence, the gravity of what he’d just done.

It’s out there now. Short of fleeing to the ends of the earth, never to be heard from again, he can’t put this jack back in its box. He’d told his ex-girlfriend he’s still in love with her, never mind that she’s dating his coach and hadn’t thought he still cared about her in this way.

He says the wrong thing, he does the wrong thing, he pushes people away, always and without fail. Sometimes he means to, sometimes he doesn’t, but it all ends the same.

Because that’s just who he is, isn’t it?

Ted Lasso fic: Baseline

metamorphagi — Wed, 20 Sep 2023 00:18:26 GMT

Story Title: Baseline
Fandom(s): Ted Lasso
Rating: PG
Word Count: 5,113
Summary: Problems are like mushrooms, she’d told Phoebe. The longer you leave them in the dark, the bigger they get. Perhaps she should’ve taken her own advice.
Author’s Notes: Spec fic written before episode 4 aired.

Richmond wins by the skin of its teeth, but it’s a win nonetheless, and they all now can officially call themselves a Premier League team again. The Higginses host a celebratory party at their home, the liquor flowing freely, enough to where Keeley can almost let herself forget that not everything is tied up with a bow the way the game was.

Almost.

It’s awkward, seeing Jamie again, even though rationally she knew he’d be here. How could it not be, after what happened? Worse, it’s made all the more so by the fact that it seems to not be awkward between him and Roy, headbutt aside. They’d hugged and laughed like schoolgirls at playtime, for Christ’s sake. Whatever Jamie had said in his apology, whatever Roy had said to accept it, it’d worked.

Except whatever either of them had said to each other had not been said to her, so when she accidentally catches Jamie’s eye across the living room, the delirious happiness she sees there wavers just a little, his grin falling. Her own stomach ties itself in knots at the prospect of confronting this head-on; the funeral was two weeks ago, and she hasn’t so much as texted him since.

But she’s a big girl, and she can’t just not talk to him ever again. Problems are like mushrooms, she’d told Phoebe, the longer you leave them in the dark, the bigger they get, and this particular mushroom could overtake the entire bloody lawn.

So, shaking off her nerves, she gathers herself up and wanders into the kitchen where she finds Jamie busying himself refilling a glass of water.

“Congratulations,” she says, smiling a smile that isn’t entirely fake. Everything else aside, it’s an amazing feat the team pulled off today, and he was a crucial part of that. “You gave everyone a fright by not taking that shot, though.”

“Right thing to do, innit? I weren’t there for what happened to Earl, but Dani’s been tore up about it all season.”

She hums in agreement.

Evidently deciding of his own accord that they may as well get this over with, Jamie glances over his shoulder into the living room. Spotting Roy embroiled in a chat with Thierry, he turns back to her and clears his throat. “Listen, um. About the funeral —”

“Forget it. It’s fine.”

“No, look, I — I didn’t plan to say it. Not then, I mean. It was just the … you know.”

Roy had felt weird about the funeral, too. So had she. So had everyone. Things were said and done that wouldn’t normally be said or done. Perhaps she shouldn’t hold that against him if she isn’t doing it to anyone else, no matter the gravity of it.

“So, you didn’t actually mean anything by it, then.”

She’s teeing up the answer for him. She’s giving him an out. He could end this tension between them with a single word and they could get back to the party, everything resolved.

Jamie wets his lips. “I didn’t — I mean, I don’t — I won’t — come between you and Roy.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“I know,” Jamie says. He sounds miserable. “Do you want me to lie?”

Keeley sighs, exhausted and wired all at once. “What are you expecting to happen, Jamie?”

“I’m not expecting anything.”

“Then why did you drop that on me?”

“I told you —”

“I mean, you just — after all this fucking time, that’s when you say it? At a funeral when I’m with someone else, that’s when you decide to say you’re still in love with me?”

“Would it have mattered if I’d said it sooner?”

“Of course not, but that’s not the point.”

Apparently hearing something in her tone that she didn’t, Jamie takes a half-step forward and repeats, “Would it have mattered?”

She stares at him, trying to make her mouth say what her brain wants it to, that no, it would not, how many times does she have to say it? Yet the words stick in her throat, and the way he’s studying her, she feels like a butterfly pinned to a board. It’s the way he used to look at her, back when declarations of love were welcomed. At the time, she’d enjoyed that he could read her so easily; she hadn’t considered that he’d still be able to do it now, when she wishes he couldn’t.

It’s moot, though, in the end — she doesn’t get the chance to say anything anyway.

“Hi, beautiful,” comes Roy’s voice as he walks up and wraps his arm around her waist. He glances between them, clearly sensing the tension. “Something wrong?”

“Nah, mate,” Jamie answers brightly.

“Yeah,” Keeley puts in, “Jamie was just … talking about that dirty tackle the keeper made.”

“Wanker. I’d’ve scored on that breakaway.”

Roy snorts, his mouth twitching a little in mirth. “Would’ve gone wide.”

“Would not.”

Needing to get some air, Keeley announces, “I’m gonna go find Ted, give him my congratulations. I haven’t done that yet.”

“Sure, yeah,” Roy says. “Catch up with you later?”

“Definitely.” Aware that refusing to acknowledge Jamie at all would make Roy just as suspicious as if she acknowledged him too much, she bids neutrally, “Bye, Jamie.”

The glimmer in his eyes is, unmistakably, curiosity. Curiosity and hope. Fucking hell, she should have shut down this whole thing before it even got started. She shouldn’t have asked for clarification, just pretended nothing happened as Rebecca told her to. Gone up to him with some smalltalk, making it absolutely clear that she would not so much as let him get a word in about the funeral. As dead and buried as Paul Welton, that’s what she should have done.

Except she didn’t, and now things are worse than they were before. On top of the uncertainty and awkwardness and inability to figure out where they go from here, she’d managed to give him the idea that he simply had shitty timing, that her heart remains open despite very much belonging to someone else, which was not what she meant. What she meant was that it was ridiculous he waited this long to say something, that it was unfair and inappropriate. That’s it.

And the cherry on top of the catastrophe sundae? Maybe it would have made a difference. Maybe it was just shitty timing. If Jamie had come to her weeks, months even, after they’d broken up, contrite and honest and committed to change, she might’ve —

Well. She might’ve.

Because that’s all she’d ever wanted, wasn’t it? She’d wanted him to grow up and stop shutting her out whenever he got too close to true vulnerability, and now he’s gone and done it. He takes responsibility for his misdeeds, his laughs come easy and often without a trace of cruelty, he makes the extra pass.

I finally think that I’m becoming the best version of myself. The kind of man that you always knew that I could be.

He was right. He has become the best version of himself. The one she’d seen since the very beginning when all she knew about him was his first name and the way his hair felt in her hands as he ducked between her thighs, when he drove her home afterwards with a kiss on the cheek and his number slipped into her purse, for next time. She’d seen through his armor then, and now her faith has been rewarded.

Which doesn’t make a blind bit of difference, not in the way he wants it to. It’s too late for that. He had his chance. She’s moved on.

The matter of his confession remains unsorted out, no two ways about it. She’ll have to deal with it eventually (mushroom, it’s a giant fucking mushroom).

But not now. Not today. Not when the only thing any of them should be focused on is Richmond getting promoted.

Jamie’s stupid speech and his stupid apology and his stupid eyes shaded with hope won’t be on the agenda at all, she’ll make sure of that.

At least, she intended to deal with it. Really, she did.

But she’s too busy with the unexpectedly complicated logistics of KJPR to go down to the training facility with any regularity, then Roy’s breaking up with her on a dime without any satisfactory explanation, then she spends what little free time she has crying at her desk and trying to get her colleagues to untwist their knickers. Then, then, then. Jamie falls further and further down her priority list until he’s squarely under the Out of Sight, Out of Mind category.

So when she does run into him, two and a half months after their abortive conversation, she’s not prepared in the least.

He looks good. Somehow, that silly boy-band-meets-Beckham hair works for him when it has no right to, and the new training gear whose procurement she facilitated through a fresh licensing deal fits him as advertised. She adopts an overlarge smile, desperately hoping she can will things back to how they were before the funeral, before there was this cavern of uncertainty between them.

It doesn’t work.

“How you doing? You good, yeah?” Jamie greets as Colin and Moe pass. His smile is tentative, and he anxiously twists the top of his water bottle within an inch of its life.

“Yeah, I’m all right,” she says. “You?”

He rambles. He says three words for every one needed, none of them with much substance. He went to the gym is what he comes up with. Maybe she should help him, but nothing comes to her mind either.

Smalltalk is her bread and butter, she excels at it. Thrust into an interaction with Jamie without warning, however, all she can do is keep that smile plastered to her face and nod along with whatever he says. She can’t decide whether it’s vindicating or upsetting that he clearly feels as uncomfortable as she does. If there were no awkwardness on his side, she could determine it was a her problem, something she had to figure out by herself. But it’s a them problem, it would seem, and not one that can be solved with time alone.

And because when it rains it pours, the movement to her left that catches her eye is Roy. Roy standing stiffly in the hallway, putting on a poor show of pretending he doesn’t see her conversing cordially with Jamie. Christ, she could not have asked for a worse confluence of events. On that, at least, she and Jamie seem to be of agreement; he pulls the ripcord first, bailing as soon as he, too, spots Roy. His goodbye is hasty, his departure hastier. She can’t blame him. For as much as Roy had said he forgave him, there’s a lot of history there to move past, even without the confession. Being a little skittish is probably a good idea.

She stares after him for a moment, a million thoughts and none running through her head. It’s just as well, she supposes. The hallway in the training center is not exactly her ideal environment for having that sort of conversation.

Roy is a much more well-known quantity. While it’s awkward with him, too, it’s the sort of awkwardness that she can navigate. It’s painful and she agrees no more with Roy’s reasoning now than she did weeks ago, but ultimately, the rigamarole of breakups is the same; it’s only the details that are different from one to the next.

“Hey, Keeley,” he says, quiet even for him. “Here.”

She takes the proffered leopard-print bag filled with what little she’d left at his house, and wishes she could give it right back to him. She doesn’t want it, she wants her stuff scattered around his house exactly how it was.

“Thanks for bringing this,” she says. “Saves me a trip.”

Roy grunts, staring somewhere at a point on the wall.

“Shouldn’t take long to get your stuff together,” she says. “I’ll text you.”

Roy grunts again.

“All right, well, good luck on Saturday.”

The team goes on a tear with Zava, all of a sudden no longer the butt of everyone’s jokes. The 4-4-2 formation that had been employed at Chelsea switches to a 4-5-1 for Wolverhampton, and sees not a hint of deviance afterwards. It works just as it should, Zava trouncing teams almost by himself, only a goal here or there scored by someone else. There’s a buzz about the team that Keeley’s never seen before, increasing with each passing game.

She should be thrilled. And she is, partially. She’s glad they’re doing well, and that merch and ticket sales are raking in cash. But as the Richmond faithful’s excitement rises, so does Keeley’s unease.

She hadn’t noticed it at first, Jamie’s lagging, and when she did, she’d chalked it up to growing pains from being dropped down to midfield. While he’d played that position as a child, she knows — how not, when he idolized the great Roy Kent? — he’d never done so professionally, so it would only be natural for him to chafe against it at first.

Except it doesn’t get better. In fact, it gets worse. His passes get intercepted, he veers out of position, and instead of keeping his nose to the grindstone and letting his talent speak for itself, he lets his frustration ooze out onto the pitch. He’s never been that kind of player, the one to get angry and aggressive, yet there he is down below in two straight matches having a yellow card shoved in his face by the referee. And there Zava is without a care in the world, reveling in the masses' appreciation, because he doesn’t pass the ball anyway, so it makes no never mind to him whether Jamie gets carded or not.

It churns her stomach.

At half, Keeley turns to Rebecca next to her. “How is Zava … fitting in? Everything okay?”

“I’d say so,” Rebecca replies as she gestures to the scoreboard. She grins then, a common sight since Richmond began its win streak. “Rupert must be shitting himself. Zava’s been a godsend. He’s in love with himself, but he’s moving us up the table.”

Well, she can’t argue with that. Zava gets results, as promised.

The team topples Brentford, as it did Wolverhampton and Burnley and Crystal Palace and Leeds and even the mighty Manchester United. Keeley has never seen Rebecca so happy and buoyant. Ted has the media eating out of his hand as usual, and the players all seem thrilled during their interviews.

And she might believe the rest of them, but she watches Jamie on the pitch and she watches him in post-game pressers, and he’s just … off. He’s a good actor, always has been; probably most people wouldn’t see past the marble mask he hides behind. She does, though. She’s had far too much experience chipping away at that particular block of marble, and even from the other side of the telly she can see the hairline cracks in it that herald imminent collapse.

It’s Shandy, in the end, who finally forces her hand. Keeley’s attention is elsewhere most of the night when they all meet up at Sam’s restaurant after Brentford, and while she clocks Jamie sitting in the corner table by himself, she doesn’t get the chance to talk to him most of the evening.

But as the event winds down, oh, she notices him then. Rather, she notices Shandy zero in on him and begin chatting him up, her charm and Jamie’s intrigue visible from across the room. For all that Keeley instigates a toast with Rebecca, a celebration of the things ahead, she can’t get the sight out of her mind. Not even so much the interaction itself as the way Jamie’s face had lit up.

He responds well to positive reinforcement, she’d told Ted once, and it’s as true now as it was then. Some positive words from Shandy, and Jamie’s all ears.

“Give me a sec,” Keeley tells Rebecca once Shandy steps away with a lingering hand on Jamie’s shoulder.

Rebecca raises a judgmental eyebrow, even as she dutifully takes Keeley’s champagne glass. “What was it you said about leaving things behind?”

Keeley doesn’t dignify that with a response.

Instead, she makes her way to Jamie’s table, where he’s finishing up the remnants of supper. “Can I sit?” she asks.

Looking rather like a deer in the headlights, he swallows his mouthful of food and nods. “Are you — is something wrong?”

“Maybe this isn’t the best time to bring this up,” she says, “but I think we need to talk. Finally.”

Jamie averts his eyes, instantly growing uncomfortable. “Oh. Yeah.”

“I know you have West Ham coming up, so just … whenever.”

“You haven’t — I mean, is your number the same?”

“Don’t tell me you deleted it again.”

Jamie gives her a sheepish smile. “No. I’ve got it.”

She knows she’s different. She knows she’s not the same person she was three years ago. Which she takes plenty of pride in — though Rebecca had been instrumental in helping her move onwards and upwards, Keeley knows her own gumption and ambition did the rest. If she hadn’t scaled Rebecca’s walls as Ted encouraged her to, if she hadn’t reached out to Rebecca at the gala, if she hadn’t set up Jamie’s promo shoot, Rebecca probably would’ve continued to look right past her.

Now here she is, the owner of her own PR firm, miles away from who she used to be.

And here Shandy is, reminding her of how far she’s come. Which is a good thing, mostly. But there’s a certain kind of yearning there, too, that she hadn’t realized she had until Shandy reentered her life.

They’d been thick as thieves, the two of them, traded trashy gossip from shoots like it was the morning paper. Helped each other through breakups, shared stories good and bad about previous partners, playfully slagged the other off.

Now, it feels like putting a shoe on the wrong foot. Had Shandy always been so … not shy? She seems so much bolder and wilder than Keeley remembers. Or had she always been that way, and Keeley, too?

It’s taken some getting used to. But if Rebecca could bring Keeley to where she is now, then Keeley hopes she can do the same for Shandy. Boldness aside, she knows the woman has a lot of ideas — some more viable than others, perhaps — and a lot to contribute.

It helps a little that for the most part, Keeley’s old life and her new haven’t otherwise intersected very much. Most of the gigs the VC firm has her going after aren’t the types of gigs she would do as a sort-of-famous-for-being-almost-famous pinup.

With Richmond, there’s even more of a gap. Sure, Keeley hadn’t always had a professional relationship with them. For six months she’d been nothing more than Jamie Tartt’s Hot Girlfriend. But she’s moved past that, they’ve moved past that, and sometimes she wonders if they consciously remember she was Jamie Tartt’s Hot Girlfriend at all.

Shandy has even less of that. She knows the team now, but only professionally, and for half of them she still has trouble putting a face to a name. So it’s easy to separate past from present where Shandy’s concerned.

At least, she’d thought so.

“Hey, can I ask you a question?” Shandy asks a few days after Brentford. They’ve still got most of the team to get through regarding interview requests, and it’s going slower than Keeley would like; she’s more than happy to break for lunch. It’s not like the work is going anywhere.

“Of course you can. What’s up?”

“You and J … you’re like over over, right?”

Keeley raises an eyebrow. Of all the questions she thought Shandy might ask, that was not one of them. “Do you not remember the hour you spent on the phone talking to me after I broke up with him? Twice?”

“No, yeah, but I mean like you don’t want to get back with him, do you?”

“Why?”

“Okay, look, you know what I thought of him when you were dating. Fit as fuck but a wanker, like all of ’em.”

Keeley rolls her eyes. “Don’t think you have room to talk, Shandy. Your boyfriends —”

“I see it now, is all,” Shandy says quickly. “All that time you went on about how he ‘wasn’t like that with me’ and ‘there’s more to him,’ and all that shit, I thought you were mental. But you weren’t. Night and bloody day he is, from back then. And you knew it the whole time.”

“What exactly are you asking?”

“I just want to know if I can bang him, babe,” Shandy says with a snap of her gum.

Keeley stares at her. “I — really? Jamie?”

Shandy shrugs. “Can I?”

“Um. I mean, yeah, I guess,” Keeley says. “If you want.”

Shandy grins the sort of grin Keeley’s seen a million times before, the one that rarely fails to get her what she wants. “Good. It’s been ages since I’ve been properly railed and you always said —”

“I know what I said.”

Normally, Jamie preferred for her to take the lead. They both did. But sometimes a change of pace is nice. It’s that which flashes into her brain now, the feeling of him pressing her against her bedroom wall, his fingers bruising her hips, his teeth leaving a mark on her neck that makeup struggled to cover. It was novel, it was fervent, and it was fucking hot.

Keeley clears her throat, ridding herself of the memory with some difficulty. Unperturbed, Shandy flicks open the top button of her blouse, leaving a bit less to the imagination. “Wait, now?” Keeley objects. “Shandy, we’re at work.”

“So I’ll cut my lunch hour short,” Shandy says dismissively. “Wish me luck, yeah?”

Keeley reels as she watches Shandy head Jamie’s way. Work impropriety notwithstanding, she has no reason to dissuade Shandy from her mission, and moreover it’s a courtesy Shandy hadn’t needed to give her at all.

So she can’t quite explain why her stomach ties itself in knots, nor why she has the urge to point Shandy in the direction of one of the other footballers. There’s no shortage to choose from, after all, and none of them are ones Keeley has dated.

Yet it’s there all the same, the discomfort, and it only worsens when she sees Jamie laugh at something Shandy says, giving her his full attention as he had at the restaurant.

Keeley quickly, decisively, packs up her things, scrawling a quick note to Shandy and sticking it to the chair. She knows Rebecca’s in meetings all day, which means her office is free for Keeley’s taking.

She could use the peace and quiet anyway.

Can I come round?

Jamie’s text catches her by surprise, even though it probably shouldn’t, considering she’d been the one who told him to pick a time, any time, to come by. But between being swamped with work and her assumption that after the walloping the team suffered at the hands (or feet) of West Ham his mind would be elsewhere, she’d forgotten all about it.

Which puts her immediately on edge, because she’s very much not prepared.

She hasn’t been properly alone with Jamie since the promotion celebration, and she doesn’t have a clue as to how to broach the actual football of it all. He’d always been prickly when he didn’t play up to his own standards, and this is far beyond that. He hasn’t just been playing below his standards, he’s been playing below everyone’s standards.

She puts on her best and brightest smile when the doorbell rings, greeting him with a hug inversely enthusiastic to the conversation she needs but dreads. He loosely hugs her back with a quiet, “Hey, Keeley.”

He looks awful. The fact that he bears it so openly to her makes it all the worse. “Here, come inside,” she says. “Do you want some tea? Kettle should be ready soon.”

“Yeah, sure.”

She pours them both a cup and takes a seat on the couch. Dully, Jamie asks, “So, you wanted to talk?”

“In a minute.”

It is what she wants, and it’s what she asked him here for. But the look on his face is sheer devastation, nowhere near the kind of look she would expect for a discussion about what happened at the funeral.

“Okay, what, then?”

She leans over and gently prods his ribs where she knows he’d taken a hard fall, then the scrape on his cheekbone from the scuffle. “This. I’m worried, Jamie.”

Jamie hunches in on himself. “I know my game’s been shit.”

“No, I’m worried about you. You’re fighting, you’re losing the ball, sometimes I barely recognize you on the pitch.” She tucks a piece of hair behind her ear. “I know things are weird between us, but you can still talk to me.”

His eyes search hers, gray meeting green. Slowly, the guardedness fades away, leaving only pain. “They’re gonna transfer me. Soon as the window’s here, I’m gone.”

Keeley nearly chokes on her tea. “What? Why would you say that?”

“Heard Ms. Welton talking with Higgins about money, how the club is strapped.”

“They said they’re going to transfer you?”

“Not specifically,” Jamie allows. “But it’s what’s best, everyone knows that. There ain’t a place for me at striker anymore, I’m fucking terrible at midfield, and the chances on goal I do get are stolen anyway. I’m a liability, and so’s my salary.”

“That is not going to happen. Even if Rebecca wanted to, Ted wouldn’t stand for it.”

Jamie scoffs. “Ted transferred me once, why wouldn’t he do it again?”

“That — this is different. It’s not like it was with Man City.”

“Close enough. Point is, they’ll put the club above me. Which they should.”

“So that’s why you’ve been playing badly? Because you think they’ll transfer you?” she asks. Jamie’s hands are clenched so tightly around his cup that she’s afraid it’ll shatter. Carefully she wrests the cup from him and squeezes his hand in its place. “It’s not like you to roll over. Come on, there’s something else.”

Jamie’s voice is small. “It’s not fair.”

“What’s not fair?”

“Zava.” Jamie spits the name, and then the words come fast and bitter. “I know I was a selfish prick when I first came to Richmond, yeah, but he’s worse and everyone loves him anyway. Ted gives him whatever he wants. I got sent away, but not Zava. He gets more and more, and then there’s fucking Dad, he —”

“He came to see you?” she asks, horrified.

“No, just … just texts and some calls.”

There’s no “just” about it, as far as she’s concerned. She flashes back to the night of the game at Wembley, how utterly destroyed Jamie had been. She’d hoped he had blocked James’s number after that. Then again, who knows what James would do if he couldn’t reach his son on the phone.

Jamie rakes a hand through his hair. “It’s stupid, I’m being stupid. Be a team player, right, that’s what I’m supposed to do? What happens to me don’t matter, ’s long as the team does good.”

“Of course it matters, Jamie. I’ll talk to Rebecca. You are not going anywhere, I promise.”

He stares at her, eyes wide and shiny with unshed tears. “Yeah?”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“’Cause of … what happened.”

Oh. That.

I love you, Keeley. Sorry.

“Guess we never finished that talk.”

“Weren’t much else to say, was there?” he asks.

“No,” she says, working past the sudden hollow feeling in her gut, “there wasn’t.”

“Look, can we just … forget it happened? I miss you. As a friend, I mean. Nothing else.”

It’s not “nothing else,” really, if he feels the same as he did four months ago. Which she has to presume he does, or else he’d say otherwise. But she’s bloody tired of walking on eggshells and suffering this gulf between them.

Because she misses him, too. She misses rolling her eyes at his arrogance and she misses the way he can make her laugh and she misses how he says her name and she misses the depths of him that so often he only lets be seen by her.

Besides, in the grand scheme of things, so what if he’s in love with her? He’d said himself that he doesn’t expect anything, that his offer of friendship isn’t predicated on it leading to something more. If he can sidestep his feelings, well, so can she.

There isn’t Roy to consider anymore either, at least not as much as there was then, the realization of which — somewhat guiltily — lifts a weight off her shoulders. She has only herself to consider now; there’s no fretting that Jamie’s head will be shoved through a wall or her being looked at like she’d done something.

“Yeah, forget it,” she says, surprised at how much she means it. She squeezes his hand again and affixes him with a glare. “Now, what are you going to do about your game?”

“Roy’s training me, he thinks that’ll help.”

That’s news she wouldn’t have thought she’d hear in a million years. “He’s training you?”

“Started after Brentford. Mostly he yells and sends me on runs. Says it’s ‘foundational’ and we’ll get to the football later.”

“Don’t get caught up in all that,” she says. “Anger worked for Roy, he used it to ground himself. Still does. But that’s not you, Jamie. You can succeed without it.”

“At striker, maybe. Not at midfield. I’m rubbish back there. You’ve seen it.”

“No, I’ve seen you half-ass it. You’ve let Zava get in your head and it’s distracted you. You’re using your new position as an excuse.”

He lets out an indignant squawk. “An excuse —?”

“Fuck Zava,” she continues. “Fuck your dad and everything else. It’s all just noise. Play your way, the way I know you can. The rest will follow.”

“Yeah,” Jamie says. “Yeah, okay.”

“Good.”

He lingers to drain the remainder of his tea, then gets to his feet and pulls her to hers. He takes her in for a moment. Perhaps she should feel discomfited or that it’s stepping over a line, but she just feels … well, she doesn’t quite know what, but discomfited isn’t it.

This time without hesitation, he leans down and draws her into a hug, arms tight around her. In her ear, he murmurs, “Thanks, Keeley.”

She smiles against his chest, inhaling the scent of his expensive detergent and cheap body spray. It’s pungent and atrocious, but so achingly familiar that she can’t bring herself to pull away.

Ted Lasso fic: Tightrope

metamorphagi — Wed, 20 Sep 2023 00:10:16 GMT

Story Title: Tightrope
Fandom(s): Ted Lasso
Rating: PG
Word Count: 3,186
Summary: Alarmed, she takes in the blotchy pallor of his skin, the tight, brittle set of his mouth, his body wound taut as a string. It all combines to open up a black hole in the pit of her stomach — she’s seen a similar look on him before. It scared her a year and a half ago in Jamie’s stark white kitchen, and it scares her now.
Author’s Notes: Throwing my hat in the ring of fics dealing with the aftermath of Man City that we should’ve gotten but didn’t.

The match is a shitshow. A slaughter. A catastrophe.

Sam had a good defensive maneuver in the first half and Jamie had a decent chance on goal in the second, but she’d barely call those bright spots, and would struggle mightily to say there were any others. If she is feeling gutted by the loss, she can’t fathom how Roy and the rest of the team must be feeling. To lose is one thing, to lose big is another, but to lose big at Wembley in the FA Cup, to Jamie’s former team no less, is in a league of its own.

Rebecca joins her down at the exit to the dressing rooms, for moral support more than anything else. Keeley scans each somber player that passes through the doors, frown deepening the longer she doesn’t see Roy. She doesn’t see Beard either, but his absence she at least gets an answer for: An uncharacteristically distracted Ted informs one of the assistant coaches that he’s taking a walk, or so she overhears.

Her frown deepens when Isaac, the last straggler, walks up to her, hands stuffed in the pockets of his zip-up and a dark, acidic glower on his face. “Roy wanted me to ask if you could get a lift home with Rebecca. He wants to take the car.”

“Why?” Roy is no stranger to seething after a bad loss, but he’s never avoided it, let alone with her. On the contrary, usually he has plenty of things to say.

“Dunno,” says Isaac, in the kind of tone that tells her he knows exactly why. He glances over his shoulder at the bus. “I should get back to the team.”

Keeley nods. As much as her curiosity and dread are rising, she trusts that once Roy gets home, he’ll fill her in. “All right. Thank you, Isaac.”

She considers offering some condolences, but refrains. She doubts any of the players would take that to heart, and Isaac more than anyone feels the weight of losses. As captain, it’s his responsibility to feel such things. As a firebrand, he would feel them anyway.

Rebecca obliges her the lift, and it’s only once they’re on the motorway that Keeley realizes there’s one other person she hadn’t seen: Jamie.

She gets an explanatory text ten minutes later — at least, as explanatory as Roy’s texts ever are.

jamie’s with me. talk later

Keeley reads the message four times, trying and failing to make sense of it.

“Everything all right?” Rebecca prompts.

“Not sure. Roy says he’s got Jamie with him.”

Rebecca blinks. “He’s got who with him?”

“Jamie,” she repeats. “Something must’ve happened in the dressing room.”

“Like what?”

“No idea. I’ll text you when I figure that out.”

“Well, let me know if there’s anything I can do,” Rebecca says. “Really, anything.”

“I will — oh!” Keeley exclaims, remembering there is some other business that is very much unfinished, “Don’t think I’ve forgotten about your date.”

She can’t quite tell in the dimness of the car, but she’s pretty sure Rebecca blushes. “You’ve got more important things to worry about now. That can wait.”

“Not for long,” Keeley warns, leveling Rebecca with a glare. “You’re going to spill whether you want to or not.”

It isn’t that far from Wembley to her house, in the grand scheme of things. But when one is waiting for something, an hour can feel like a lifetime. No further text comes from Roy, leaving her mind to run rampant with possibilities. Worse still is when Rebecca’s driver finally does make it to the house, because it means Keeley has to wait — and wait, and wait — for Roy and Jamie to come back, with not so much as a recounting of Rebecca’s date to pull her focus.

Which means her nerves and curiosity are just about shot by the time they do arrive, the headlights of Roy’s car shining into the living room as they’ve done a million times before. When she opens the front door, Roy looks more or less as he always does: cross, with a side of impatience.

But Jamie …

Alarmed, she takes in the blotchy pallor of his skin, the tight, brittle set of his mouth, his body wound taut as a string. It all combines to open up a black hole in the pit of her stomach — she’s seen a similar look on him before. Only once, but there’s no doubt in her mind as to why it’s there.

It scared her a year and a half ago in his stark white kitchen, and it scares her now.

Her voice comes out almost shrill. “Hi! Guest room is —”

“Upstairs to the right,” Jamie fills in dully. “I remember.”

She waits for him to pad miserably in that direction and turn the shower on, then asks Roy, “It’s his dad, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, you could say that,” he replies with a humorless laugh. “How’d you know?”

The hole widens. She’d hoped she was wrong. “Lucky guess.”

Roy tilts his head in interest. “Have you met him?”

“No, I haven’t even seen a picture. I’d said once that since I’d met his mum I should meet his dad, too, and he just … lost it.” A chill washes over her at the memory. “He’d never snapped at me like that before. Or since.”

“He did what?”

“Not like that,” she assures. “He wasn’t angry, he was … scared.”

More like fucking terrified.

She hadn’t wanted to think too hard back then about what it meant that Jamie reacted so strongly to the mere possibility of her meeting his dad. She hadn’t had the bandwidth to deal with it. She doesn’t have to think about it now either — Roy’s face says it all.

She steps forward to wrap her arms around him; whatever had gone on, it had clearly rattled him, too. He slowly relaxes into the hug, muscles unwinding. After several minutes, the sound of running water shuts off, and Roy pulls back. He seems less primed for a fight, which she considers a win.

Gesturing upstairs, she says, “I should probably check on him. See where his head’s at.”

“Good luck.” Roy’s brow is furrowed in concern she wouldn’t have thought in a million years would be for Jamie, of all people. “I’ll make some tea.”

She doubts Jamie will want tea, but she knows Roy needs to feel useful, so she gives him what smile she can muster and pecks his cheek in acknowledgement. As he steps into the kitchen, Keeley heads up the stairs to the guest room.

“Jamie?” she calls, rapping on the door. “Can I come in?”

“It’s your house.” He sounds spent.

He looks it, too. Despite being freshly showered, his eyes are red and his knees are drawn up to his chest as he leans against the bed’s headboard. She takes a seat next to him, only now noticing the awkward way his hand rests on the comforter, fingers half-curled. Gingerly, she picks it up to examine. His knuckles are abraded and swollen, and when she brushes her thumb across them, he lets out a sharp yelp, reflexively jerking his arm back. She hopes he’d had it X-rayed before they left Wembley — Roy’s knee is proof enough of what happens when an injury goes ignored.

“We should put some ice on that. It’ll be worse if we don’t.”

Jamie bristles. “’M fine, Keeley. I ain’t a fucking child.”

He grabs his mobile from the bedside table to mindlessly, masochistically cycle through half a dozen social media apps, all of which seem to have as many posts about him specifically — rather, his performance — as the team itself. It pains her to see him like this, to think of the calamitous circumstances that had to occur to make him this way.

She plucks the phone from him and pokes him in the ribs. “Stop that. You are not fine. And you don’t have to be.”

“Yeah, I do. I should be.”

“No, you shouldn’t.”

Jamie drops his eyes, but not quickly enough to hide the fresh tears that well there, nor the wet hiccup dragged from his chest.

Keeley squeezes his knee. “Hey. You don’t have to pretend, Jamie. Not with me.”

“I know.”

“Good. Do you want me to give you some space?”

Jamie takes a shuddering breath, holds it, then lets it back out. “No, not really.”

She thought as much. A fool could see he’s currently holding himself together with string and sellotape. If her company can provide him some small bit of solace, she’s not about to refuse it.

Jamie eases himself down with his back to her, grunting a little in pain at the movement. She places her hand on his side and lets the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest remind her that he’s alive, he’s safe. For tonight, at least, James can no longer reach him.

Roy passes the room once, peering inside with a cup of tea as promised, the concerned frown still on his face. She mouths, “In a minute,” and he dutifully steps out of the doorframe and down the hall to her bedroom.

When finally the stiff tension leeches from Jamie’s body as he slips into well-deserved sleep, she carefully wriggles free of him. She winces as the mattress shifts beneath her, but Jamie doesn’t stir. It’s no wonder, she thinks; between the match and the confrontation, he must be exhausted. She grabs some ibuprofen from the medicine cabinet, fills a glass of water, and places both on the bedside table.

At the lightswitch, she pauses. It had always caught her off-guard how young he looked when he slept, his face smoothed of a smirk or worry or fatigue or a chip on his shoulder. So does it now — like this, he’s just a boy from North Manchester with the world at his feet.

Roy glances up from the latest novel he’s a decade too late to when she makes her way to the bedroom, though by the expression on his face and the page to which the book is opened, she doesn’t think he’s actually read much of it in the past hour.

“How is he?” Roy asks.

“Sleeping.” Keeley closes the door. “So, what happened? Jamie wasn’t exactly forthcoming on details.”

“Don’t know what he thought would fucking happen, getting his dad tickets and letting him in the dressing room like that.” Roy snaps the book shut and tosses it aside with a thump. “Little prick never stood a chance, did he? You should’ve seen him. Just shut down, let himself be torn apart. The shit his father was saying to him, it …”

Roy doesn’t finish his sentence, clenching his jaw so hard she can hear the grinding of his teeth.

“Jamie … doesn’t do well with conflict.” She thinks about how he’d reacted to the texts James had sent, how he’d flinched when the mugs broke. “His dad turns him into a kid again.”

“Looked like he was fucking twelve.”

“I saw his hand,” she says. “Is that what ended things?”

“Yeah. Piece of shit took a shot at the team, and Jamie popped him.” A hint of a smile quirks Roy’s lips. “Couldn’t’ve done it better myself.”

Maybe she should feel proud, or relieved, but all she feels is sorrow. For Jamie to reach such a breaking point as to hit anyone, let alone his own father, no wonder he looked like he’d been put through a meat grinder.

“I should’ve known,” Roy murmurs. “I’m his coach. I was his captain. How did I not notice?”

“I’ve been asking myself the same thing,” she admits. “I dated him for six months and he never let on. I figured his dad was a dick, but not like this. Jamie hid it from everyone, even me.”

Worry and doubt pass over Roy’s face in equal measure. “Think he’ll be okay?”

“Eventually. He’s resilient, that one.”

Roy takes a beat. All the compassion, sadness, and satisfaction that had colored his voice in turn during their conversation vanish, leaving only ice. “If I ever see that man again, I’ll kill him, Keeley. I swear to god, I’ll fucking kill him.”

She wakes before Roy’s alarm goes off, as ever unable to make her brain realize that it’s a Sunday and she can have a lie-in. She doesn’t have to get out of bed just yet, at least; Roy, however, has an unpleasant day ahead of watching game film from last night’s disaster. Keeley offers him a sympathetic peck as he heads out, not particularly envying him having to go back and analyze everything that went wrong.

The door to the guest bedroom remains shut half an hour later when she ambles downstairs to put on a pot of coffee, which is a surprise. Rarely a deep sleeper to begin with, Jamie had always roused at the crack of dawn. She could probably count on one hand the number of times he even made it to seven thirty. Yet the door is closed, with no sign it had ever been opened at all.

While the coffee percolates, she pulls out her mobile and types out a text to Rebecca with the promised explanation.

So, last night: I don’t know all the details, but there was a confrontation with Jamie’s dad in the dressing room. It was pretty bad.

The reply is as instantaneous as it is succinct.

Leave it to me. This will not happen again.

Keeley exhales. She doesn’t know exactly what Rebecca plans to do, but if Rebecca says it’ll be taken care of, then it will.

As though aware he’s become the topic of conversation, Jamie promptly wanders into the kitchen. “Morning,” she greets, stowing her mobile. “I made some coffee. Do you want any?”

He looks only marginally less wrecked than he did last night, but that’s better than the alternative. “Sure.”

She obliges, pulling down from the cabinet the mug adorned with foul-mouthed songbirds that once had all but had his name on it. She scrunches up her nose as she pours in coffee and nothing else; she’s never understood how he can enjoy it black. “How’d you sleep?”

“Yeah, good. Fine.”

As he brings the mug up to take a sip, she catches sight of his hand. Unlike his face, it looks far worse than it did last night, his knuckles now mottled blue and purple. It may well be too late, but she quickly goes to the freezer, withdraws a bag of peas, and wraps it in a towel.

“Put this on your hand,” she orders.

“I don’t —”

“Do not argue with me.”

He reluctantly does as he’s bid, wincing at the pressure and the cold. He meets her eyes for just a moment when she joins him at the table before averting them. “Listen, I, uh. I wanted to say thanks. For … y’know.”

“It’s the least I could do.” She gauges his expression, then ventures, “Why didn’t you tell me, Jamie? All that time and I never knew.”

Jamie’s fingers tense around his mug. “Why would I?”

“So you wouldn’t have to deal with it by yourself, obviously.”

“I deserved to.”

With great difficulty, she refrains from voicing any objection to that. He wouldn’t take it well, and the last thing she wants to do right now is have him put his guard up.

“You still should have told me.”

He stares down into the black depths of his coffee. “You were the only thing in my life he hadn’t touched, Keeley. I couldn’t keep him away from me, or Mum, or football, but I could keep him the fuck away from you.”

“I could’ve handled it.”

“I know. But I couldn’t. And I didn’t want you to treat me like you are now.”

“How am I treating you?”

“With fucking … pity.”

“Okay, first of all, I am not. As for last night, anyone would’ve reacted the way you did. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.” She reaches across the table to hold his good hand in both of hers. “I mean it. It takes a lot of strength to come out the other side of something like that.”

“S’pose.” He glances around, as if only just noticing they’re the only ones in the house. “Roy here?”

“No, he’s at the club. Film day.”

“Oh, right.” He sounds relieved.

“Why, are you avoiding him?”

Color rises in Jamie’s cheeks. “Trying to. Don’t know what I’m supposed to say after — that. I bloody cried.”

“Have you met Roy?” Keeley asks. “He wouldn’t start that conversation if you paid him.”

Silence falls between them, a comfortable one, punctuated only by the quiet ticking of the clock on the wall and the birds chittering outside. She’d forgotten about this, the ease she used to feel with him when there were no cameras or fans or teammates to rile up. Not that the calm ever lasted, of course. Sooner or later, Jamie realized he was allowing his soft center to be glimpsed, and as abruptly as a spooked horse, he would pull away like it was some kind of character flaw to show vulnerability. That it was her alone to see it didn’t seem to matter.

Round and round and round it went.

For so long, she’d desperately wanted to know why he kept those walls unscalable, why he panicked at letting her in too far. Now she does, and part of her wishes she didn’t.

“So,” she says, quelling her spiral, “do you have any plans today?”

To her surprise, he smiles. “Yeah. Mum fixed it with work to come down. She texted about the loss, asked if I were free.”

The reason for the visit aside, Keeley’s glad for it. Not only that he’ll have someone to look after him, but that the rift between the two of them has continued to mend. “Tell her hi from me.”

“I will.”

She startles as the honk of a car horn outside blares into the kitchen. “Who —?”

“I called a taxi,” Jamie says. “Gotta get my car from the club.”

“You called a taxi for that? Don’t be silly, I’ll take you.”

Jamie’s good humor fades. “Had enough charity, I think.”

A lift isn’t charity, but she sees the strain in his expression, the tension beginning to seep into his shoulders, so she backs down. “All right, well … drive safe then.”

He rolls his eyes. “I can manage.”

The taxi honks again. Jamie quickly drains the rest of his coffee, sets the mug in the sink, and heads to the door. She follows, giving him a tight, brief hug. “Don’t ever forget you have people who care about you,” she says. “And don’t let your dad get in your head either, okay? He isn’t worth it.”

Jamie holds her gaze, searching for something there. Whatever it is he was looking for, he apparently finds it, for a moment later he takes a decisive step back. With that, he hoists his duffel over his shoulder, and then he’s gone.

It isn’t until she’s stripping the linens from his bed that she realizes he’d never answered.

Ted Lasso fanvid: I’m Still Here

metamorphagi — Tue, 19 Sep 2023 23:58:03 GMT

Video Title: I’m Still Here
Fandom(s): Ted Lasso
Rating: G
Length: 3:13
Summary: How can they say I never change?
They’re the ones that stay the same
I’m the one now ’cause I’m still here

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Ted Lasso fanvid: White Flag

metamorphagi — Tue, 19 Sep 2023 23:54:46 GMT

Video Title: White Flag
Fandom(s): Ted Lasso
Rating: G
Length: 3:01
Summary: I’m in love and always will be

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Once Upon a Time fic: The Silent Saying and Saying

metamorphagi — Tue, 14 Dec 2021 10:27:57 GMT

Story Title: The Silent Saying and Saying
Fandom(s): Once Upon a Time
Rating: G
Word Count: 5,933
Summary: She didn’t plan on falling for him. In fact, between the trauma of losing Daniel and Robin and the whole he-looks-exactly-like-her-son’s-stepfather thing, the very notion was so preposterous as to not even occur to her. And then Alice shows up, and he almost dies, and things become a little less clear.
Author’s Notes: H/t to @spartanguard on Tumblr for this most excellent tattoo headcanon, and to @queen-mabs-revenge and @bleebug who (I think) originated most of the Mama Jones headcanons in this. Might at some point write parts of the other 10-plus years they spent together, but for now this is a standalone.

She doesn’t put the pieces together at first. Coming across Drizella had distracted her, diverted her attention, so she hardly thinks about the tower itself until she wends her way back into the camp. She spies Hook engaged in a combat lesson with Henry, grins on both their faces, and her heart sinks into the pit of her stomach as the realization sets in.

That wasn’t just any tower in the woods. It was Alice’s.

Alice’s, and razed to the ground with no sign of the girl herself. Hook had told her of its impenetrable enchantment — blood magic, the strongest magic there is — so if Alice is no longer there … the possible explanations are not good.

It’s easy to deflect, when later he asks her where she’d been, for all she has to do is mention that she’d met Rumple. Since this Hook’s only experiences with any Rumplestiltskin have been antagonistic, it has the desired effect and he goes off to brood. But like most things, it only delays the inevitable. Her escapade that night to try to stop Drizella from killing her mother does not go unnoticed.

“Tiana told me the scouts saw you going off alone to Lady Tremaine’s castle,” Hook chastises the following morning. “You lied to me.”

“I didn’t lie,” she says. “I omitted. What I told you about meeting Rumple was the truth.”

“Not the whole truth.” There’s hurt mixed in with the irritation. “Since when do you keep secrets?”

From me, hangs unsaid in the air, and it’s that which convinces her to regale him with the encounter in its entirety.

Well, almost. She needs time to think of a delicate way to break the worst news, now that she can’t avoid it completely, so she carefully leaves out where she’d had the encounter, simply that it was a dilapidated structure. Unfortunately, Hook is too curious for Regina’s own good, made more so by the fact that he knows every single inch of this particular section of woods they’re currently camped in. A boon for the resistance; not so much for Regina.

Wariness drips from his voice when he asks, “Say again, where did you find her? Some random building?”

“Well, it … it wasn’t just a building, exactly,” she admits. “It was a tower.”

Hook instantly seizes upon that. “A tower?”

“Yes.”

The wariness devolves into dread, blood draining from his face. “And this tower that you went to … you say it was in ruins?”

God, what she wouldn’t give to spare him this. “Place was completely destroyed.”

The pure devastation that overwhelms him pricks her eyes with tears. He deserves better than to be kept in the dark, but she wishes she had, if only to not shatter his hope. She has no idea what to say, what to do. Would he even want comfort from her? Her who told him of this, her whose child is with her day in and day out, whom she can hug as tightly and as often as she wishes?

She’s debating her next move when —

“Papa?”

They are no longer alone: A beautiful young woman with tangled curls and a shy smile stands in the clearing, Henry and Ella trailing behind her. Regina doesn’t have to wonder long who the girl is. The resemblance she has to her father is undeniable, as is the love between them.

“Alice?” Hook breathes. “Alice, is it really you?”

“Yes, yes it’s me!” Alice sounds like she’s not sure whether to laugh or cry. “But is it really you? You’re so young.”

“It was magic, I just —” Hook circles her at a distance. “Alice, what happened? How did you escape the tower without me?”

“It’s a long story, Papa, but … well, I’m here now.” She takes a step towards Hook, arms outstretched. “Come here.”

He all but jumps away. “No, no, don’t. You know my heart is poisoned. You can’t come near me.”

“No, it’s okay!” Alice exclaims. “I found a cure. I’ve been shielded.”

“A cure?”

“Yes, Papa.”

Hook breaks into a grin so full of joy and relief that Regina’s never seen its equal. Without any further hesitation, he goes to wrap Alice up in his arms the way he’s longed to do for decades. “I’ve missed you so much.”

No sooner do they embrace than he is flung backwards with such force that Regina can hear the air shift.

She moves before his body hits the ground. “Hook!”

She drops to her knees at his side, hands fluttering over him not entirely sure where to settle. He’s screaming in pain; she doesn’t want to hurt him more. Alice is screaming, too, confused by her purported cure not working, wanting nothing more than her father and the hug they nearly had. As the green lighting up Hook’s chest glows brighter, Alice runs off with a heartbroken sob.

Regina’s eyes remain trained on Hook as she commands Henry and Ella, “Go after her! I’ll take care of Hook.”

How exactly she’ll be able to do that, she doesn’t have a clue. She knows hearts, better than probably anyone alive, but his is beyond her. It’s like there’s a lock on it she can’t pick, whose only key is in Gothel’s hands. Regina had even tried removing his heart to circumvent the curse, the way she did with Marian’s, in the hopes that while it would only be a temporary solution and not without its downsides, at least he’d be able to be around Alice without dying.

For a moment, she’d thought it worked. She’d reached into his chest and closed around his heart — and then it was like her hand was set ablaze, his heart turning white-hot in her grip, and she herself was flung backwards. She’d tried again, once, twice, thrice, making no more progress than the first time, until Hook finally took hold of her arm and told her to stop.

It’s not often that she’s rendered helpless, and she hates it.

With Hook’s chest still glowing green, albeit slightly fainter than when Alice was near, she places her hand on his cheek. “Hey, you still with me?”

“Alice. Where’s Alice?”

“I sent Henry and Ella after her,” Regina says. “They’ll find her, I promise. Now, we need to get you help. Stay here, I’m going to bring the doctor.”

“She can’t do anything for me. This is dark magic, not science, you know that.”

“I’m not just going to sit here and watch you suffer. Don’t move.”

Without waiting for him to reply — frankly, she doubts he could move very far even if he wanted to — she sprints the length of the camp and barges into the medical tent. The doctor is in the middle of stitching up a cut on someone, nearly stabbing the person in surprise at Regina’s abrupt arrival.

“Your Majesty, how can —”

Impatiently, she waves her hand and the patient’s cut is healed. “Hook needs you,” she urges. “Alice came here, she thought her heart was shielded.”

The doctor’s eyes go wide. “Surely they didn’t touch?”

“Yes. Briefly. He’s … I told you, he needs help. Please.”

Barely waiting for her to grab her medical kit, Regina all but drags her to the woods, where Hook has managed to prop himself up against a tree. He looks half a corpse, his skin white as a sheet, his face and chest sheened with sweat, his breath coming in rattling gasps. Regina watches the doctor go through the motions of checking Hook’s pulse and breathing, and palpating his torso for any other wounds.

“Some superficial contusions, from the fall,” the doctor concludes after what feels like hours. She sighs, gravely glancing first at Regina then at Hook. “It’s your heart I’m worried about, captain. It has an irregular beat. From my research and what you’ve told me in the past about this poison, I believe once the impact from this latest wound subsides in a day or so, the irregularity will be manageable. However, I fear if this happens once more, twice if you’re lucky, your heart will give out permanently.”

The diagnosis was expected, nothing any of the rest of them couldn’t have guessed, but hearing it aloud from someone who knows what they’re talking about makes it all the more real. “So there’s nothing you can do?” Hook asks.

“I can give you something for the scrapes, but no, there is nothing I can do for the poison without an antidote. I am truly sorry.”

Hook turns his head away, though not before Regina sees tears welling in his eyes. From pain or misery, she doesn’t know. Perhaps both.

To her, the doctor gives a small bottle of gin (high-proof, from the smell of it) and a few squares of fabric. “For the other injuries.”

The woman is trying to be helpful, so Regina refrains from reminding her that Hook has lived for centuries, during which time he’s been stabbed and sliced and beaten and had his hand cut off. There’s a better chance of him using the supplies for tinder than for himself.

“It’s okay, we’ve got all of that here.”

The doctor opens her mouth to say more, but Regina can’t conceive of anything that could possibly make the situation better, so with a flick of her wrist and a purple puff of smoke, she returns her from whence she came.

Regina walks over to Hook and kneels down beside him. “You should lie down. Here, let me just —”

“I can do it my own bloody self,” he snaps. He’s about as stubborn as she is, so she lets him give it a shot with only a raised eyebrow to show her doubt. Predictably, he only barely pushes himself up off the ground before crying out.

With that, she magicks them both into his tent, finessing off his coat and settling him down on top of the pallet covered in furs where he sleeps. Right as she reaches for a pillow, the tent flap opens to reveal Henry and Ella. She’s not surprised to see them so soon. When it comes to the people he holds dear, Henry doesn’t let anything stand in his way.

Hook looks up at him with the smallest glimmer of hope. “Henry … Henry, lad, did you find Alice?”

“We did.” The finality in his tone tells her Alice isn’t with them. “She wants you to know that she was just trying to protect you. Drizella tricked her into thinking that she was cured.”

“Why would she do that?” Regina asks. It was a cruel trick, but she hadn’t been under the impression that Drizella particularly cared about Hook or Alice.

“So she could poison my heart.”

Regina glances down to see Henry holding Ella’s hand tight in his. Amid all the heartbreak — literally — it seems there still are some rays of light. “I’m glad to see she failed.”

“Um, Hook,” Ella says, bending down to hand him a chess piece, “Alice wanted us to give you this.”

Hook takes it, but his voice is filled only with despair. “It’s the white knight. I gave her this to remember me by.”

“She said she doesn’t need a reminder. You two will be together again. She knows you’ll find a real cure.”

“It was worth it,” he murmurs. “I’d go through that pain a thousand times over just to see her again.”

Aware they have nothing else to offer him, Henry and Ella show themselves out. Hook clutches the knight to his chest, his knuckles going white as though if he squeezes hard enough it will make a cure materialize. A tear falls down his cheek. It all feels too intimate a moment for her to intrude upon, so Regina gets up to let him grieve in privacy.

“No, don’t,” he says. “Stay.”

She sits back down. He doesn’t speak and she’s not sure whether she should. After a while, his eyes flutter shut, and she thinks his tattered body has allowed itself to sleep at last. Except it is a grimace, not peace, that remains on his face, and he keeps shifting around trying to find a comfortable position.

She assumes it’s the aftereffects of the poison, or maybe the emotional anguish, but rather than rubbing at his temples or his chest, it’s his shoulder that appears to affect him.

“Are you okay?” He opens his eyes to look at her with incredulity. “Other than the obvious.”

“I’m all right, love.” She might be convinced, if she weren’t so familiar with the way his alter-ego sounds when he’s pretending. She glares him into submission. “It’s my brace. It’s not meant to be slept in, but I can’t reach it without my heart feeling like it’s going to bloody explode.”

“So let me help,” she says. “You’re not alone anymore, Hook. You have people who care about you.”

There is gratitude behind the nonchalance when he replies, “If the lady insists.”

If it hadn’t been clear before, the immediacy with which he gives in telegraphs how much he’s hurting. With a grunt (and some assistance), he pushes himself into a sitting position. She disengages the hook from its socket and sets it aside, then pulls his shirt over his head to properly access the brace.

It only now dawns on her that despite knowing the other Hook for years, and this Hook for one, she’s never seen him in anything less than a long-sleeved shirt, let alone no shirt at all — and that includes the handful of dalliances they’d had back in the day. Spectacular dalliances though they were, they were too wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am to bother undressing any more than necessary.

Which is all to say that she’s also never seen much more of his brace than the very end of it. She’d never had particular reason to wonder how it was constructed, so she’s intrigued to discover it’s not so much a simple attachment as it is a harness. Bronze buckles secure thick leather straps that band his arm, cross his back, and wrap around both shoulders. It doesn’t look very comfortable, but it does look like it stays in place, which she supposes is what’s most important.

“Start with the ones at the top,” Hook instructs.

“I’m getting there.” She begins to do as bid, unfastening each buckle in sequence. “I didn’t think this would be such a … contraption.”

“What did you think it would be?”

“I don’t know, just tied to your forearm or something.”

“If I did that, it’d fall off the second I tried to use it as more than a letter opener. It has to be anchored.”

“Yeah, well, I never really cared enough to ask the other you,” she defends. “We’re not exactly BFFs.”

“BFFs?”

“Best friends forever.”

She wonders if the Hook back in Storybrooke has retained the same setup as this one, or whether the availability of modern technology has led him to make some improvements. For his sake, she hopes the latter: As she pulls the brace off fully, she sees both shoulders and his left arm are worn red, and his skin has imprints where the straps had dug in.

When he twists a little to get the kinks out of his arms, it allows her a glimpse of his back. An unexpected wave of revulsion washes over her as she takes in the latticework of jagged, raised scars that mar it. A handful are various severities of sword or knife slashes, and one or two from bullets, all standard fare for a pirate who’s lived as long as he has. The others, however …

She’d known his father had sold him and his brother into slavery, that he’d spent years on a ship serving a ruthless captain, and that his smart mouth got him in trouble as often as out of it, but it hadn’t occurred to her that he’d have been whipped. From the look of it, a lot more than once. She has half a mind to ask him about that part of his life, to learn more, but she has a feeling “So, what was it like to be horribly abused?” might not be the best conversation starter.

She opts instead for, “Do you need anything else?”

“Actually, there’s a tin of salve on my sea chest,” he says, nodding in its direction. “Could you …?”

“Why bother with medieval Bengay when I have magic?” she laughs.

“I don’t know what that is, but I think I’ve had enough magic for one day.”

Swallowing her objection to having healing magic conflated with heart-poisoning magic, she retrieves the tin he requested and unscrews the lid. The viscous substance inside is pungent but not particularly unpleasant, smelling mostly of cayenne and menthol with a hint of rosemary. She wonders if it actually works.

“I didn’t know you had to do all this every night,” she comments.

“Not every night. Usually only when I strain the straps, like after a fight.”

“Or being supernaturally thrown fifty feet across the forest?”

“Aye, that would do it.”

She scoops out a dollop of the salve and begins to massage it into his sore skin and muscles, eliciting a soft exhalation of relief. She’s oddly touched that he trusts her so implicitly. That he has no qualms about letting her see him at his most vulnerable, nor about showing weakness and accepting her help. It baffles her, sometimes, that she feels such an ease between them. It had taken her an eternity to consider the Hook back in Storybrooke anything more than a persistent thorn in her side, let alone a friend.

Her fingers begin tingling, prompting her to ask, “What is this stuff?”

“I made it,” he answers. “Alice used to run me ragged with all her energy, so eventually I threw a few things together from my travels and wound up with that. Just don’t get it in your eyes. Trust me.”

“Noted.”

Regina goes to finish up with the salve when a mark catches her eye. No, not a mark, a tattoo. Not the one on his right wrist, the heart-and-dagger remembrance of Milah that she’s seen dozens of times on both Hooks, nor any of the other four tattoos that decorate his body. This one is on his left wrist, apparently having been hidden beneath his brace all this time.

She knows the other Hook doesn’t have a tattoo there, as he’d detailed just the five, which means this must have been done after the divergence. Her interest piqued, she angles his arm towards her to see it better.

Immediately, her breath hitches in her throat. Right there, emblazoned in permanent ink, is a lion.

Surely there must be other people in the world who have such tattoos. Surely this is just a coincidence. But like an oncoming train she can’t avoid, Tinker Bell’s words from so long ago force themselves into her brain.

All the pain in your past will be just that. The past. Look, there he is. The guy with the lion tattoo.

Mistaking her stupefaction for mere curiosity, he explains with a bittersweet smile, “It’s a replica of a picture Alice drew there once. She went through an animal phase when she was six and read that lions represent courage and bravery. She said I was the bravest person she knew and that everyone else should know, too. She was so proud of her drawing, and me, that I had it done for real the next time I was in town. Fortunately, it stayed put when Lady Tremaine restored my youthful appearance.”

Although the design is simplistic, it’s quite good for having been drawn by a young child. More importantly, it was clearly drawn with love. What a comfort it must be for him to always have a reminder of Alice no matter where he goes or what happens to him.

Not so much a comfort for Regina at the moment.

“You’re a good dad, Hook.” His smile falters at that, no doubt once more blaming himself rather than Gothel for the reason his daughter can’t be by his side. “You may not believe it, but I do. And so does Alice.”

“Maybe. Doesn’t make much of a difference.”

Wincing, he lays himself back down on the bed and pulls a blanket over top of himself, hiding his tattoo from view.

Pixie dust doesn’t lie. This is your chance at love and happiness.

She remembers each word like it was only yesterday the fairy had said them. And Tinker Bell had been right: It took thirty years and a few thousand missteps, but she and Robin had found their way to each other. Her true love. Her soulmate. The guy with the lion tattoo had brought her love and happiness, as promised.

Except then he’d died. Counter to Snow and David, or Ella and Thomas, or Abigail and Frederick, or any of the rest, her true love had been taken from her. Twice. Before Robin held her entire heart, her body, her soul, there was Daniel, and he, too, had been ripped from her arms.

Just like Milah.

She’s witnessed the depth of the other Hook’s love for Emma, yet from the way both versions have spoken of Milah, it’s clear he loved her equally as much. How not, when he had spent a decade with her, married in all but name, then centuries trying to avenge her murder?

Regina knows the feeling well.

It makes her wonder, even though she wishes it didn’t, whether love and soulmates are different words for the same thing, or whether her love for Daniel was in truth somehow lesser-than. That Robin was it for her, and she is destined to spend the rest of her days empty and alone because the one person she was supposed to be with was killed. That if she did manage to find love with someone else, it, too, would be lesser-than. Is Hook supposed to be alone as well because the same thing had happened to his soulmate?

Or can you have more than one?

Regina considers the pirate in front of her. Even if multiple soulmates are possible, is that tattoo modeled after a random doodle of Alice’s supposed to mean he’s hers?

Her heart thuds in her chest at the prospect. Not only does Robin’s absence continue to pain her every single day, but Killian Jones is supposed to be Emma’s. Killian Jones is supposed to be someone Regina tolerates, like a bratty brother. Killian Jones is supposed to be no one special to her.

Which he is — the Killian Jones living in Storybrooke is all of those things.

But he’s also not — this Killian Jones is none of those things.

This one couldn’t care less about Emma beyond being grateful she’d saved his life. This one Regina actually enjoys being around. This one is an imperfect single parent with a rough past and a mountain of regrets, same as her. Someone she can meet on equal footing. Someone who understands.

“Hook,” she begins, not entirely sure what she’s going to say, “do you —”

The sound of his soft snoring cuts her off. She sighs, blows out the candles, and leaves him to his rest.

Rest that Regina is pretty damn certain will not come to her tonight.

She half-expects him to still be asleep by the time she gets up, what with how spent he’d been the night before. But true to form, he’s the first to rise. She finds him where he always is at this hour, prodding the fire to bring a kettle of water to boil for tea.

“Hey,” she says when he glances up at her approach. “How are you feeling?”

“Better. Better than yesterday, anyway.” He fidgets with his rings, as he is wont to do when he’s out of sorts. “Listen, I want to thank you for what you did.”

“For playing nursemaid?”

“For everything.” He coaxes the fire a little more. “I’m just not used to people …”

“Helping? Killian, you haven’t been able to get within a few yards of your daughter for almost thirty-five years and just when you thought it was over, you find out it’s not. If that were me with Henry, I don’t think I’d ever get out of bed.”

“Still. Thank you.”

“Anytime.” Feeling the need to lighten the mood, she quips, “I think you owe me one now, though.”

“Is that so? Well, I am ever at your service, my queen.” Hook dips into an exaggerated bow, then takes her hand and kisses it.

The gesture is perfectly benign. Chaste, even. Nothing Charming or Thomas wouldn’t do — or, indeed, the other Hook — for queen and peasant alike. In fact, they have done it, often. So it’s utterly stupid to feel her face warm when his lips brush her knuckles as he peers up at her through dark lashes. It’s stupid to notice how much the black powder he rims his eyes with brings out the blue.

Most of all, it’s stupid that she can’t get his damn tattoo out of her head, what it might mean.

To her relief, the water in the teakettle comes to a crackling boil, pulling her out of her burgeoning spiral. Hook quickly removes the kettle from the fire, drops a hearty pinch of tea leaves from a sachet into his cup, then pours the water over them. He repeats the process with a second cup and hands it to her.

“Thank you.” She blows on the drink to cool it then takes a sip. As ever, it’s delicious. She’d asked him once what sort of tea leaves he uses, but he has so far refused to divulge.

“I caught what you said a moment ago, by the way,” he says, taking a seat beside her. “I believe that’s the first time you’ve used my real name.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, of course it’s not the first time.” She pauses, thinking back. He might be right. After all, to date she’s pretty confident she could count on one, maybe two, hands how many times she’s done so for his other self.

“Hardly anyone calls me that anymore,” he muses. “Not even Smee, usually. ‘Hook’ is too … sensational.”

“You don’t like it?”

“I guess I do. It serves my reputation well and has been part of me for so long it would probably feel strange to drop it entirely.” Belying his words, he looks down at his metal appendage with disdain. “But it’s nice to hear something else every once in a while.”

“Are you asking me to call you Killian now?”

He shrugs. “You said it, not me.”

She mulls it over. It still catches her off-guard how different the two men are despite sharing the same face and most of the same history. She would find it far too bizarre to regularly call the other Hook Killian, and anyway, he’d think she’d gone mad if she did. Yet it feels perfectly suitable for this one.

“All right,” she agrees. “Can’t promise a perfect record, but I’ll do my best. Killian.”

“Good.” His smile is soft, almost bashful. “My mother chose it, you know. She lost a brother and named me for him.”

“Your mother … she was Alice’s namesake?”

“Aye. Ailís. Her name was Ailís.” He inclines his head towards the paddock where the camp’s horses have been turned out. “She was more horse than woman, my father always said. She taught my brother and me to ride.”

“I didn’t know you could ride.” It’s hard to imagine someone so closely tied to captaining a ship on the high seas also being skilled at captaining a steed on dry land.

“You’ve seen me do it.”

“No, I’ve seen you remain upright in a saddle while the horse walked. That doesn’t count.”

“The lady dare impugn?”

“Perhaps you should prove me wrong, then. If you’re up to it.”

“Tiana did forbid me to do anything that’s more strenuous than basket-weaving,” he says. “But I suppose what she doesn’t know won’t hurt her.”

They do not go unnoticed through the camp, as high-profile as they are within the resistance leading two of the finest horses — him, a black gelding, her a chestnut mare — but no one questions any of it.

As soon as they’re clear of the camp, they both mount up and Regina looks over at him. “Let’s see what you’re made of, pirate.”

With that, they both dig their heels into their horses’ flanks. A sense of peace flows through her as she rides, the rolling rhythm of a canter and powerful breaths of the beast beneath her bringing her back to the days where she was most carefree. The terrain only adds to the tranquility, the woods quickly opening up into seemingly endless fields dotted with wildflowers.

To her surprise, Killian is keeping pace, more or less, though by her reckoning he’s not as comfortable in his posture as she is, telling her it’s been quite some time since last he’d ridden at any appreciable speed or distance. Nevertheless, when he notices her stare he meets it, and the smile on his face is genuine.

She loses track of time, contentedly in tune with her mount as they get into a groove of trading off cantering and trotting through the colorful grasses. Eventually, she decides the horses are due for a rest, and gives Killian a nod. They gradually bring the horses back down to a walk, stopping at a creek a short distance from a grove of fruit trees.

“I concede defeat,” Regina says. “You’re a halfway decent rider.”

“Halfway decent?” Killian objects. “I do believe I was alongside you the whole time, love.”

She raises her chin imperiously. “I noticed no such thing.”

Killian rolls his eyes. “Of course.”

Once the horses are adequately watered and tied off, she and Killian sit at the base of a tree, gazing out at the horizon. Killian reaches up to one of the lower branches and wryly tosses her an apple.

“Your mother was a good teacher,” she comments. “I’m impressed.”

Killian takes a melancholy bite of his apple. “I don’t have anything tangible of hers left, so I have to hold onto the intangible things.”

“Such as?”

“Such as … she had hair the color of fire, my mother. I take after my father in looks, and when I was young, I was afraid there wouldn’t be anything of her in me. Turns out I just had to wait until I could grow a beard.” She can see it now, the reddish tint that makes his beard so much lighter than his hair. In the sun, it’s almost orange. “I remember her language, too. Over the years, I wrote everything down so I wouldn’t lose it.”

“Her language?” Regina asks, fascinated. She’d known he spoke Ancient Greek, courtesy of the Navy, and Latin as well (not that either were called as such in the Enchanted Forest), but she hadn’t been aware of any others. “What language is that?”

“I don’t know what it’s called in your Land Without Magic, but here, it’s called Gaeilge.”

He says something she has no hope of understanding. Despite the meaning being lost on her, the cadence of it is beautiful, and she realizes it’s the same language he’s used before when letting out a particularly vehement curse. It sounds far nicer coming from his mouth now than when used as an expletive. She’s not heard anything quite like it.

“I’m not familiar,” she says. “Maybe you can show me when we get back to camp. I have an ear for languages. Henry, too.”

Killian lets out a short, sharp laugh. “I would certainly love to see you try.”

“Now who’s impugning whom?”

“Ah, that would be me.”

His eyes twinkle with mirth. It’s nice, seeing him light like this, even if just for a few moments, and she’s glad that she’s the one who was able to bring it out of him. Her own good humor, however, begins to fade when she notices him toying absently with a loose thread on his left sleeve.

Because she knows that right beneath that sleeve, beneath the brace, lies the tattoo she’d spotted last night. The lion tattoo.

She wants to distance herself from him, from it, yet she can’t bring herself to move. Somewhere along the way — hell if she knows when, why, or how — he’d become one of her closest confidants. Someone who had patched her up more than once, who taught her to properly and expertly wield a sword, who can empathize, not just sympathize, with every hardship she’d endured raising a child alone.

She has other friends here, no doubt, and still others back in Storybrooke. But the thought of losing him, seeing the hurt on his face not only for the action but because she certainly could never tell him the real reason why, knocks the wind out of her. It hadn’t hit her until this very minute just how much he’d come to mean to her.

He nudges her with his shoulder to get her to look at him. “You’ve gone quiet. What’s in your head?”

“You.”

He startles. “Me?”

For one wild moment, she considers confessing everything. And she would, if only it weren’t him who has the tattoo in question. She’s not sure which reaction would be worse: for him to take it well, or for him to take it poorly. Above all, she’s not ready for him to inevitably ask her what her opinion is. Whether she’s pushing back so hard because it’s truly ridiculous, or …

In the end, she cowers. “You and Alice, I mean. I hope I’m there to see you two do things like this. Horseback riding, sailing, whatever.”

“Why wouldn’t you be there?” he frowns.

“Just … you’ll probably want to go do your own thing after you’re reunited.”

“For a queen, you think awfully little of yourself.” He takes her hand. “Of course you’ll be there.”

She looks down at their joined hands. It means nothing. They’ve held hands before, on the occasion or two they thought they’d found a lead on a cure only for it to wither into nothing, or when either of them have been injured on a mission and needed fixing. It’s what friends do, no different than Ella and Tiana.

So why, all of a sudden, does it feel different?

Like a bout of tinnitus, it niggles in her mind — the guy with the lion tattoo; pixie dust never lies; love and happiness — but she has had a lifetime of practice suppressing things, particularly things that require emotional reflection. In fact, she’d done it when she’d first seen Robin’s tattoo. She’d run away from him, too, and dragged Tink down with her.

She lets herself fall into the same pattern now, drilling a mantra into herself: It doesn’t mean anything. It’s just a tattoo, a tribute to Alice. It’s nothing more than a coincidence.

Whether multiple soulmates are possible or not, it doesn’t matter. He’s someone else’s that he simply hasn’t met yet, or maybe he’s no one’s at all, but regardless, he is not hers. Therefore, she feels no compunction about keeping their hands laced as their banter resumes.

The status quo goes on just as it used to without a fuss. If she becomes aware of his presence in a way she hadn’t before, if her eye keeps getting drawn to the sparring ring when he’s in it, if her worry burrows deeper when they go off on missions, well. It’s just because they’ve become better friends, and that’s it.

Really.

The Vampire Diaries fic: Inside the Pocket of Your Ripped Jeans

metamorphagi — Tue, 11 Aug 2020 04:40:59 GMT

Story Title: inside the pocket of your ripped jeans

Fandom(s): The Vampire Diaries

Rating: PG

Word Count: 2,510

Summary: 2,500 words of me throwing hands with TVD’s post-S5 depiction of Caroline and Tyler’s relationship. Inspired by this fic by @cbsnforeverandalways and this post by @zalrb.

Author’s Notes: This is what happens when you find out that one of your oldest OTPs was RUINED for an abusive fanservice ship. Then to make it even worse, the show just pretends Caroline and Tyler never meant anything to each other? Aboslutely ridiculous. I've been out of this fandom for nearly a decade but when I discovered this travesty I just had to write a fix-it fic. Well, it's not exactly a fix-it since it's still canon-compliant, but close enough. JUSTICE FOR FORWOOD.

It hits her at the oddest times. She could understand the faint sense of loss if it only happened on their anniversary, or when the moon is full. Stefan understands when she’s a little mopey on those days; after all, he has days like that of his own.

It’s when it happens on days that don’t have any significance that gets her the most, though; those, she can’t tell Stefan. Because he’d look at her all half-judgy, half-sympathetic, which makes her feel the entirety of the hundred-and-fifty-year age gulf between them. Not that she wants to examine it even to herself, granted.

It would be one thing if she knew when the missing him would strike her, but it comes on without warning.

She and Tyler will be talking, as acquaintances or friends are wont to do, and there’ll be a moment. This spark of magnetism between them that used to always be there (when it was allowed to be there). And she knows he feels it, too, because she can see it in his face, and that makes it worse, because that means it’s not a figment of her imagination. She tells herself it’s just them reconnecting, because they were friends long before they were lovers, but she knows it’s a lie.

Other times, she’ll flip through a photo album and smile rather smugly at her favorite photo of her and Stefan because they are just perfect together — but then she’ll see a picture of him and Elena and the dark beast of doubt and envy will pool in her stomach, and then she’ll see a picture of her and Tyler, and now guilt and wistfulness join the party. Because how can she be jealous of the way Stefan and Elena look together, the way they just fit, when she looks at her and Tyler and they just fit, too?

Still other times, she’ll be toying with her daylight ring and will flash back to the day her father had tortured her, when Tyler and her mom had come to her rescue and he’d slipped the ring back onto her finger. He’d practically been down on one knee then. She remembers reliving that moment later, once the pain of that day had passed, only in a much more scenic locale where Tyler would present her with a ring ring, not just the lapis lazuli. When he proposes, she’d thought then, not if — even back then, when their relationship was barely in its infancy, it had felt…permanent.

Caroline still doesn’t have a ring ring, but she has a wonderful boyfriend and a wonderful life that’s not with Tyler and that’s that.

She’s fine.

Really.

She dreams of him, sometimes.

She’ll fall asleep to a vision of dark eyes, and she thinks that they’re Stefan’s, which is acceptable. But when she falls truly asleep, it is not Stefan that she sees. She sees Tyler, smiling at her the way he never quite does anymore, a smile absent of betrayal and hurt, like she’s the sun his world revolves around. Even before they’d gotten together, when they were still just friends figuring out their supernatural identities, that smile had set her heart fluttering. She’d passed it off at the time as the usual jitters of being a new vampire.

She dreams of all the times he’d swept her off her feet, or pressed her up against the wall, or stared at her in that intense way he did right before he kissed her breathless. She dreams of falling into bed with him (or onto the couch, or on a desk, or…), every nerve alive, every inch of skin alight. Sex had never been just about passion for them (though there certainly was plenty of that), it was their way of connecting when words weren’t quite enough.

She dreams of them arguing, which they did often. But it’s not a bad dream — she’d liked that she could speak her mind with him, that they could call each other out on their bullshit and that he didn’t treat her like she couldn’t defend herself. She’d liked that instead of letting issues fester or keep secrets, they hashed things out and got to the bottom of them. She’d liked that no matter the problem, he never made her feel bad about herself.

When she wakes, there is always a moment where she fully expects to see Tyler lying beside her. Perhaps she’d kiss his chest, his neck, his jaw, his lips until he stirred awake. But it’s Stefan lying there, not Tyler, because of course it is, and for that brief moment there is an overwhelming sense of disappointment.

It’s trivia night, when their entire group is supposed to hang out together, but Elena, Matt, Jeremy, and Damon had all bailed, so it’s just Caroline, Tyler, Stefan, and Bonnie, with Bonnie and Stefan currently tied for the lead. Bonnie swears she hasn’t used her powers to get ahead. Caroline’s not entirely sure about that: she still bitterly recalls the incident in fourth grade when Bonnie swore she didn’t move the Ouija board pointer and then the next year revealed that in fact she had. She’s peeved about Stefan, too, because she doesn’t think it’s exactly fair when he has so many more years’ worth of trivia knowledge. Bonnie ends up winning the battle for first place, and thus becomes the mediator for Caroline and Tyler’s battle for third.

“We should probably just give Caroline the crown right now,” she snorts as she reads the card. “ ‘In The Real Housewives of Orange County, which housewife departed the show between seasons two and three?’ ”

With hardly a minute’s hesitation — and just a split-second before Caroline recalls the name — Tyler answers, “Jo De La Rosa.”

Bonnie and Stefan stare at him, dumbfounded. “Uh…correct,” Bonnie says. “How do you know the answer to that?”

“Just from around,” Tyler says with a wince. “It’s not like I watch that reality TV trash or anything.”

Caroline, huffy at having lost, objects, “No, I have it on good authority that you enjoy this ‘reality TV trash,’ Tyler Lockwood. You watched every episode with me.”

“Yeah, because at the end of each season you gave me a bl — ” He abruptly cuts himself off, glancing at Stefan. “—ueberry muffin.”

Caroline desperately hopes her blush isn’t visible. It was blowjobs she gave him in exchange for watching the show with her, not muffins. In fact, Tyler’s allergic to blueberries, and by the dubious expressions on both Bonnie and Stefan’s faces, it’s clear they know of that particular allergy and further don’t believe a word of Tyler’s fumbled explanation.

“Well,” Bonnie announces, “that’s my cue to leave.”

“I’ll walk you out,” Stefan offers.

Caroline waits until the door closes behind them, then remarks, “That was awkward.”

“It’s not like they don’t know we were together,” Tyler says, helping clean up the game. “What, does Stefan think all we did was make out or something?”

“No, but still.”

Tyler looks a bit perturbed at that, though doesn’t reply. She used to be able to read him like a book, but now she can’t decipher at all what he wants. What, is she supposed to talk about their sex life in front of their friends? In front of Stefan? That sounds like something pre-werewolf Tyler would do, not the selfless, sensitive Tyler she dated for over a year.

She doesn’t want them to part on bad terms, though, so she goes to give him a hug goodbye. She intends for it to be brief, but when they embrace, she finds herself unable to break it. As a hybrid, his vampire half cooled his body temperature to more or less that of any other vampire; she’d almost forgotten how warm werewolves get, and it sends a shiver down her spine. More than that, she’d almost forgotten (or perhaps willed herself to forget) just how good it felt to be close to him. He’s shorter than Stefan, but she kind of likes that her head rests next to his instead of against his chest, his pulse a temptation. His arms are tight around her, his hands low on her waist, and it feels…right.

She pulls away because that most definitely isn’t right, not anymore, but she makes the mistake of looking up at him. It would be dangerously easy to kiss him right now, if she wanted. And the way his eyes are dilated and his lips slightly parted, somehow she knows he would kiss her back. She blinks a few times to try to clear out the lustful fog, ashamed of the fact that despite the acrimonious way they ended, despite the fact that she’s now dating Stefan, she wants to kiss him.

She steps back more fully and says, “Well, drive safe.”

“Yeah. Sure.”

She watches him leave, and feels an odd sense of emptiness. Worse still, the sound of the door shutting triggers that deep-set déjà vu that she’d endured for so long; a closing door, after all, always followed a goodbye. A goodbye and not knowing how long it would be until she would see him again, or even if she would see him again. That’s not the case now, he’s not leaving for good, but it still makes her chest constrict.

A few minutes later, the door reopens, and her heart, not her head, leaps. Perhaps he’d forgotten something, or perhaps he’d returned for something else entirely that they would both surely regret. But that guilty, hopeful sensation falters when she sees that it’s Stefan who enters, evidently done fending off Bonnie’s gloating.

“Are you all right?” Stefan asks with a frown.

Caroline fixes her expression, waving him off. “You know me, I just don’t like losing.”

It’s an accurate enough statement, so Stefan accepts it. He helps her collect their empty beer bottles and puts the popcorn bowl in the kitchen. It was an aberration, she tells herself. It’s natural to still feel an attachment to your ex for a while, right? It means absolutely nothing.

She just wishes it felt like nothing.

Matt doesn’t have to repeat himself when he calls to tell her Tyler’s dead by Damon’s hand. She can hear just fine, thanks very much, and the information registers. It’s not the first time they’ve lost a friend and probably won’t be the last, and Tyler and Damon had always hated each other anyway, so really it was just a matter of time. She hadn’t even talked to Tyler in months.

“After everything we went through, I guess I just always assumed that he would be there,” she tells Stefan. It’s truer than she can express; even when he was gone, he was constant. He was white noise, always there even when he wasn’t, even if other things drew more attention.

She’s not sure whether Stefan simply doesn’t hear her or ignores her, for he switches focus from Tyler to Damon. She ends up comforting him when it was her ex-boyfriend who was murdered, and she wonders if that’s normal.

The first funeral is interrupted and so later they have an informal gathering at the empty carnival grounds. Everyone says nice things, but it doesn’t quell the pain.

“I loved him,” she says. God, she loved him. But Stefan’s here and she doesn’t want anyone to read anything into it, so to be safe, she qualifies, “You know, we all did.”

Talk then switches once more to Damon. Someone makes a casual remark about how Tyler’s not even the first Lockwood Damon has personally killed. They talk about how to save Damon, how they can bring Damon back from the brink, how lost Damon must feel, as though something like this is remotely out of character for him, and Caroline excuses herself to go throw up in the bushes.

She doesn’t get any time to herself afterwards; Stefan convinces them all to enjoy the carnival’s offerings, and then there’s the chaos with the twins, chaos in general, and life moves on because it has to. She figures she’s buried all of it — we hadn’t talked in months — until one day she’s doing some spring cleaning and empties out her jewelry box, systematically untangling necklace chains and setting aside rings to be polished. From the pile, she slowly pulls out an old charm bracelet, the silver now tarnished but its origin unmistakeable.

She runs her fingers over the charms — a paw print, a football helmet, a heart, a cheerleader, her initials. They were broken up at the time, Klaus’s sirebond in the way, but it was her eighteenth birthday so he’d gifted her the bracelet anyway. She stares at it, and stares, and stares, and the grief slams into her all at once. She clenches the bracelet in her fist, cries until she can’t breathe and then cries some more.

He’s dead. He’s dead.

Klaus had been mistaken when he said Tyler was her first love. It was Matt who fit that bill. Matt was the sweet, innocent love of youth, where everything seems both too much and not enough.

But Tyler…

We’re immortal, he’d said. He was wrong about that. She stayed immortal but he didn’t.

We will find a way, he’d said. He was wrong about that, too. They never found a way.

What if we don’t? she’d said. She was the one who was right. She, the eternal optimist, had become the pessimist, and she was right.

It would be silly, wouldn’t it, to still call him the love of her life? She’d thought he was at the time, because obviously. She was in love and their relationship at that point was a patchwork of goodbyes, sex, and yearning, filled to the brim with thoughts of, If we can only get past this hurdle, we’ll be home free, so of course she’d thought it would last. People always think love will last, don’t they, in the moment?

But here by herself in this great big house, she can admit the truth. What she has with Stefan isn’t just different, as for so long she’d assured herself. She’s content and comfortable with him, but it’s…less. She doesn’t feel complete when he’s near nor empty when he’s gone. The noise and worries of the world don’t fade when she’s in his arms. She doesn’t feel alive.

Because the truth — the truth she will admit now with the silver bracelet in her hand and her chest overflowing with sorrow — is that she gave away her heart a long time ago, her whole heart, and she never got it back.

And it doesn’t even matter because Tyler’s fucking dead, and she’s going to live forever. There will be no closure to be had, no apologies, no amends, no nothing.

I’m not moving on from anything, he’d said. I love you.

She polishes the bracelet until it’s gleaming, fastens it around her wrist, and thinks, I never really moved on either.

A Song of Ice and Fire fic: Pas de deux

metamorphagi — Fri, 09 Jun 2017 21:13:50 GMT

Story Title: Pas de deux
Fandom(s): A Song of Ice and Fire
Rating: G
Word Count: 1,618
Summary: Arthur Dayne wins the tourney at Harrenhal, and the court has a different scandal on their hands when he crowns Princess Elia the Queen of Love and Beauty.
Author’s Notes: Prompt is the summary, found here.

Pas de deux

He’s not going to crown her. He’ll win the joust, because of course he will, but he won’t crown her. Of little else is she so certain.

His eye has wandered, to put it delicately, and he has not been subtle about it either. It was innocent, at first, when the girl had wept at his song, and then turned into something much different. He’s enraptured by her for a reason that Elia has tried and failed to comprehend.

Lyanna Stark is pretty enough, she supposes, in a wild, coltish kind of way, but she’s still half a child, a wolf pup barely out of its den. Only Robert Baratheon seems to be as taken with her as Rhaegar, which, as her betrothed, is at least understandable. But Rhaegar…him Elia has no explanation for.

The final set of jousters comes as a surprise to no one: Rhaegar, Ser Arthur, Ser Barristan, Leo Tyrell. Ser Barristan beats Tyrell handily, leaving Rhaegar against Ser Arthur. It’s far from an unfamiliar set, they having battled many times over the years. The last time she’d seen one such bout was Lord Robert’s tourney three years ago held in the memory of Lord Steffon and Lady Cassana. Arthur had nearly won then, battling Rhaegar through a dozen rounds before conceding defeat.

Even now, she wonders whether he had truly been bested, or whether he’d done it on purpose. It’s a common rumor, that the Kingsguard don’t often try their hardest lest they injure their future sovereign. She knows Rhaegar is a consummate jouster, but she’d also seen Arthur in countless tourneys in Dorne, and he’d gone undefeated in them all despite going up against plenty of consummate jousters there, too.

It’s irrelevant, really. Whether legitimately or on purpose, he would be on the losing end today, she has no doubt, and she gets the honor of being jilted in front of half the world. Rhaegar’s looking at the girl now, too, atop his black mount, and Elia clasps her hands in her lap so tightly her fingers turn purple. Not even Ashara’s soothing touch does anything to mitigate her simmering anger.

At the sound of the herald’s trumpet, destrier and sand steed come together round after round. While the matchup had not surprised her, this longevity does. At Lord Robert’s tourney, the joust had had more of a frolicking atmosphere, two friends competing in good humor.

This, though…the hits are harder, Arthur’s posture is rigid, tension drenches the combatants like a pall. She can see their faces through the slits in their helms, a kind of confusion in Rhaegar’s and conviction in Arthur’s. What the reason might be for it, however, she can’t fathom. To her knowledge, there’s been nothing to put them at odds, so why would there discord now?

The sixth round is what sends the crowd to frenzied whispers. Rhaegar’s lance is a hair off-kilter, a weakness Arthur pounces on: a resounding crack, a grunt of pain, then Rhaegar is flung from his saddle. With that, the herald announces that the final contest will consist of the realm’s two most revered warriors, Kingsguard against Kingsguard.

Arthur removes his helm and dismounts to help Rhaegar up, sunlight glinting off the silver sword-and-star on his surcoat. They don’t exchange any words, but there’s no time to swell on it for Rhaegar briskly leaves his horse with the stablehand and his squire hops to in divesting him of his armor.

Half an hour passes as Arthur and Ser Barristan prepare, and Rhaegar takes his seat beside her, blatantly discontented. A good wife would placate him, say there’s no disgrace in losing to an opponent such as Arthur, but all she has to do is remember how he’d looked at Lady Lyanna, and her mouth stays firmly shut.

The champion’s tilt requires one more lance than Rhaegar’s had, but ultimately Ser Barristan is unhorsed just as decisively. Ashara abandons all dignity, jumping to her feet and wildly cheering for her brother. Though Elia’s applause is less ostentatious, happiness swells within her—a victory for Arthur is a victory for their homeland, after all.

She remembers the day he had arrived in Sunspear to squire for her uncle, brimming with excitement and fastidious in his training. To see him emerge triumphant in front of so many she feels is a well-deserved accomplishment. Ashara would receive a crown as pretty as she is, and Elia can think of no one more worthy of wearing it.

Lord Whent slides the blue winter roses onto Arthur’s lance, and he directs his horse toward the royal stands as she’d anticipated. Except he doesn’t stop in front of his sister—he stops in front of her. He places the crown into her lap, and she gapes at him, nothing short of stunned.

“For the future queen,” he declares, voice ringing out across the lists. It could be a trick of the light, but for a moment she thinks she sees his eyes flash over to Rhaegar, almost in challenge, before darting back to her. “Your beauty and grace put the very sun to shame.”

She knows surely this must simply be out of respect, not in earnest, but nevertheless a smile grows. Though she may not honestly believe his words, he has publicly recognized her above all the more winsome women in attendance. The Starks clap respectfully at the display, Lady Lyanna animated as she talks with the littlest wolf, and what ill will she’d been feeling towards the girl fades.

“Thank you,” she says to Arthur. She hands her circlet of yellow sapphires to Ashara and replaces it with the wreath of roses.

He flashes her a rare smile, then gallops off toward the stables. She can’t help but stare after him, his ivory armor and Ny Sar’s gleaming white coat just this side of blinding.

When purples and oranges begin to flood the sky, the guests file into the great hall for supper, and Elia takes her place on the dais next to a lukewarm Rhaegar. As ever, Arthur is diligently standing off to the side, scrutinizing the gentry for any potential threats.

Once everyone is settled, Lord Whent addresses the room. “Thank you to all who have voyaged to attend this tourney, most especially to our esteemed and gracious king. We are each of us humbled by your presence,” he announces, glancing nervously at Aerys with every other word. “Without further delay, the traditional dance will start our supper. Your Graces, if you will?”

The heady scent of roses from the crown she still wears reminds her that she has a card to play. “Begging your pardon, my lord,” she says, “but is it not customary for the Queen of Love and Beauty to select her own partner?”

A hush falls, her statement plainly startling Lord Whent. “Oh, well, yes, naturally,” he stutters, “but I’d assumed—”

Elia cuts him off with a serene smile and gets to her feet. Resolute, she strides past Rhaegar and approaches Arthur instead. “Ser, do you care to join me?”

Something akin to panic crosses his face—perhaps he’s recalling how atrocious of a dancer he was in their youth—but nevertheless he allows her to take his hand.

For once, the murmurs that run through the crowd give her vindictive satisfaction.

If she’d been hoping the matter could be forgotten, she doesn’t get her wish. Later, while finessing out countless hairpins, Ashara comments, “People have been talking.”

“People are always talking. What is it for this time?”

“You know full well what for. Your dance, it—”

“It was nothing.” And it was. It was.

“It wasn’t nothing. It was Arthur beating Rhaegar, it was him crowning you in front of everyone, it was you choosing to dance with him over your husband. I’m not accusing you of anything,” she hurries on at Elia’s scowl, “that’s just what people are saying. You know how they live for their gossip.”

“They’re vermin.” She shakes out her hair, grateful to finally rid it of its complicated ensnarement. “Though I confess I didn’t expect they’d drag Arthur into it. Ridiculing me is one thing, but I’d have thought they’d have more respect for your brother.”

“Arthur looked…” Ashara hesitates. “Elia, my brother is a wonderful man,” she says carefully, “but a man all the same.”

“Don’t be absurd. He gave me the crown because he wanted to prevent me from suffering insult, that’s it. He said so himself.”

But that hadn’t been the only thing he told her, had it? I did not crown you false, princess, he’d said, his hand warm on her back, his voice too low to be heard by anyone but her. You are indeed a beautiful woman.

She hadn’t known what to say to that. She’d wanted to call his bluff, but he was so sincere that it was hard not to believe him. And once she’d done so, she’d begun to…well, notice him. The years had done him well, giving him handsomeness where once he’d been ordinary, breadth and height where once he’d been gangly and short, an evenly shadowed jaw where once it’d been patchy, a few scars where once there’d been none. She’d realized then that he’s not just a Kingsguard, but a hotblooded Dornishman of four-and-twenty, same as her.

And then afterwards, he’d seemed almost…

“Ash, there have been enough ill-done entanglements at this tourney without you inventing another.”

The name Brandon Stark lingers between them, and a bright red blush colors Ashara’s cheeks. “Yes, my lady. But I didn’t invent anything,” she says. “It’s the oldest tale, isn’t it? A princess and a white knight?”

A Song of Ice and Fire fic: Hey Tomorrow

metamorphagi — Thu, 08 Jun 2017 20:49:48 GMT

Story Title: Hey Tomorrow
Fandom(s): A Song of Ice and Fire
Rating: PG
Word Count: 3,800
Summary: Okay, so, maybe Arthur isn't the worst person ever. Not that Rhaenys is going to tell him that.
Author’s Notes: In the same verse as Same Auld Lang Syne.

Hey Tomorrow

“Hi, you’ve reached Judy Thompson. I can’t come to the phone right now—”

“Ugh,” Rhaenys groans, jabbing at the End Call button. She’s tried literally all of her friends and their parents, and not a single one of them has answered. They have almost the same voice messages, too, and she’s sick of hearing them. “‘If you ever need a ride, just call, and I’ll pick up.’ Yeah, right. Thanks for nothing, Mrs. Thompson.”

She can feel the after-school instructor’s eyes on her, and steadfastly pretends she can’t. Mrs. Gorf is no one’s idea of a competent or engaging teacher, about a hundred years old on top of that, and a stickler for rules. None of her friends’ parents are Rhaenys’s parent or guardian, but they’re also booster club members and on the PTA; not even Mrs. Gorf would be able to refuse them.

Not that it matters, because they’re not picking up the phone.

A final, terrible, no good, awful thought wrenches its way into her mind, and after wrestling with it, she comes to the unfortunate conclusion that it’s her only choice if she ever wants to get out of this place. Mother isn’t an option, Egg definitely isn’t, and Father’s much too far away. But if even he doesn’t answer…

“You want a parent or guardian,” Rhaenys says to Mrs. Gorf, shuddering at the clicking of the woman’s dentures. “What about a…a stepparent?”

Mrs. Gorf stares at her some more, then replies, “Yes, that would be acceptable. Though I was not aware Mrs. Targaryen had remarried.”

“Martell,” Rhaenys corrects. “Mother’s never been a Targaryen.”

And she’d skin you for saying so, you hobbit.

“Oh, she’s one of those women. No wonder she’s divorced.” Mrs. Gorf curls her lip. “Exactly when did she remarry?”

“Um, it was super recent. She didn’t want to make a fuss or anything, so no one at school has heard about it.”

Mostly because it’s totally false. Not that I’m going to tell you that.

For a moment, she thinks her lie doesn’t stick, but then Mrs. Gorf waves her hand in what Rhaenys assumes is acquiescence. Rhaenys dials yet another number quickly, glad she hadn’t thrown away the sticky note Mother had written with his information on it. Before she can wonder whether Arthur will be as flaky as her friends’ parents, he answers.

“Rhae? What is it, are you okay? Egg, your mother, are they—”

“No, we’re fine,” she says, realizing that naturally he’d think someone was in mortal danger, because why else would she call if not for a life or death emergency?

After a long pause, he asks, “Oh. Then…what do you need?”

In a last ditch effort for freedom, Rhaenys peeks at Mrs. Gorf, whose eyes are narrowed in suspicion and decidedly unsympathetic. Setting aside her pride, she presses on, “You have to come get me. I had that after-school project, none of my friends’ parents are picking up, and Mrs. Gorf won’t let me leave.”

“Gorf? Is that the one who looks like a troll?”

If he were anyone else, she’d have laughed; as it is, she doesn’t so much as chuckle. “Yeah, that one. So are you going to come or not?”

“Yeah, of course. Let me just—yeah, sit tight. I’ll be there soon.”

He hangs up before she does, and she tries to ignore the feeling of irritation that courses through her. Somewhere, she knows it’s not totally rational to have so much distaste for him, not when he makes Mother smile and stays up all night helping Egg with science experiments, but the sensation persists. Three years and counting.

The minutes tick by like hours, Mrs. Gorf hovering over her and Rhaenys watching the pick-up area just as intently. At ten minutes on the dot, she finally sees Arthur’s truck pull into the lane, and she bounces her leg, itching to leave. The bell above the door jingles as Arthur enters, and Mrs. Gorf immediately begins sizing him up with those judgy, rheumy eyes.

“And you are…?”

“Arthur Dayne, Rhaenys’s…er…” Arthur trails off, not sure exactly what he is to her. Rhaenys can’t riddle it out either, but is more than willing to hang him out to dry. “Her mother and I are together.”

“‘Together’?” Mrs. Gorf pounces on the word like a hawk. “Miss Targaryen stated that you are her stepfather.”

He’s plainly taken aback at the news, so Rhaenys shoots every imploring, telepathic wave in the book at him. Followed by, Don’t make this a thing. You’re my get-out-of-jail-free card, that’s it.

“More or less,” Arthur hedges, receiving her not-so-subtle signals. Apparently almost as anxious as she is to escape Mrs. Gorf’s company, he adds, “Sorry to make you stay late, ma’am. We’ll just be going now. Come on, Rhae.”

For once doing as he asks, Rhaenys snatches up her backpack and all but sprints out the door and into Arthur’s truck. It smells like he does, worn leather and pine, plus a hint of Mother’s perfume. Not altogether unpleasant, but for its owner. When he gets into the driver’s seat, the silence is instantly stifling, the awkwardness only increasing the further away they get.

Wanting—needing—to mitigate the oppression, Rhaenys channels Nana Rhaella’s patience and mutters, “Thanks. For…whatever.”

He appraises her curiously, so she turns away and instead studies the road ahead more intently than strictly necessary. Not taking the hint, he answers, “Always.”

She’d retort, but retorting would mean talking to him, and she’s already done more of that than usual today, so she leaves his offer unacknowledged. The quiet continues on and on, until suddenly it doesn’t. They approach an intersection and as if in a movie, she watches as one car rushes through a red light and speeds straight into the one with the right of way.

Arthur screeches to a halt, Rhaenys exceedingly glad she’s wearing a seatbelt, for elsewise she’d surely be propelled straight into the windshield. There’s a horrible screeching sound as the cars ahead tangle up with one another, smoke issuing from the hoods, glass littering the pavement, pools of fluids spreading across the scene. Some loud bangs erupt from somewhere within the whole mess, and she doesn’t know much about cars, but she would guess that’s not a good sign.

Shaking her head to clear it, she quickly comes to her senses. “I’ll call 911,” she announces, pulling out her cell.

She goes through the motions, feeling weirdly disconnected from the whole thing as she speaks with the operator. Once she ends the call, it occurs to her that Arthur hasn’t said a word this whole time, and she looks over, bemused. His hands are clenched white-knuckled on the steering wheel, his posture rigid, his eyes glazed over as he stares at the destruction in front of them. He’s muttering something, she realizes now, mostly nonsense and a couple names, she thinks, but she can’t make any of them out.

“Uh, Arthur?” she prompts, more than a little weirded out at the reaction. The accident is bad, but not that bad. There’s no fiery inferno, no one lying dead on the street, not even a police cruiser.

Just as she’s wondering if she should call the hospital and beg them to let her talk to Mother, Arthur jolts into action, which she’d think was a good thing were it not for the fact that his face is still blank, like he’s seeing but not seeing. He unbuckles his seatbelt and throws open the door, racing up to the car that was hit.

“What the hell?” she grumbles, hurrying after him. Okay, she’s not his biggest fan, like at all, but she doesn’t want him to die, and she’s pretty sure cars can explode. She keeps what she thinks is a safe distance, watching as he does his best to wrench his way into the cab, seemingly not caring about the oil and whatever else seeping into his jeans.

“Oz!” he yells in a panic. “Bull! Don’t worry, I’m gonna get you out of here, both of you, you’re gonna be fine!” 

The driver inside is just beginning to rouse, more than a little disoriented but so far as she can tell not horribly injured, all things considered.

“You’re okay,” continues Arthur, apparently not noticing what she does. “You’re okay, you’re fine, Sana’s fine, I radioed for help, the medivac is on its way, just hold on, please…”

With a sinking feeling in her stomach, Rhaenys finally realizes what’s happening. She’s never seen it personally, he and Mother had certainly never let on that this was an issue, but she’s heard Iris recount her dad’s episodes more than once. And suddenly, everything else slips into place, things she hadn’t really paid attention to before.

Why they never sit near windows in restaurants and why Arthur is always the one facing the door, why he never goes out with them on the Fourth of July, why of his past he only ever talks about college or hockey instead of the years that followed, why some mornings he and Mother look utterly exhausted, why every night he triple-checks the locks around the house even though they live in a stupidly boring neighborhood, why he’s always up just before sunrise.

Before, she’d just thought them weird habits, she hadn’t ever considered they might be something else.

And of course, of course, this would happen in the middle of a random intersection miles from home when Mother’s unreachable. Of course it wouldn’t be Egg here, Egg who actually likes Arthur, Egg who’s probably read several books about this.

She doesn’t know anything. Not about this, not about Arthur, not about the people he’s remembering, the event he’s remembering, she doesn’t even know what he did in the military. Mother hadn’t told her, and most definitely she hadn’t ever bothered asking.

Her savior as much as the drivers’, the ambulance arrives in all its blaring glory. They brush right past her, instead beelining one apiece to the cars, but they would have to be blind to not register Arthur, and upon preliminarily checking that the hit driver is stable, the nearby paramedic attempts to bring Arthur back to reality. It doesn’t work, so instead he whistles for a set of EMTs, and they grab him bodily in order to, she supposes, restrain him until further assistance can arrive.

It doesn’t work. For however much Rhaenys hates him, she’ll admit that he’s always been gregarious, so downright gentle with Mother, that his physique had never really been intimidating. But now, his height, his mass, his agitation, it makes the EMTs’ jobs incredibly difficult. All the while, she hears him protest, more and more anguished by the minute. “Get off me, I can still—they’re not, they can’t be, let me go, I have to—”

The paramedic searches the back of the ambulance for something that she’d bet isn’t water. “You’re doing it wrong!” she shouts.

He whirls, catching sight of her. “Kiddo, you shouldn’t be here, it’s dangerous.”

“I’m not a ‘kiddo,’” she objects hotly, “and he needs help, not a tranquilizer dart or whatever it is you grabbed.”

“Do you know him?” he asks. “Is that your dad?”

She shakes her head, because no, she has a father and Arthur’s not him.

“You need to leave then, now.”

Part of her wants to, but the rest of her isn’t so cowardly. Plus, Mother would never forgive her, and Rhaenys isn’t sure she could handle a lifetime of her cold shoulder. “He’s not my dad, but I know him,” she blurts. “I do, I know him. He’s my mom’s boyfriend.”

“Oh,” says the paramedic, now all business. “Well, I’ve called in backup, but we have to prioritize. That other driver is in critical condition, this one may have internal injuries, and we can’t do our jobs if we’ve got a case of PTSD to handle, too. Can you pull him out of it?”

He needs you, Mother, not me. I can’t do this. “I don’t know. I have no idea what I’d say.”

“Try. We have a sedative if required. Holler for one of the EMTs if you think he’ll hurt you.”

“He won’t hurt me.” The statement comes on reflex, and yet it’s not as surprising as she wishes it were. He and Mother have arguments all the time, loud ones but frivolous, but he’s never raised his voice at Rhaenys, not ever, no matter how much she probably deserved it. She doesn’t know this Arthur in front of her now, yet she’s confident in this one thing, and so she repeats, “He won’t.”

The paramedic is skeptical but has more pressing problems so allows her to scurry forth and kneel down beside Arthur. Stupidly, the only things that run through her mind are how much she’d always resented him, loathed him, and how Iris said that sometimes not even her mother could break her father out of his flashbacks, both of which are only made worse by the fact that she can feel the two EMTs wanting her to hurry the hell up.

“Arthur, it’s me,” she tries, her voice cringingly small. “It’s Rhaenys. Remember? You picked me up from school, you called Mrs. Gorf ‘ma’am’ even though she’s a skeevy old hag and Uncle Lewyn says that when she was his teacher, he once saw her turn someone into an apple.” She’s rambling, she’s fully aware of that, she just can’t seem to stop. “Oh, I’m no good at this.”

She’s startled by a shout from the paramedic by the other car. “He’s coding! Leave the kid, I need you two here!”

There’s barely time to register the EMTs letting go of Arthur and giving her a few short, uninspired bits of encouragement before they’re running off, leaving her alone. Alone-ish. He’s not physically struggling so hard anymore, but it’s not much of a comfort.

She remembers what Iris also said, that sometimes it helped to remind her dad of who he is not who he was, so in desperation, she speaks the truth, even if it’s a truth she’s always balked at. “You love my mother, and she loves you. You love Egg and you…you love me, and…” Unable to look at him, she instead looks somewhere in the vicinity of his knee. “And I know I’m the only reason you and Mother haven’t married yet. Because you want me to approve and you want me to like you, and I don’t.”

He hasn’t stopped saying those names, Oz and Bull and Sana, but, and it’s probably her imagination, she thinks maybe he’s not fighting quite as much. “But I…I don’t hate you. I don’t think. Not really. I mean, I kinda do, but…but maybe not forever.” For some lame reason, her vision goes blurry, and she blinks a few times to focus. Wanting to shunt aside the weakness, she forces herself to look at him again. “I’m sorry.”

She doesn’t know where to go from here, can’t think of anything, and she wonders how she’ll explain to Mother that Arthur’s been put under sedation and it’s her fault. Except then she notices that his eyes are beginning to slowly slide back into focus, that he’s actually seeing her, and eventually his body stills completely.

“Rhae?” She thinks it’s the first time she’s been grateful to hear him say her name. “Where are—but—what happened?”

She tucks a piece of hair behind her ear, abruptly self-conscious about all that she’d said. “You had a nightmare or something. Daymare, whatever.”

Arthur surveys the area, the crashed cars, the trapped drivers, the billowing smoke, the scent of burnt rubber in the air, and his face goes ashen. She sees the instant he realizes what his episode was, and digs the heels of his palms into his forehead. “Jesus fuck.” He must really be out of it, she reflects, if he swore in front of her. Mother gets livid if she says “crap”; Rhaenys would get grounded for a month if she even thought the F-word. Absently, Arthur asks, “Did I hurt you?”

“No, you didn’t.” He lets out a breath, as relieved as if she told him he doesn’t have terminal cancer.

The surreality of the situation rescinds her admittedly flimsy impulse control, and she asks, “Who are Oz and Bull?”

Slowly, warily, Arthur lifts his head. “What?”

“Oz and Bull. And, um, Sana? You…you were trying to save them.” Arthur doesn’t say anything, so she does. “Iris said it’s good to talk about these things, you know, that it helps her dad.”

Though, she grants, Mr. Roark was discharged over a decade ago and I have no clue what Arthur’s job was.

So long is he quiet, she nearly jumps when he begins to talk. “Major Oswell Whent and Colonel Gerold Hightower. They…we were on a mission, we were guarding this little Iraqi girl who was helping us identify some members of the Taliban, and Oz and Bull were returning from what was supposed to be a routine supply run.”

He says it all with a detached sort of tone, like he’s speaking to a wall, and she prays he won’t relapse. “We had daily confirmation that it was safe, that there weren’t any insurgents or IEDs in range, it was supposed to be—” He swallows. “They were in sight, Sana even ran out to greet them, when the Semtex went off. It was so close I got hit by some shrapnel, but I…they were in bad shape. I radioed base, but we were too far away for them to get to us in time. Oz and Bull were too damn honorable to even want me to get help for them, they just wanted to know if Sana was okay.”

“Was she?”

Arthur shakes his head. “She was near on top of the blast. She had no protection, hers was quick, but theirs…” Whatever he must have seen, whatever memories he carries with him, she wouldn’t wish on anyone. Not him, not even Mrs. Gorf. “Rhae, I’m sorry.”

Frowning at the change in subject, she asks, “Sorry? Why?”

“I never wanted you or Egg to witness…this,” he answers quietly. “I don’t deserve your pity.”

“You don’t deserve it?”

He massages his temples, eyes shut tight, though whether it’s for fighting off another flashback or something else, she can’t tell. “I did things I’m not proud of. Things I shouldn’t have done. I’ve hurt a lot of people, and I’ll…I’ll never be clean of that.”

“You haven’t hurt Mother,” she shrugs. “Or Egg.”

“I’ve hurt you. I know how miserable you are by me being in your life, but I’ve stayed anyway because it’s what I want, never mind what you want.”

She doesn’t think now is particularly the best time to get into her dislike. “What about guarding that girl? That was something you’re not proud of?”

He laughs, a brutal, discordant sound. “I did a pretty shitty job of protecting her. But it wasn’t that, it was later. They moved me to a different division and to stop thinking about that day, I turned everything off, good or bad. It was easier.”

Ever since Grandfather refused to say anything nice to or about her, Rhaenys has wanted to be treated like a grownup, to not be sheltered, to be told everything that’s going on. At the moment, she might want to revise that wish. “Does Mother know?”

“Most of it. For some reason, she still keeps me around. God only knows why.”

I know why. Herself, she’s having a difficult time letting go of even a speck of her resentment towards him, so built up as it is, but putting herself in Mother’s shoes isn’t that difficult. After ten years of Grandfather’s hatred and hubris, and Nana’s sadness, she guesses it must be nice for Mother to be around someone who’s so self-sacrificing. And she guesses it’s nice that he can fix things and reach the top shelf and show up at Egg’s plays and cook her favorite food with all the right spices and always be there for Mother no matter how sick she gets.

And drop everything to pick me up from school in the middle of the day.

Yes, must be nice. For Mother. Obviously. Not her.

She’s not sure what else to say, but fortunately she’s saved by the arrival of the same paramedic who’d instructed her to help Arthur. “I’m glad you got this sorted out,” he says to her, surprised. He turns to Arthur then and asks, “How are you, sir?”

“Fine,” says Arthur, and he’s much harder to read than Father, but even she can hear the lie in his voice, see the strain on his face.
“Pleased to hear it,” says the paramedic. He holds out his hand. “And thank you for your service.”

Arthur’s jaw clenches, and he can’t quite manage a smile, but shakes the paramedic’s hand anyway. “Just doing my civic duty.” Before the paramedic can say anything else, Arthur heads him off. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to take Rhae home now.”

The paramedic becomes uncomfortable, and counters, “I can’t recommend that. Given the severity of your reaction, it wouldn’t be prudent for me to approve you to drive.”

Rhaenys is no fan of being told what to do, and though the paramedic is talking to Arthur, it affects her too. “He was a captain in the Marines, for years,” she snaps. “Yet you think it’s somehow beyond him to drive us a few miles home? Stick to putting Band-Aids on people. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Rhaenys.” It’s admonishment, sort of, but there’s the barest hint of amusement in it, too.

The paramedic, on the other hand, is plainly irritated by her outburst but is also apparently still intent on showing Arthur a modicum of due respect. “Even if I could sign off on his mental state, I wouldn’t be able to let you go with him anyway. Only a parent or guardian can escort a minor from the premises. ‘Mom’s boyfriend’ doesn’t fly with us.”

Oh, come on. Not you guys too. Mrs. Gorf was bad enough.

“Her mother’s in the hospital,” Arthur points out. “I can’t reach her.”

“She’s got a dad, doesn’t she?”

The mention of Father is what sets her off, as though the paramedic knows anything about her family. She glances at Arthur, whose expression is somewhere between pain, irritation, and exasperation, then fixes the paramedic with a hateful glare.

“You said a parent or guardian,” she declares, grasping Arthur’s hand. “I’ve got one.”

A Song of Ice and Fire fic: Between the Raindrops

metamorphagi — Thu, 08 Jun 2017 20:36:20 GMT

Story Title: Between the Raindrops
Fandom(s): A Song of Ice and Fire
Rating: G
Word Count: 1,034
Summary: Elia, Rhaegar, and Rhaenys enjoy a day in the Water Gardens, with neither worry nor politics to trouble them.
Author’s Notes: For an anon on Tumblr, who prompted: "I wish you would write a fic where Elia just plays with Rhaenys and does nothing else. A peaceful fic where she just plays with her baby. Could be a typical day in Dragonstone or in the Water Gardens, perhaps Kingsguard or Rhaegar or Balerion joins them but no bad things, no worries. Elia is just happy."

Same Auld Lang Syne

Elia has to stifle a laugh when she sees Rhaegar walk out one morning, footsteps an uncharacteristic shuffle. They had arrived in the Water Gardens a week ago, and it had taken all of a day for the Dornish sun to wreak havoc on Rhaegar’s pale skin. She’d given him every burn remedy in the books, but still, it seems, her homeland recognizes what—or rather, who—is in Rhaegar’s blood and holds no mercy.

For her part, she hasn’t felt so at ease and content since…well, she can’t quite remember. For all that she’d been on bedrest since Rhaenys’s birth six months prior, being here has dwindled the discomfort to a mere ebb, hardly noticeable. She knows Doran’s guards, and her own, are lurking just out of sight, but they’re marvelous at giving her the illusion of privacy. There’s nothing but the smell of blood oranges and the salt of the sea about her, the warm water curing her bruised body, nothing but heat and fresh air, nothing but quiet.

Quiet, and her burnt husband.

“You’re trying to sabotage me, I know it,” Rhaegar grouses, wincing a little as he takes a seat beneath the shade. “Whatever you gave me only made things worse.”

She does laugh this time, flicking water in his direction. “You of all people should know Dorne doesn’t like Targaryens. I did warn you.”

“Our babe is half-Targaryen, and Dorne likes her just fine.”

Elia looks down at her daughter on her lap, whose small hands trail through the water and who giggles in glee at the butterflies overhead. It’s true, Rhaenys had taken to Dorne as surely as Elia herself, seeming to thrive in the hot weather, even more so with Uncle Oberyn’s tickling and blood orange slices causing him to quickly supplant everyone else as her favorite person.

“It’s a good thing, too,” Elia says. “Your family could use some color.”

Before her marriage, she had planned to be the perfect little wife, unobtrusive and demure, lest Aerys find a reason to dispense of her or, worse, lest Rhaegar take after his father in more ways than the kingship. But then he had seen her discomfort, had moved their household to Dragonstone instead of letting her suffer King’s Landing, had welcomed her counsel. All of it, no matter how thorny or unconventional. While on his jaunts to Summerhall, he’d entrusted her with holding court, with overseeing the accounts and quotidian goings-on, had sent away the wet nurse when Elia had pronounced she would not use one, had even abided by her refusal to go into confinement. Dornishwomen do not hide away for months simply because a child grows within them. We withstand until our time is upon us, and so shall I. He’d merely smiled. Far be it from me to impose my will upon yours.

He’d kept to his promise, too, though every now and then she’d seen his intent to urge her to be careful. She knows the true reason, that he feared anything and everything, given his mother’s troublesome pregnancies and doomed children; every time, she would kindly remind him that the queen was three-and-ten when she had him to Elia’s three-and-twenty, and that just because she falls ill doesn’t mean she’s an invalid.

Still, she’d appreciated it despite that, for it came from a place of real concern. Not just for the babe she carried, but for her. Before she’d gotten to know him, she’d figured him for the same as the rest of them—dismissive, condescending, begrudging of her sickness—but he’d been nothing of the sort. Though she loathes the stormy, frigid environment of Dragonstone and the grating crownlands accents, of Rhaegar she is fortunate. Reserved and melancholy, her husband is, but a good man all the same.

And, she thinks as he abandons the shade in order to sit down beside her in the pool and make faces for Rhaenys’s amusement, a better father than she could have hoped for. Of course, her standards were exceedingly low, considering who his father is, but nevertheless he’d surpassed them with great aplomb, and no artisan in the world could accurately capture Rhaenys’s adoration when she gazes up at him.

She may hate by sun and spear how Rhaegar had presumed to name their daughter after such an ill-fated woman, she may hold that grudge until the end of her days, but she’ll put up with anything so long as Rhaenys is happy and healthy. Two aspects, she vindictively loves reminding gossipy courtiers, that she has in excess.

They stay like that for ages, just the three of them, Rhaegar valiantly trying to ignore the fact that by being here his sunburn is only getting worse, when at long last they’re disrupted. His arrival is nearly silent, but not silent enough, and his steps are so familiar Elia doesn’t need to so much as glance over her shoulder to know whom they belong to.

“Pardon the interruption, Your Graces,” says Arthur, endlessly polite even here, “but I’m told supper will be served before long.”

Rhaegar takes a look at his oldest friend, and scowls. “By the Seven, you too? I thought you mountain houses were supposed to burn.”

As plainly as it had for her and Rhaenys, so too had Dorne recognized its own in Arthur, his skin browning beneath the sun the way Rhaegar’s most certainly hadn’t. “It would not be the Young Dragon’s first exaggeration, I’m afraid,” Arthur replies mildly. “What kind of Dornishmen would we be if we roasted alive every time we stepped out of doors?”

“Mayhaps the respectful sort.” With a put-upon sigh, Rhaegar removes himself from the pool, a rather spectacular pout on Rhaenys’s face at the action. “Ready the nursery, if you would. We shan’t be long.”

Arthur nods in obeisance and departs, pausing only to tap Rhaenys playfully on the nose. Elia takes Rhaegar’s proffered hand, primly wringing the water from her skirts, and as they walk into the palace she closes her eyes. The familiar scents of her people mingle with Rhaegar’s smoke and Rhaenys’s sweetness, and she can scarcely think of anything more perfect.

The Hunger Games fic: Trap, Crackle, Pop (5/?)

metamorphagi — Thu, 22 Dec 2016 00:44:38 GMT

Story Title: Trap, Crackle, Pop
Chapter Title: Five
Fandom(s): The Hunger Games
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 4,707
Summary: They say not all of Finnick Odair came back from his Games five years ago. How fortunate that the Capitol loves him so much they ask him to mentor and entertain anyway.

Trap, Crackle, Pop

Chapter V

Half the day is gone when finally a robotic recording pitches through the speakers: Tributes, mentors, interviews will begin in ten minutes. On cue, all relevant parties meet up at the elevator, only the Capitol-bred of whom express any amount of comfort or excitement. For anyone else, it’s either one step closer to a slaughterhouse or, in the Avoxes’ cases, one more day of having much to say and very little in the way of saying it.

Marin, it happens, is fully clothed this time, clad in black slacks and a sky blue button-down shirt capped with sapphire cufflinks. Tastefully careless. Annie’s dress is of pure white, strapless and painstakingly embroidered with thousands of gemstones. An elaborate golden netting criss-crosses her torso, knotting in the back and left to drape behind her.

The surf this time, he supposes was their intention, although the elaborate necklace they gave her has shells on it that are native to the rocky shores of District 7, not Four’s sloping coasts. He debates whether to point this out or not, ultimately coming to the conclusion that anyone who cares is in this room. Anyone outside who will be paying attention to her looks probably also believes absolutely anything they’re told about places beyond their city. Her makeup is more pronounced than during the parade, dark greens and browns to offset the brightness of her dress; soft contours on her cheekbones draw attention to the delicacy of her features.

He remembers once telling a patron the legend of the selkie, and the patron had asked him at the end if he was one of them. Finnick had answered in the negative, but has since wondered whether his clients would pay more if they think him some mythical creature.

The elevator rushes them all down to the main floor where it is a similar crowd as the parade, tributes, mentors, and stylists all in various stages of disarray. There is a dull roar from outside, where Capitol citizens, Gamemakers, and television crews wait to hear what great feats the tributes have to impress upon them.

Once everyone is in order by district, they listen as Caesar announces them all in turn and find their assigned seats. Spurred by his own two-faced façade he has to control when he’s in the Capitol, since the 68th Games he’s made it a puzzle as to what strategies the tributes have before they give their spiel.

That first year had been his best, actually. From the moment Johanna had gone upstage with Caesar and whispered like a frightened doe, he knew. The Capitol couldn’t see it, Caesar couldn’t, but in those brown eyes Finnick saw a fire that belied any words coming out of her painted mouth. She may have not wanted to be in the Games, she may have been scared, but her interview had told him she wasn’t to be trifled with.

(His tribute long dead, he recalls giving a whoop when Johanna leapt down from a tree into what had been left of the Career pack, hacking and slashing with the weapons she’d amassed. Only the boy from Two had had enough wits about him to slice her, but even that wasn’t a shallow cut, and anyhow, he’d died a half-second later.)

Mags yanks him out of his recollection as she traces Calliope’s steps, she who leads the non-tribute troupe down to the front row of the elevated seating unit. He’d rather watch from backstage, where no one would look at him like he’s…well, for sale, but no, Snow wants to see his victors front and center.

The pair from District 1 pontificate impeccably, equally charming and disarming. Between that and the pristine raiments on them both, Finnick’s sure they won’t lack for sponsors. Or buyers, should it come to that.

District 2 follows suit, with Brutus’s boy eschewing the typical macho act for a slightly more soulful side. He can see in some of the other tributes that they find this ludicrous, but he disagrees. Based on the adoring sighs he can hear from the audience behind him, they are positively eating up his tortured act. They don’t fall for that, much, for outer district kids who they assume are more timid because of their underprivileged backgrounds. For Careers, who are expected to live in the lap of luxury, sadness is a valuable marketing tool.

Three’s kids are lukewarm at best. They don’t usually suffer from a lack of sponsors, either, though, because of the district’s reputation for brilliance. Ever since Beetee had won his Games by electrocuting a half-dozen tributes in one fell swoop, no one has underestimated them.

When Caesar announces Annie’s name, she gets her share of ooh’s and ahh’s, and Finnick can’t help but side with them on this one. Lit by a slew of bright lights above her, the gems on her dress appear as tiny, individual suns, faithfully emulating how the sun glints off a gently pitching surf at midday. Caesar instantly beseeches her to twirl, and she obliges, layers upon layers of fabric swirling out around her. She might be a selkie herself, dancing on a beach with her sealskin safely hidden away.

“Beautiful, beautiful,” Caesar marvels, once the crowd dies down a little. Annie sits in the chair beside him, primly crossing her legs at the ankle, back straight and hands clasped in her lap. “So, Annie—may I call you Annie?”

“You may call me whatever you like, Caesar,” Annie replies with a smile.

Caesar preens, placing his hand on her knee and leaving it there. Finnick jams his fists into his pockets so his anxiety doesn’t draw attention. She’s manipulating him and the audience, as they’d practiced. He’s just discovering that it’s one thing for her to flirt when they’re role-playing in the Training Center; it’s another to watch her doing it up there, knowing what’s going through the heads of everyone in attendance.

“Cheeky little thing,” Caesar titters. “Now, I’d be remiss if we didn’t talk about your mentor a smidge.” He turns to the audience— “We all know Finnick Odair, don’t we, folks?”

The crowd explodes, multiple cameras homing in on Finnick’s face. He catches sight of it on the giant monitors and hardly recognizes the self-assured smirk that he’s plastered on himself. He sees himself wave good-naturedly to everyone, not-so-patiently waiting until they all quiet down. Do they not realize they’re wasting Annie’s interview?

“He’s very professional,” Annie says. Then, leaning closer as though to divulge a secret, “Very attentive. When he can be, that is.”

She glances at Finnick, and he furtively, frantically, shakes his head. She can’t possibly… “What do you mean, my dear?”

“Oh, I only mean I think he spends more time in front of the mirror than I do!” she laughs.

Finnick can’t relax, not when he can’t assure himself that she doesn’t believe what she’s saying, that she doesn’t regard him as vapid or addicted to flattery. Mags would tell him he’s being an idiot, but he can’t shake the feeling. And the prospect of Annie sharing the opinion of him that everyone in the districts does is nauseating. He doesn’t notice himself rising out of his chair until Mags firmly latches onto his arm.

“Annie’s doing fine,” she murmurs. “Breathe.”

“Well, that’s not so bad,” Caesar says. “Do you have any other delightful details about one of our favorite victors?”

Annie hesitates for a split second, and Finnick wagers she, too, is remembering their conversation yesterday. He’s not mad, like everyone says. Just tired. “Sorry, I’m fresh out,” she says, apology startlingly convincing. “If I win, though, I’ll be sure to let you know.”

Caesar seems to take the hint. “Yes,” he trills, “how about that training score of yours? A ten, quite impressive! What can we expect to see from you during these Games?”

“You can expect a girl who’s willing to do whatever it takes. I love this city and can’t wait to have more occasion to see it.”

Only Mags’s continued grip prevents Finnick from putting his hands over his ears to block out the rest of the interviews and the scenarios that pop into his head at Annie’s words; Mags’s lilting susurrations are the only things that stop him from screaming for all of Panem to hear.

The recording of the anthem is Mags’s indication to haul him up, and Finnick looks around, realizing that, again, he’s lost an hour of his life without any idea how it happened. She makes excuses for him to the various members of the crowd who want to talk to him, which is good, considering Finnick’s brain is still trying to recognize that his legs are moving, that people are asking him questions. He doesn’t know if his face is dazed or not, so he ducks it to cover his bases.

Mags taps his chin when they reach the bank of elevators, and they pick a car that’s empty. After the raucous nature of the crowd, the elevator’s silence is at once deafening and welcomed. They’ve only got four floors for him to recalibrate—fortunately, he’s had a lot of practice. The elevator opens in seconds, enough time for Finnick to feign normalcy.

The remaining District 4 crew has already arrived, and Finnick hopes he’s imagining their apprehension. He hadn’t thought he was explicitly obvious at his reaction to Annie’s interview, but then, he has trouble differentiating sometimes.

“Well?” Marin asks.

“You two were great,” Finnick replies with as much sincerity as he can manage. It’s hard, though, between that and ensuring his voice doesn’t wobble.

“Not too campy? I felt I was a little much.”

Finnick has no idea what Marin said, or what any tributes after Annie said for that matter, so Mags breezily takes up the slack. “Just the right amount. Subtlety isn’t usually the best method with interviews.”

“Is Caesar always that…touchy?” Annie inquires, unclasping her gaudy necklace and handing it to Lucinda.

In comparison to his own interview, Caesar had been positively chaste. Even so, the image of Caesar’s hand on her knee, only inches away from elsewhere… “Yeah, he is,” Finnick says, attempting to keep the darkness from slipping out.

“He was trying to be comforting,” huffs Calliope, at her tolerance point of listening to badmouthing of her fellow Capitolites.

“I thought it was creepy.”

“Well, you remembered our presentation session at least,” Calliope accepts.

Lucinda interjects with a cheery, “And you looked fabulous. I admit, I was a little afraid the gemstones would be too blinding, but they were glorious.”

“Marin had a few admirers,” Annie mentions. To her partner, she ribs, “Did you see that woman in the third row? I was sure she was going to faint right there.”

Finnick studies Marin under a different lens than he had previously. He hadn’t even considered Marin would be the subject of objectification, not with Annie as his companion. Unhappily, he can see where he might. Okay, he’s lanky, but so was Finnick when he won, so are most teenage boys. Marin’s got the perpetual tan that Four epitomizes; he’s tall, only an inch or so shorter than Finnick; he’s got an easy sort of earnestness to him; and, he’s from a Career district, which automatically renders him more desirable.

It’s obvious to Finnick now: if Annie doesn’t win and Marin does, he will be thrown to the wolves without so much as a second glance.

It’s too much to endure, knowing that no matter which one of them were to win, the Capitol would instantly dig their claws into them. Is it worse to want them to die, given what would happen, or worse to see the betrayal on their faces when he’ll have to tell them that the Games never end? That winning is simply the tip of the iceberg?

He remembers Gloss confiding in him that Cashmere had pleaded with the Capitol elite not to go after Finnick, that she’d done things with them she’d promised herself she wouldn’t, and they’d gone after him anyway. It’s hard to reconcile Gloss’s tale when Cashmere always seems to have a scathing retort handy, but he’s since determined that it’s just her mask. Indifferent, cold. If she can make people hate her, then she may not have to watch them self-destruct.

“Shut up,” Marin says, flushing. “Who’d look twice at me when they saw you? And you have Finnick.”

“Hey, don’t bring me into this,” Finnick jokes, aiming for a casual smile. Because of course, he’s the epicenter, always. “Let’s eat. I hear they have crêpes.”

“What?” Annie and Marin ask in unison.

Finnick chuckles, still too rattled to bother explaining to them what they are. “Come on.”

Despite their grumbling, both tributes take to the dessert like fish to water. Annie slathers hers in strawberry purée, cream, and various slices of fruit. They don’t have these readily available anywhere in the outer districts, including Four, unless you know where to look and have the awareness to not bring Peacekeepers down upon the black market. The dessert is not especially complicated to make, but necessitates certain ingredients that aren’t cheap.

Calliope firmly suggests that they don’t gorge themselves only on confections, manhandling them into consumption of thick slabs of beef, a plate of vegetables, and a pitcher of water each. Finnick will give her this: she’s committed. In her own way, she cares about them. Maybe not for the right reasons, but nevertheless she wants them to live.

Suddenly feeling woefully inadequate, that he didn’t teach Annie enough, didn’t prepare her enough, didn’t didn’t didn’t, he feels panic start to rise. They’ve got little more than twelve hours before she’s thrust into the crucible with her wits and not a lot else. And all he’ll be free to do is watch her from a screen a thousand miles away.

“Finnick?” she inquires, a cube of steak speared on her fork.

“Just thinking.” It’s not technically a lie. “Most important thing now is for you guys to get some rest. You’re no use if you’re…worn out.”

He’d almost said, If you’re dead on your feet, which would be approximately the worst phrasing in the world. Annie sets down her fork and nods. “If I can,” she says, and he doesn’t know if she’d meant to say it aloud.

The mood only goes downhill from there as each dinner guest realizes in sequence that this is the last night they’ll all have together, that one or both tributes will never sit anywhere again. In the past, after dinner is when they would watch a replay of the interviews to spot weaknesses or strengths in the other tributes that perhaps they’d missed, but Finnick doesn’t have the heart to call them back.

He takes to the sitting room and flicks on the TV with the volume on low. Resolved to memorize anything and everything that could be of use to him in Control Center, he pops in the tape of the parade, assessing the tributes and, less enthusiastically, hanging on the commentators’ every word.

They don’t have a lot on which to remark that Finnick couldn’t already figure out, and he hastily fast-forwards through Four’s and half of Five’s entrance, not wanting to hear them prattle on about him. An extra run-through of the parade yields no new information, so he changes out the tape to that of the interviews.

He can see how Marin would have thought he’d laid on the smarminess a bit too thick, but based on the audience’s reactions, it was flawless. The tributes from Six don’t seem to know what to say, although the male is bulky, giving him an inherent advantage. Finnick wouldn’t be surprised if the Careers saved him for later, on the chance that they’d get injured in the Cornucopia. Not the best strategy for sponsors, letting yourself be dinged by an outlier district.

Johanna’s influence is plain in her girl, except that the girl fails spectacularly. She makes a valiant effort, but doesn’t have the demeanor to pull off arrogant and outspoken. He has a sinking feeling she won’t even last long enough to pick up a weapon. The girl from Ten is small, underfed and probably knocked around more than once, and her answers are all mumbles. She’s a goner, too. Finnick skips Twelve entirely, since they haven’t pulled a victor in twenty years and aren’t likely to start now.

Altogether, it ends up being more or less a waste of his time. There’s nothing there that will help him in this, the eleventh hour. Two teenagers that he’s gotten to know, that he’s come to care for (rookie mistake, that), who should be concerned about acne or what name they’ll christen their first boat. They shouldn’t have to be concerned about being tossed into a frying pan. Dance, jump, hop, skip, if you can, and if you can’t, too bad. Cannon.

Reis audibly gasps when he beelines toward the coffee station the next morning and spots Finnick sitting at the kitchen table, hands cupped around a mug of the black drink that’s long gone cold. Reis’s utterance focuses him a little, and he looks down into his mug with disgust. None of the Avoxes, it seems, had been kind enough to stop him from acting in a loop. His drink is less coffee than it is sugared cream, and he realizes he must have continuously poured in additives without paying any attention. At least Outsider-Finnick had the good sense to not drink it.

“You appall me,” Reis comments, pushing Finnick’s mug away, sloshing liquid over the table. He drags Finnick upright, tilting his head this way and that. “Will you never listen to me when I say you need to improve your sleep hygiene? Starting with, you need to sleep. Just look at those circles under your eyes, goodness.”

Finnick opens his mouth to correct him, but Reis is already there.

“Yes, yes, I know, no mirrors.” Finnick would be amused at his short temper if the circumstances surrounding them weren’t so dismal. “It’s an expression.”

Finnick snatches Reis’s freshly-brewed coffee out of his hands, amends it to his liking—one dollop of cream, no sugar—and takes a long drag of it. He offers it back to his stylist, who turns his nose up in disgust. He orders an Avox to get him a new cup, then retreats briefly to his room, returning a moment later with a large makeup bag in hand.

He lets Reis go to work—he’s in no mood for an argument of such little consequence—standing there obediently as brushes and powders and who knows what else gets painted onto his face. In the five years Reis has been assigned to him, they’ve got a certain rapport; not friends exactly, Finnick can’t imagine that could be possible with anyone from the Capitol, but colleagues.

Reis is one of the few people in the city who doesn’t blush at the mere sight of him, who in fact has been more acerbic than complimentary. He also manages most of Finnick’s appointments and, while he doesn’t commiserate, he also doesn’t laud it all either. Finnick doesn’t know if one of the other victors talked to him about it, if Reis happens to have an above-par moral compass, or if he has just learned over time to avoid the topic. Regardless, it’s nice to have a stylist who doesn’t chat his ear off or prattle on about this event or that socialite.

Reis squeezes a glob of blue gel into his hands and artfully musses up his hair. Finnick doesn’t have a way to double-check, but he’s certain the purple shadows of exhaustion have been erased, any errant lines ironed out, colorless balm smoothing his lips where he’d worried them with his teeth. Beauty Base Zero. Offhand, he pens an internal note to ask Reis if they’ve named a makeup line after him yet or not.

“Thanks,” he says, because Reis does have a job to do and Finnick’s never made it any easier.

More profoundly, he deals exclusively in secrets and he’s not heard one about his stylist, hasn’t heard any unusual ones about himself. Aside from Mags, Reis is probably the person who’s seen him at his very worst. And every time, he’d simply adopted consternation, patched Finnick up as necessary, and allowed the world to see him as they wanted him to be, not as he was.

“That’s what I’m here for,” Reis replies. He doesn’t touch him, doesn’t ask questions. Never has, more than necessary. Those stipulations, he can assume with confidence, were an outside victor’s amendments. Who, though, he hasn’t sussed out.

The two men reach a comfortable quiet, sipping sparingly from their respective coffees. An Avox brings them plates loaded with breakfast, and while Reis digs in zealously, all Finnick can stomach is a few bites of toast. He feels marginally bad about it, since any food, uneaten or otherwise, is summarily thrown in the garbage. Days of hard labor from multiple districts go into every meal, and Finnick estimates eighty or so percent of it is trashed.

He’d found out two years ago, his first Games mentoring, and had proceeded to eat as much as humanly possible, as if his lone effort could reverse the trend. After a few rounds of him throwing up the rich food and the Avoxes having to clean him up, one of them had squeezed his forearm, her words unspoken but clear: Stop. It’s not going to make a difference.

(On the subject of Avoxes themselves, Finnick had never realized how much power being made silent could hold. He’s trafficked and sold and wants to die most of the time, but in the right hands, at the right moment, the secrets he carries could help to bring down the mighty Capitol itself. Who knows how many whispers the Avoxes have accrued? If he could talk to them in that special, prohibited, gesture-language of theirs, if he could walk two steps without being on camera, he knows they could do some real damage together. He’d scoffed to himself then, and he scoffs now. Like that could ever happen.)

Slowly, the room begins to glow orange, and Finnick glances out the window, squinting as the sun rises. His insides knotting unpleasantly, he finishes his cup of coffee and gets up from the table, stretching.

“Guess I’d better get Annie,” he says, trying for nonchalant. “Get Marin, would you?”

Reis agrees, and they head in different directions. Steeling himself, Finnick knocks on Annie’s door. He hears a soft response from within, and takes it as invitation. She’s still in bed, but definitely awake. Her legs are drawn up to her chest and she gazes out her window, sullen and terrified. He gives himself permission to sit on the bed beside her, mirroring her posture. The way the sun glitters off the buildings unassumingly is sheer cruelty.

“The hovercraft will be leaving soon,” he says, hating that he has to wreck what little peace she has. “They’ll have breakfast on board, which you’ll need to eat. Lucinda will go with you, make sure everything’s in place.”

She’s non-responsive, except for her blunted nails that press into her legs. If nothing else, she’s prepared for horror, which is more than he’d had. He’d gone in a stupid, reckless kid who thought he was on top of the world. He’d discovered quickly that hubris would do him no good in there, a lesson learned the hard way. Hopefully, Annie won’t be so nearsighted.

“Do you have your district token?”

Once he says it, he is legitimately curious. He hasn’t seen her with any sort of memento thus far. It’s not a requirement, but Finnick had certainly treasured the simple hemp bracelet of his mother’s that he’d worn into the Games. It’d had no practical purpose but, starving and cold and threatening to burst apart at the seams with sobs, it might very well have saved his sanity. What left he has of that.

Gloss had suggested he wear it during his appointments, to remind him of home, which is the very reason Finnick had rebuffed it. He doesn’t want home anywhere near the Capitol. It never leaves his person, though, out of sight during the Games when his grip on what’s real and what’s not is at its weakest.

Annie looks at him, green eyes accented amber in the growing sunlight. “No, I don’t have one. Guess I didn’t really think this volunteer thing through, did I?”

“You gave Stefania her life,” he suggests. “Whatever happens, it means a lot, Annie.”

A defeated shrug is the only acknowledgement he receives. Unable to accept the concept of her going in with nothing, he promptly withdraws the bracelet from his pocket and loops it around her wrist. He secures the strands with an eternity knot, deciding it already looks much nicer on her than it did on him.

“There.”

She fingers the worn twine beaded with iridescent shells and multi-colored sea glass, edges pounded smooth by years of powerful surf. It has plenty of flaws, his mother having made it when she was just a girl, but care behind every thread.

“If you lose that, mind, my mother will have my head.” He means, Come back and be careful.

“We wouldn’t want that,” Annie says. The corners of her lips twitch. “Thank you, Finnick.”

Five sharp raps on the door ruin the moment. It’s Calliope, impressing upon them that they’re already running late. Finnick turns his back as Annie discards her pajamas, throwing on a shift and the flats from her interview. It’s so mismatched that, on any other day, the greenest of stylists would yelp in secondhand mortification. It matters not, considering she’ll be dressed in arena-appropriate gear before long.

Annie bites her lip, debating about something, and then wraps her arms around Finnick’s middle. He flinches, reflexively recoiling at the unexpected contact. When logic catches up with his nerves—this isn’t a client, this is Annie, god get a grip—he slackens, folding her small frame into him as tightly as he dares. Her hands bunch in his shirt for an instant and she sucks in a shuddering breath. The embrace is over as soon as it’d begun.

“You’ll be there?” she asks, sounding years younger than she is. Her pretense of confidence and aloofness is conspicuously absent.

“Every minute.”

She nods once, then walks to the door. Finnick trails reluctantly, and they emerge to the sight of Calliope’s impatient, tapping foot. Marin is next to her, demeanor roughly identical to Annie’s. Finnick suspects he didn’t get much rest either, tucked in around himself as he is and scrutinizing the opposite wall on the off-chance it’ll give him an out.

More than anything, Finnick wishes he could do exactly that, whisk the three of them far, far away from the Capitol and its Games. He has the asinine notion that maybe he could finagle it, that they could all commandeer a boat and supplies and sail out to sea. Free they’d be—and their families killed. No, they must suffer, if only to save their relatives from a gruesome end.

On his darkest days, he comes to envy Johanna and Haymitch, who have no loved ones to protect. Johanna has welcomed causticity, Haymitch white liquor, but they also don’t have to worry about getting anyone executed.

Finnick situates himself between Calliope and Reis, watching as District 4’s tributes go to the elevator, led by Lucinda and Quentus, Marin’s stylist. Leastwise, the pair has the good grace not to flaunt their excitement. Decorum, ostensibly, isn’t entirely dead.

His gaze is wrenched sideways when an Avox taps him on the shoulder and confers upon him a white envelope. He blanches, numbly relieving the servant of her burden and glowering at his name in swirling script on the front of it. When he looks back at the elevators, Annie and Marin are gone and all he’s left with is an invitation to a wholly different arena.

A Song of Ice and Fire fic: Same Auld Lang Syne

metamorphagi — Fri, 16 Dec 2016 01:41:46 GMT

Story Title: Same Auld Lang Syne
Fandom(s): A Song of Ice and Fire
Rating: PG
Word Count: 5,133
Summary: A chance meeting on Christmas Eve between former lovers leads to new hurts and old memories.
Author’s Notes: Written for Day 13 of gameofshipschallenges on Tumblr. Inspired by the Dan Fogelberg song by the same name, though with a more optimistic ending.

Same Auld Lang Syne

“Perfect, just fucking perfect,” mutters Elia Martell as she stares longingly at the very top shelf of the freezer. Every single carton of Ben & Jerry’s within reach is gone, the one lone pint left being one she can’t grab. It’s salted caramel, too—her favorite.

A movement down the aisle catches her eye, and she glances over to see some guy at the other end pondering the frozen pizzas. I bet he could reach the ice cream, is the first thing she thinks, appraising his generous height. Goddamn it, he’s gorgeous, too, is the second. Not that she’s looking, but that tousled dark hair, that jawline shadowed in stubble, the way his shirt stretches over his shoulders, the jeans that might as well have been made for him…he’s just about every one of her fantasies wrapped up into one delectable package.

She sighs wistfully and the fluorescents overhead that glimmer off her wedding ring rudely remind her of why she’s searching for comfort food in the first place. She reluctantly quits her ogling and returns to her mission, contemplating the success rate of jumping to get her quarry. She’d look like an idiot, for sure, but at least she’d have her carton of goodness.

Right as she decides to make the leap, someone taps her on the shoulder. She whirls around, ready to tell whoever it is to fuck off; instead, she comes face-to-face with the frozen pizza guy. “Need help with that?” he asks, easily plucking her prize from the shelf. He smiles, all bright white teeth and laugh lines, and for some reason there’s something alarmingly familiar about it.

“Thanks, I—” Then suddenly it clicks. “Arthur?”

“Thought that was you.” His eyes are as captivating as she remembers, a blue so dark it’s almost purple. “You’re the only person I know who would be willing to climb to get salted caramel ice cream.”

“Ha-ha.” It coaxes a grin from her, though, and she pulls him into a hug. She’s successful for only a moment—and god, what a moment; he smells divine—before she feels her purse slip and then the unmistakeable clatter of its entire contents spilling onto the floor. “Damn it. For real?”

Grimacing at the ache in her back, she bends over to start picking it all up, but Arthur puts a hand on her arm. “Let me.”

She wants to tell him that no, she’s perfectly capable and in no need of his stupid chivalry, but her back does burn something fierce, and he’s already got most of it put back in her purse anyway. Besides, she reminds herself, he’s seen me a lot worse off than this. At least I’m upright this time.

Unfortunately, she doesn’t snatch her wallet quick enough to stop him from noticing the portrait she’d had done of her, Rhaenys, and Aegon. Rhae is her in miniature and Egg has her dimples, if not anything else, so there’s no mistaking them as anything but what they are. Arthur studies the photo half a beat too long, then hands it carefully back to her.

Instead of parting ways, she finds herself walking alongside him towards the checkout counter, sneaking glances all the while. The years had been a friend to him, that much is for certain. It’d been fifteen years since they’d last seen each other—Christ, was college really that long ago?—and they’re both on the wrong end of their thirties, but save for the faint crinkles by his eyes when he’d smiled, he doesn’t look a day over twenty-five. She most certainly does not check his left hand, and she most certainly does not notice that there is no ring on his finger.

Their cashier is a girl barely out of her teens snapping a piece of gum. She greets Elia with disinterest, then spots Arthur and visibly brightens. Fortunately they have just the one item, so there’s no room for much smalltalk—or flirting, in the girl’s case—and they’re out in the blustering snow in no time at all. He accompanies her to her car and she leans in to set her pint in the center console.

“What say you to a beer or two?” Arthur asks abruptly, leaning against the door. “I doubt any bars are open tonight, but there’s that liquor store down the road.”

“Greenblood’s? That rattrap is still running?”

“Only one way to find out,” he beams. “You can drive.”

He’d been right about the bars, all of them closed for the holiday. Every house they pass looks incredibly inviting, windows glowing with Christmas or Hanukkah lights, giddy families inside baking cookies or sipping eggnog while How the Grinch Stole Christmas or some cheesy Hallmark movie plays in the background. Fortunately, Greenblood’s is open, a flickering sign boasting just that and a bored cashier within fiddling with his phone.

She parks in the empty lot and they enter, soft music filtering through the liquor store. The bell above the door jingles with their arrival, and the cashier startles at the sound; likely they’ve been the only customers for hours, if not all day. He doesn’t bother greeting them, simply goes back to his phone as they wander down the aisles contemplating the options.

“How about PBR?”

“Pisswater, you mean,” she says haughtily. “Don’t even joke about buying that, Arthur Dayne.”

He chuckles and they move along until they both settle on an inoffensive brand to share. Arthur picks up a bottle of nice wine to give to his mother, and they make their way to the checkout counter. The cashier is a man in his early fifties or thereabouts, with the appearance of someone you’d expect to work at a liquor store. And the personality to match, if the lascivious way he regards her is anything to go by. She thinks it rather bold of him, with Arthur standing right there, but clearly he doesn’t much care.

“How you doin’ tonight, sweetheart?” he asks, spending an inordinate amount of time determining whether their IDs are fake. “You know, it’s mighty cold outside. If you need someplace to—”

“I don’t. Thank you.”

“Maybe you wanna think about it,” he perseveres. “You seem like a nice lady, I’d like to get to know you.”

He winks, and Elia shudders. So smoothly she barely notices it, Arthur slips his arm around her, drawing her into him. Following his lead, she settles her hand on his stomach to fully display her ring, trying not to focus on how right it all feels. Intellectually, she knows it’s surely only because she’s wounded from what Rhaegar did, but it’s hard to be rational when he’s so warm and she fits so perfectly against his side. When it brings her back to lazy days spent on campus, sprawled out on the grass with a textbook in front of her and Arthur’s hand in hers.

Breaking herself out of her reverie, she asks the cashier sweetly, “How much will that be?”

The man looks at her, then Arthur, then her diamond, and deflates. “Eight-fifty, ma’am.”

“I got it, babe,” says Arthur, pulling out his own wallet.

She freezes. The endearment was part of whatever ill-conceived charade she’d started, no doubt, but even still, she wonders whether he’d said it on reflex or on purpose; his face gives away nothing. “Oh, um, all right.” They scurry out of the skeevy liquor store and she drives them back to the supermarket, parking alongside his car. She cranks on the heat, watching snow collect on the windshield. “Thanks for that.”

“Always happy to lend a hand to a maiden in need.”

“Maiden?” she snickers. “Would that make you my white knight?”

His smile begins to fade, a familiar sadness coming over him. “Once upon a time.”

Anxious to not get caught in his riptide, she averts her gaze and settles upon the cheerful container of ice cream. She removes the lid and digs up a plastic spoon from some long-ago fast food trip; the dessert is just the right softness, and she shuts her eyes in happiness, salt and caramel melting in her mouth.

“Do I get any of that?” Arthur asks. She opens her eyes and sees that his melancholy has fled. “I paid for the beer, you know.”

“You offered to pay for the beer.” Grumbling, she nevertheless sticks her spoon in the ice cream and puts the carton in between them to share. She removes two of the beers, tossing one in his lap and twisting the cap off her own. “To…I don’t know, back when we were young and innocent.”

Arthur stares at her a moment then bursts into laughter. She’d forgotten how much she liked that sound—even if it is at her expense. “To innocence? I see you’re still terrible at toasts.”

“Excuse me, when have I made a bad toast?” She groans, realizing. “Please tell me you did not just bring up—”

“—Doran’s wedding? Absolutely I did. You were a lush.”

“I was not.” She was. She very much was. And then we fucked in the coatroom, twice. “Fine, you come up with something better.”

“Can’t change it now. To innocence.” He clinks his bottle with hers and drinks deep, fighting a grin the whole way.

She downs her bottle quicker than she normally would, wanting to block out any nervousness about speaking with him after all this while, and more importantly, wanting to focus more on the good aspects of their relationship—not the months upon months after it ended that she spent in a daze. She’s vindicated somewhat when she notices he finishes his beer even faster than she had, and she doles out another for them both.

“So, what have you been up to? Wife, kids?” She hopes it comes across casual enough. He doesn’t wear a ring, but that doesn’t necessarily mean anything.

“Neither. Never got around to it, I guess.”

He offers no more than that, so she does what he hated when they were together: she prods. “Okay, what have you gotten around to? After school, I mean. I kept up for a while through the papers, but then you just disappeared.”

She’s temporarily sidetracked him. “You did?”

“You got your dream, Arthur. Just because we broke up doesn’t mean I stopped being proud of you.”

He’d been the bright spot on their university’s hockey team ever since he was plucked from obscurity at open tryouts, racking up all sorts of records and championships during his four years on the squad. They’d met during her pre-med internship, and somewhere along the line she went from helping rehab his torn ACL to being unable to remember a time when she wasn’t madly in love with him.

Things were so much simpler then, she thinks. We were who we were and that was enough.

It is only with great effort that she’s able to shove aside the familiar scent of rinks and sweat and the feel of his jersey over her bare skin. “What happened?” she pushes. “I thought things were going great. Could you not handle the NHL’s travel schedule or something?”

“I blew out my knee again,” he answers dully, and oh. He’d been devastated the first time that happened, she can’t imagine how he’d have felt with it happening while in the pros. “Doctors fixed the tear, but I was never at half the level I used to be, and so eventually I began bouncing around the minors, which was too much failure for me to handle long-term.”

With someone else, she might point out that most athletes would be thrilled to play professionally in any capacity, but Arthur’s always held himself to unreasonably high standards, had always had the all-or-nothing mentality. It’s a good thing his father passed away years ago, or else she’d be inclined to give him hell for fucking up his son’s sense of self-worth.

“What’d you do after you retired then?”

A muscle in his jaw twitches. “Turns out the military has less stringent criteria for snapped ligament recovery.”

“The—you joined the military?”

“I didn’t know what I wanted to do at first. But I was too restless and frustrated to do some nine-to-five, and then one day Allem suggested the Marines. He’s always spoken highly of the NROTC he’d done in college before the concussion forced him out of it, so I decided to look into enlisting.”

The shock ebbs as she ponders more on it, for in an awful way, it makes sense. Rules, regulations, commands, those he can do. Work his body to the bone, that he can do. If he couldn’t live his life doing something he loved, then it tracks that he would choose a route where he could protect something, protect his country. He’d gotten his degree in education, but she can only imagine how terrible a teacher of any kind he’d have made with the headspace he must have been in back then. Still…

“So the Marines?”

“Semper fi.” Bitterness twists every letter, and this isn’t her job anymore, for his hurts to become hers, but she wants nothing more than to rip the throat out of whoever made him feel this way. “I earned my captaincy a few years in and then they moved me to covert ops.”

“Covert ops? Wait, not like…”

Arthur’s face is perfectly blank. “I was very good at my job.”

It terrifies her, the thought of what those words could mean, and it terrifies her that she’s not surprised he’d excel at it. Whatever “it” was. It’s a stark reminder that for however whimsical their meeting in the grocery store had been, he’s not the same sweet, unassuming boy she’d once known. At least, not entirely. There’s prickly bits hiding the softness and a whole platoon of issues beyond that.

“Oh. Are you…out now?”

“After a fashion,” he says, draining the rest of his beer. “Honorable discharge and the Navy Cross. For valor.” He pauses. “Plus the threat of a court-martial to make me shut up.”

She stares into the depths of her drink and really wishes they’d gone for tequila instead. “Can I ask what you’re supposed to shut up about?”

“You can,” he grants, “but if you ask me, then I’ll tell you.”

Yeah, definitely tequila.

“Well, screw them all,” she spits. “If they think they can just get away with—”

“Elia, I told you because you wanted to know, not because I thought there’s anything to be done about it now,” he interrupts calmly. “I’m one cog in a giant machine, and anyway, if it means they’ll leave me alone, I can deal with a few nightmares.”

“I forgot you did that,” she says, trying her best to brush aside her anger, given that he clearly doesn’t want to get into the matter. “You never let me be irritated for you. You used to downplay the situation so I wouldn’t go right all the wrongs never mind the how.”

“What do you mean?”

“You really didn’t notice?” She leans back in her seat, delving into the past. “Okay, well, like that time Coach benched you for a game because you missed practice one day, which only happened because you pulled an all-nighter to help me study for my o-chem exam. But you were afraid that I might lose my internship or something for reaming him out, so you fabricated some lame excuse about how you would have probably skipped regardless. I knew your explanation was totally untrue, but you also never lied to me unless you really needed me to believe it, so I let it go.”

“You remember that?” he asks quietly.

“Of course I remember.” There’s something about the snow that blankets every window in white and the warmth of the car and the serendipity that caused them to meet up in the same spot in the same supermarket on the same night that has her adding, “I remember everything about us.”

It’s lightning-quick, but even so she doesn’t miss the way his eyes flicker to her lips or the way her skin suddenly seems to prickle with anticipation. He wants to kiss her, he’s going to kiss her, and when he doesn’t she’s not as relieved as she should be. Breaking the moment, he says in an irritatingly self-deprecating tone, “You’re exaggerating. And you hated me the first time you met me.”

“Are you kidding?” she splutters. “I didn’t hate you. I was nineteen and didn’t want to be that girl. I mean, all right, maybe at first I was afraid you were some horny asshole who only cared about scoring goals and getting laid like most of your teammates, but that’s hardly the same thing.”

In a halfhearted attempt at humor, he asks, “Who says I wasn’t like them?”

“You weren’t. Although one of my benchmarks was Leo Tyrell, who leered down my shirt and accused me of being a lesbian because I rejected him, so possibly you just looked good by comparison.”

Arthur scowls. “You never told me Reller did that.”

“Because there was no point. He didn’t grope me or anything. And he assisted on like half your goals, I wasn’t about to mess up that dynamic just because he was a dick. All guys are dicks.”

He raises an eyebrow and nods pointedly at her ring. “Are you including your husband in that?”

“Excuse me?”

“I wasn’t born yesterday, Elia. You wear some gaudy ring, but you were also alone in a grocery store on Christmas Eve looking for your favorite comfort food, the only photo you have in your wallet is of you and your kids, and I haven’t seen a single actual smile from you tonight,” he rattles off. “What’s going on?”

For an instant, she considers lying to him, before she realizes that not only would he see through that in no time at all, but that she’s simply too tired to put on airs. If he were a stranger, maybe, but he’s the furthest thing from that. She answers him in a flippant rush, afraid that if she doesn’t, she’ll break down for the umpteenth time.

“Oh, you know. This was just your typical my-husband-had-an-affair-with-a-teenager-and-I-only-found-out-because-her-brother-nearly-kicked-down-my-front-door ice cream run.”

“I see. And who is your husband?” She notices Arthur’s habit of over-enunciating when he’s trying to be casual had apparently never ebbed, and right now his syllables are crisper than a freshly printed dollar bill.

She sighs. “Rhaegar Targaryen.”

“That politician’s son?”

“The very same. He’s a musician. A good one, though usually the venues he chooses are dive bars. You know, for the aesthetic. Turns out he didn’t inherit his father’s zeal like I’d feared, he just likes to make off with girls half his age. Go figure.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, well. I probably should have expected it. Neither of us particularly wanted to get married. It was supposed to be just a bit of fun, and then I got pregnant and Senator Aerys wasn’t about to let his grandchild be born out of wedlock, so here we are.”

Arthur toys with the wrapping on his beer bottle, deliberating. “Do you love him?”

It’s a rather unfair question, from him of all people, but she has a feeling he already knows her response. “I wanted to. If nothing else than for the kids. I mean, it wasn’t all bad, we were partners and friends from the very beginning, and Rhaegar was making plans to get out from under his father’s purview. We were making do, we really were.”

“So what changed?”

She leans back against the headrest and shuts her eyes. “I wish I knew. He’d always been super introverted, but after Aegon was born and the doctors told us it’d be too dangerous for me to have any more children, he just…I don’t know. He withdrew even further, like what we had wasn’t enough anymore.” She furiously brushes away a traitorous tear that falls down her cheek. “I’ve never understood him, Arthur, God knows I tried.”

He’s silent for a time, weighing his words. “Who was the girl?”

“Lyanna Stark. She was out here on summer vacation before she started at some college up north. I pity her, honestly. She didn’t know what she was doing, she fancied herself in love. Or lust, or something. You’re eighteen and a hot indie guitarist gives you the time of day? I can’t blame her.”

“Where’d she end up?”

“I’m not sure. Once I got her brother to stop shouting, he said she went back home—Minnesota, I think? North Dakota? I don’t know, somewhere cold—but he was more interested in serving up Rhaegar’s head on a platter to make much smalltalk. I gave him my word I knew nothing about it, that the matter would be dealt with, and that trying to get revenge would do him no favors, then he left.”

Concern lances through Arthur’s ire. “He didn’t hurt you, did he?”

“Brandon? No. I mean, he punched a hole in the wall, but I know my way around hotheaded brothers. Oberyn would have done the same thing if it were me. Still might, once I get around to telling him.”

“You haven’t?”

“Not yet. You’re the only person who knows, actually. Fortunately, the tabloids haven’t gotten wind of it, or else I’d be looking for something a little stronger than dessert.”

“What exactly was Rhaegar’s explanation for this?” Arthur bursts out. “What justification could he possibly have?”

“He hasn’t given me one,” she mumbles. “He’s been holed up at Summerhall for the past week recording, so he probably isn’t even aware that I know. I’ve been trying to figure out what to say. The kids and I are staying with Doran for now since I couldn’t be in our house any longer without wanting to break something.”

“Well, I’m glad you’re somewhere safe at least. How is Doran, anyway? Mother told me about the separation.”

“Yeah, apparently Oberyn’s the last one standing. Who’d have thought?” she replies. “I think it’s been hardest on Arianne, but she’s a tough girl, she’ll get through it.” They lapse into silence, and after she catches him looking at her for the third time, she asks, “What?”

“Nothing, I’m sorry. It’s just…you’re even more beautiful than I remember.” Flustered by his honesty, he hurries on, “Which I know is inappropriate to say, especially after all you’ve just told me, but I—”

“Arthur, you’re rambling,” she says gently. “Thank you.”

Whatever his compliment, she pulls the sleeves of her sweater down past her bony wrists, hating how thin she is. The moms at the one and to date only PTA meeting she’d gone to had been jealous, of all things, asking what her secret was to staying so skinny. She’d told them—a whacked immune system and an army of physicians on speed dial, give it a try, ladies—and hadn’t gone back since. What she wouldn’t give to break a hundred and ten pounds.

Courteously not commenting on her compulsive reaction, he reaches over and runs his fingers through her hair. “I’m not a huge fan of this, though.”

“Yeah,” she sighs, thinking of the days when it had fallen in thick ringlets to the small of her back. The memories are fond ones, all the countless hours Arthur had spent learning how she wanted it brushed and which oils to use on it, how proud of himself he’d been when he finally mastered a French braid. “I soldiered through with Rhaenys, but had to cut it after Aegon. You’d be surprised what can get stuck in your hair when you have two kids back-to-back.”

“I wouldn’t know.” Abruptly he clears his throat and adopts a tone less fraught with meaning. “Speaking of which…listen, I’m all for individuality, but what are those names? I thought you were against anything weird.”

“Don’t even get me started,” she groans. “Rhaegar chose them. They’re family names, apparently. He did let me give them their middle names, though, and those are from my side.”

“He ‘let’ you?”

Arthur’s righteous indignation on her behalf has her backpedaling. “It’s not like it sounds, he…” Trying to explain Rhaegar’s mess of a family is a Herculean task. Trying to escape Arthur’s judgment is downright impossible. “It’s not all on Rhaegar. I lost my backbone somewhere along the way, I suppose. I argued a hundred times as much with you as I ever have with him.”

“Maybe you just don’t—”

“Care?” she scoffs. “More like it’s difficult to argue when your husband doesn’t engage. For all your faults, at least you did that.”

“All my faults?”

“Would you like the list alphabetized or by degree of irritation?”

He pretends to be offended and steals the spoonful of ice cream she’d intended to eat. “So what are you going to do?”

Therein lies her conundrum. “I haven’t decided,” she admits, picking at a nail. “I mean, I know divorce is the only option, really, I couldn’t live with myself if I became the person who forgives infidelity. But it’ll be such a hassle, and God only knows if Senator Aerys will try to stop it or what I’m supposed to say to the kids or what I’d do after. I’m so set in our routines. Can you be my magic eight ball and tell me what to do?”

“Reply hazy, try again.” She glares at him, not that it does any good. “Look, I don’t know your life. If you want to stay with him, then that’s your choice. All I’ll say is that the Elia Martell I knew wasn’t one who ever took things lying down. You remember what you told me after we found out Ash’s boyfriend was two-timing her?”

That drags a small smile from her lips. “I said if you ever did something like that to me, I’d have you castrated with your own skate blade.”

“One of your more creative threats.”

“I peaked too soon, apparently,” she mutters. “I used up all my best moments in college.”

“Nah.” Arthur tilts her chin up, even his light touch enough to send her heart to thrumming. “Your best are yet to come. Here,” he says, divvying up the last two beers. “To time, and what we make of it.”

Talking to him is easy, and it’s only when her voice begins to go hoarse that she realizes exactly how long they’d been sitting here. The ice cream had long since been consumed, their beers empty, the clock informing her that hours have elapsed without her noticing.

He seems to realize this at the same time as she, for he comments, “It’s getting late. The roads might start to ice over soon.”

Generally, she loathes driving when it’s icy out, but right now, she finds she’d sacrifice her comfort if it meant she could continue their conversation. She knows as soon as they step outside, the bubble they’ve been in will burst and reality will come rushing through. But she has no choice.

“Yeah,” she says reluctantly. “I should go.”

The air nips at her exposed skin as she opens the door, and she walks with him over to his car. He doesn’t move to get in, though, and she’s paralyzed where she stands, gazing up at him; his eyes are black in the dim light of the streetlamp.

She shouldn’t, she really really shouldn’t, but she’s awfully cold and there’s snowflakes catching on his eyelashes and he’s staring at her lips, and before she can stop herself, she grasps the lapels of his jacket and kisses him. It’s like fitting into a sweater she thought she’d lost, kissing him is, startlingly familiar despite how long it’s been. Muscle memory, or something else. He’s surprised at first, and then decidedly isn’t, settling his hands perilously low on her back and surrendering himself to her. She’d meant for it to be a quick peck, a goodbye between former lovers; this devouring was unintended.

It’s he that pulls away in the end, slightly breathless and looking at her like he used to, like she’s a wonder he could never quite comprehend. “You’re right, we should stop,” she says, her ring throbbing on her finger like a living brand. “I’m still…”

“It wasn’t that,” he says, a little sheepishly. “I mean, it was, but…” Red tinges his cheeks, and she would have thought that at going on forty blushing would be beneath him, but evidently not. “If I kissed you any longer, I wouldn’t have been able to stop.”

I wouldn’t have asked you to. She straightens his jacket and brushes the snow from his hair. Their first kiss had been like this, she recalls, that winter all those years ago so bitter it had frozen her dorm’s keycard reader and so locked them both outside the building. She’d had her phone out ready to text her roommate for help when he’d pulled her against him and kissed the chill right out of her.

“Well, either way.” All of a sudden, the scant distance between them feels like a gaping canyon. “So I guess…I guess we should probably…”

She can’t bring herself to say it. She’d dreamed this sort of night more times than she cares to admit, and now she’s gotten to live it. If Cinderella’s evening couldn’t last forever, certainly hers can’t. As if to punctuate her thought, the weather dampens, fluffy snowflakes melting into sullen raindrops.

Arthur nods, stuffs his hands into his pockets, and takes a step back. “Right.” She drinks in the sight of him one last time, already yearning for his warmth. She gets hardly a stride away, however, before he grabs her arm. “If you…after, I mean…” His shrug is nonchalant, his shyness anything but. “My number hasn’t changed.”

She bites her lip. “I’m not the same person I was, Arthur. We’re not the same people,” she warns, because she’s not and she needs him to know it. Tonight, perhaps she had been, struck by the allure of happier times, but the past fifteen years haven’t all been generous. She thinks of Rhae, her little carbon copy, and Egg, barely into third grade. “And I come with baggage. I have more than just me to consider.”

He huffs a laugh at her trepidation. “I’m not proposing marriage here, Elia. Just…I don’t know, coffee or something.”

“Coffee, then,” she agrees. Her heart thunders with the implications, with the sheer possibility. “Someday.”

He leans down to kiss her cheek, and lets her go.

A Song of Ice and Fire fic: When the West Wind Moves (6/6)

metamorphagi — Sun, 20 Nov 2016 21:58:28 GMT

Story Title: When the West Wind Moves
Chapter Title: Arthur Dayne
Fandom(s): A Song of Ice and Fire
Rating: PG
Word Count: 2,479
Summary: Five people who loved Elia Martell in secret, and one who told her.

When the West Wind Moves

+i. Arthur Dayne

It’s been an unseasonably hot week, simmering everyone’s blood and causing the men to eschew shirts, the women to wear only their thinnest of dresses in attempts to allay the sun’s rays. In his case, Arthur sits beneath the shade of a blood orange tree, watching children and adults alike frolic in the pools of the Water Gardens.

His sister is among them, somewhere, but all he has eyes for is the princess. The relentless heat labors her breathing, causing her to sit rather than rollick around with the others, but it diminishes her spirit not at all. Arthur can’t help the smile that creeps onto his face when she laughs, when she gives a surprised shout as a gaggle of children splash her head to toe. Water clings to her eyelashes and her drenched hair sends rivulets down her neck, between her breasts, and lower. He notices the dusky outline of her nipples beneath the wet, flimsy fabric of her dress, and has half a mind to ravish her right here and now, never mind who sees.

“You’re staring.”

For one terrifying moment, Arthur thinks it’s Princess Loreza, and nearly jumps out of his skin. But when he looks over, it’s Oberyn he sees, mimicking his mother’s voice to perfection. “I hate it when you do that.”

“Why do you think I do it?” Oberyn drops his voice back into its normal timbre and repeats, “You’re staring.”

“There’s much to stare at.” Most brothers would demand his head for taking their sister for a lover, but Oberyn had always been oddly encouraging.

The youngest Martell sits beside him and props his feet up on a stool. “Have you told her yet?”

“Told who?”

“The Whore of Planky Town. Who do you think?” Arthur shrugs noncommittally, and without warning Oberyn punches him in the shoulder. “Gods, it’s a miracle she doesn’t know then. All the rest of Dorne does.”

“Not all of Dorne, surely.”

“Near enough.” Oberyn is quiet for a moment—a rarity in and of itself—and then continues more seriously, “You should, though.”

That’s rather easy for him to say. As far as Arthur’s concerned, that would risk too much, particularly since he doubts she reciprocates—nothing would again be the same once he spoke truth. And he very much likes things the way they are. “Maybe one day.”

“Fine. Suffer. But you’re not getting any sympathy from me when she chooses someone else to occupy her time who’s not such a craven.”

He leaves before Arthur can retort, venturing into the water and seeking out one of the serving girls. She’s pretty, Arthur will give her that, but he’ll gladly leave her to Oberyn. He’s bewitched by another, and anyone else pales in comparison.

Eventually, the sun begins to set and the children are ushered away by their mothers. As they disperse, he notices an obvious lack of both Oberyn and the serving girl, and lets out a groan. The prince has always taken the Dornish stereotype to heart, with great success. As long as everyone already thinks we’re wanton, why shouldn’t we be? was a response he was fond of using every time he was found in another’s bed. Princess Loreza had eventually learned to disregard it after many and more shouting matches with her son, so long as Doran continued to be the model heir and Elia remained untouched.

He shifts uncomfortably at that notion. He knows that the Princess is aware of Elia and him to an extent, but in no way aware of how far they’d gone, or else he would have been long since shipped back to Starfall in disgrace. That, or gelded. Elia had been the one who initiated the escalation in the first place, but he doesn’t think the Princess would appreciate the difference. Whatever the impetus behind it, all she would care about is that her only daughter had given her maidenhead many times over to Prince Lewyn’s presumptuous protégé.

He supposes it’s a minor miracle he hasn’t yet gotten her with child. He’d been adamant the first number of times they’d lain together that he not spend himself inside her, but it hadn’t taken long to abandon that practice. Initially, it had been merely an oversight; they’d been caught up and he hadn’t pulled out in time. And then it kept happening, until nothing less would satisfy. So far, nothing has come of it, and if history serves then nothing ever would. With each year that goes by, the sadness wedged in his heart grows at that very inevitability.

He’s so lost in his musings that he doesn’t notice her approach until she grabs his hand and pulls him up from the chair, smirking with a coyness he’s become quite familiar with. Powerless to do anything else, he lets her lead him into the palace interior, through the maze of hallways all crafted of the same pink marble. She bids a polite greeting to a passing maid, then shoves him into her room and bolts the door behind her. She’s deceptively strong when she wants to be; though, admittedly, he’s never made any effort to resist her either.

She stands in front of him, confident and sultry. Her dress is held up by a single knot, and when she pulls it loose the whole swath of silk falls to the ground, leaving her delectably bare. He knows she is often discontented with her figure, has unfairly compared herself to the likes of Ashara and other maidens around her, but he can find no such faults. Perhaps her breasts are smaller than most, and perhaps her frame has more angles than curves, and perhaps occasionally there’s a pallor to her skin that the sun can’t seem to fix.

But beneath all that, she’s got a harder spine than anyone he’s met, a wit sharper than any sword, and a sensuality that has nothing to do with what her body may or may not be. And what does he care what people say? How can he, when she can send him into peals of laughter with a few short words, or steals him away after training just to spend hours massaging out the knots in his muscles, or when his name on her lips can steal the very breath from his lungs?

No, he doesn’t understand it one bit.

Not that he’s told her how he feels, as such. He’d like to think she has some idea; with any luck, he won’t have to fumble out a declaration after all. She must—surely she’s caught on that at any given time, all it takes is a glimpse of her to have him eagerly whisking her off to the nearest flat surface. When he’s buried deep inside her, the very world seems to stop. There is nothing but him and her as one, as it should ever be.

Her faint snicker informs him he’s become sidetracked, and he utters a sheepish apology. She skillfully works off his pants, by now impeccably efficient with such a task, and tosses them aside. And then her mouth is on his, her breasts pressed against his bare chest, and he loses all coherence.

Unable to bear the torture, he carries her to the bed, forgoing gentleness when he enters her—a decision that has Elia arching into him and raking her nails up his back. Most days, he enjoys going slowly, wanting to draw it out for fear that this could end at any moment, but now the heat overcomes him and slow is the last thing he wants to be. Elia tightens her legs around his hips, silently urging him to get on with it.

He obliges, with fervor. Desperate to bring her to release before himself, he quickens his pace and wanders his hand down her body to where they’re joined. She cries out as she crashes over the edge, and he thinks not even Starfall’s summer sunsets could compare to the sight of her writhing beneath him. Immersed in his own pleasure an instant later, he only vaguely hears himself whisper, “I love you.”

He hadn’t intended for it to slip out. Hadn’t even determined when or if he wanted to express the depth of his feelings for her, let alone do it now, like this. He blames Oberyn for confronting him about it in the first place, for accusing him of being a coward. He’s about to retract it, to blither an explanation, except then she regards him in curiosity, those dark eyes boring into his, and the words stick in his throat. She’s silent for so long that he awkwardly climbs off her, begins to dress, and prays his humiliated blush isn’t as obvious as he thinks it is.

The longer she maintains her silence, the more he regrets his senseless confession, for what right did he have? She had taken him into her bed, but that meant little. She’s a beautiful woman with an appetite, and he was simply available and willing—gods was he willing. She is a princess of Dorne, and what is he? Nothing more than the second son of a vassal house with nothing of worth to offer her. No castles, no prestige, no legacy. A knight by her own uncle’s making, sure, but knights are nine a penny.

He fumbles with his breeches, trying to turn them right side out, and then a pair of warm hands covers his. He dares to meet Elia’s gaze, violet on black. “Did you mean it?” she asks, cocking her head. “I’ve heard sometimes men just blurt out things while they’re…you know.”

She’s offering him a reprieve, a rationalization for him to use to save himself the mortification. Except he’s never lied to her before, and it is not a lie that comes out of his mouth this time either. “Yes. I meant it.”

She bites her lip in consideration, then gives him a soft smile and an even softer kiss. “Then say it again.”

“What?”

“Say it again.”

His heart beats so loudly he’s certain she can hear it echoing through the room. “I love you.”

Her smile widens, and there’s such happiness on her face that his head spins. “I’ve waited so long to hear you say that.”

Taking advantage of his disbelief, she tugs him back into bed and braces herself on his chest. His voice is little more than a croak. “You—what?”

She leans down and kisses him once more, deeper but no less sweet. “I love you, too, Arthur Dayne.” He knows he must look a fool, gawking up at her as he is, but it is she who’s uncharacteristically shy when she continues, “I would’ve said it ages ago, only I was afraid of ruining things if you didn’t feel the same.”

Part of him thinks she’s jesting, that of all the men in the realm it couldn’t possibly be him who holds her heart, but the rest of him doesn’t care, and when he takes her again (and again, and again), it feels different. Everything is different. How she looks at him, how he can’t get enough of her no matter how often they lie together, how there’s a light inside her no sickness could ever dim. Deep down, he knows it can’t last: the crevasse between their stations is too wide and her mother’s ambitions too high, but for now he lets himself get lost in her, surrounded by the love he could have never imagined.

He loves her still when he joins the Kingsguard after her suitors begin to come in earnest, each one more advantageous than he could ever be. He loves her every time he sees a tumble of curls the color of midnight or hears the clink of golden bangles; when he wins tournament after frivolous tournament not for fame, but in the feeble hope that she would be in the stands and he could tell the world what she is to him, to make them see what he does.

He loves her more when their daughter is born on dreary Dragonstone entirely in his image but for the brown of her skin and his mother’s eyes. Lying with Elia in the month before her wedding should have been free of consequence, as it was when they were younger; Rhaenys wasn’t supposed to happen, let alone now.

He hates that his sacred oaths have been shattered beyond repair—but when he holds her in his arms, it’s hard remember why they were so important. For suddenly the dream he’d thought impossible all those years back has materialized into a beautiful little girl, albeit one he can never claim for his own. He knows that he can only ever be her shield, never her father, he knows Uncle Arthur is as close as he can get, and that’s all right. Being around her, protecting her, that’s enough.

(If every day he weighs the costs of ripping up the white cloak that has brought him little more than misery and spiriting away the three of them somewhere the crown can’t find them…well. No one has to know.)

He loves her most when he’s a thousand miles away outside a derelict tower while war rages on, when he sees her fire in the she-wolf and her elegance in the Red Mountains and her warmth under the scorching Dornish sun. When Lyanna asks him if there’s someone he left behind, he denies it. It’s not a lie, not entirely—he left behind two someones.

When the end comes, the defeated Lord of Winterfell at Dawn’s mercy, he espies Stark’s diminutive crannogman with an arrow tipped in black nocked and ready. In that moment, he has the answer he’s been searching for. While life remains in him, he would never again feel Elia’s hand in his, would never see Rhaenys grow up happy and healthy. Revenge is all he’d have. Revenge, and an entire realm condemning him for the war predicated in part on his actions.

He studies Dawn, his familiar, steadfast sword all but weightless in his grip. Its ancient blade is more red than white now, stained with the blood of northmen whose names he doesn’t know, and he wonders to whom it would go next. Allem’s son, mayhaps, if he ever got around to having one. The young man kneeling before him tracks his movements warily, waiting for Dawn’s bite. He would die well, no bribe attempts or blubbering, but today is not his day.

“Would that we all had your honor, Lord Stark. I pray you never lose it.” He doesn’t understand, this boy who had once been so nervous he couldn’t ask Ashara to dance without his big brother’s help, but he would soon.

Arthur finds a kindly sort of knowing in Howland Reed’s eyes, and smiles.

A Song of Ice and Fire fic: When the West Wind Moves (5/6)

metamorphagi — Sun, 20 Nov 2016 08:16:50 GMT

Story Title: When the West Wind Moves
Chapter Title: Rhaegar Targaryen
Fandom(s): A Song of Ice and Fire
Rating: G
Word Count: 2,743
Summary: Five people who loved Elia Martell in secret, and one who told her.

When the West Wind Moves

v. Rhaegar Targaryen

He doesn’t know what to expect from her, in truth. Her delicate health is the worst kept secret in Westeros, but there are no rumors about her personality, whether she’s kind or curt, whether her preferences lie in hawking or embroidery, whether she can sit a horse or heft a spear. No, nothing of her character, only her frailty. His mother had tried to put him at ease, but it rang hollow. The Princess of Dorne had been her lady-in-waiting once upon a time, and she’d even briefly known Elia and Oberyn when they came to King’s Landing as toddlers to escape the Stepstones threat during the war.

Only his mother hadn’t seen any of them since before Rhaegar was born, so gossip is all he has to go on. He himself had met Oberyn here and there at various tourneys, and the Red Viper had always been vicious in his repartee but courteous enough otherwise, and a fearsome opponent in the joust. He was ferociously protective of his sister, anyone could see that, but at the time, Rhaegar hadn’t needed to know anything about her, so he’d never asked.

He tries Arthur, knowing that his oldest and dearest friend had squired in Sunspear and remained there until he donned the white cloak at seventeen. By virtue of proximity alone, Rhaegar figured Arthur would have been at least nominal acquaintances with her. Except when he broaches the question, Arthur turns even more taciturn than usual and offers nothing Rhaegar couldn’t have guessed for himself.

Which leaves Prince Lewyn, the newest member of the Kingsguard and already one of its most consummate warriors. Rhaegar doesn’t know him especially well, but he’d knighted Arthur and is uncle to Oberyn, so Rhaegar suspects there’s quite a bit more behind the Dornishman’s show of perfect manners. As it happens, Prince Lewyn sings Elia’s praises, extolling her every virtue and, he notes, not once mentioning her health. It’s Prince Lewyn’s testimony that allays the dragon’s share of his trepidation.

The king had balked, of course, until Lord Steffon and Lady Cassana returned unsuccessful and dead from their voyage to Essos, and there was no other passable choice in his mind. Certainly not after he had summarily refused Lord Tywin’s suggestion of Lady Cersei as a bride. Rhaegar was no particular fan of the Lannisters, but Lady Cersei did know how to navigate court, and her family’s prestige and wealth would have been an asset.

Nevertheless, the match was struck and Rhaegar met her nine months before they were due to be wed, at Lord Robert’s tourney. She was genial, but seemed irked about something the whole duration, and altogether was not what Prince Lewyn described.

But then she comes to King’s Landing a month before their wedding, and over time he does begin to see it. He sees that her politesse is her armor, her cleverness her sword, and beneath all the requisite etiquette, in her eyes there lingers astute intelligence. She knows how to play the game, and would bow to no courtier.

The insinuations follow her to Dragonstone, snide insults about her narrow hips and how back in Sunspear she would sometimes be laid up in bed for weeks at a time, but try as he might, Rhaegar can never find the source. It bothers her, he knows; it’s on full display in her tight smile, the strained lines by her eyes, the subtle straightening of her back. She shoulders the burden herself, refusing to accept any reassurances despite the fact that he means them.

It seems irrelevant that she’s not as robust as other maidens, for it is everything else she has that interests him. When the time is ripe for him to depose his father, he’ll need a queen who can be his equal, his counsel, like King Daeron and Queen Mariah of old, and her mettle promises her to be exactly that. While the maester had said pregnancies would require careful monitoring, he hadn’t said she couldn’t bear children. As far as he’s concerned, having a wife who falls ill on regular occasion is an acceptable loss.

It strikes him one day that she stirs something within him. He’d never had much interest in women (or men, for that matter), not in the way the stable boys and randy knights did. The prophecy interested him, knowledge interested him, learning what made or broke kings interested him. His body had done all the work on his wedding night, fortunately, and a moon’s turn later the maester determined Elia was with child.

As the months pass, as her stomach swells with a little boy or girl, he finds that her brightness puts the sun to shame, that he seeks to make her happy, that between her beauty and her fire, he’s often wanted her, as a husband wants a wife. Summerhall has been a pall over his existence from birth, yet the goodness inside of her somehow eases his melancholy. He doesn’t think it’s love, exactly, not like he’s read about, but no longer does his marriage feel like such a chore. No longer does he fear that the stiff propriety between them will last forever. He would not be his father, and she would not be his mother.

He prays until his knees go numb when Rhaenys is born, the babe healthy but Elia’s life squarely at the whims of the gods. He doesn’t know which one to pray to so he prays to all seven, even stumbles into the foreboding godswood to try his luck there. A week after the birth she finally wakes for good, exhausted but alive. She has the same look on her face as he did when she sees the child, for there is not a speck of Targaryen in her. Not in her olive skin or amber eyes or black hair or dimpled cheeks—but she has ten fingers, ten toes, and an ample set of lungs, and that’s all he cares about. Whatever his father’s disparagement, he loves every inch of her.

And watching Elia feed her at her own breast, her level of tranquility in doing so, it gives him that same feeling as before: a quickening of his heart and a coiling low in his belly. He even endures a trip to Dorne to present Rhaenys to the Martells, though he burns horrifically in the ruthless heat and the food flavored with dragon peppers and snake venom sears his tongue. She loses her pallor while they’re there, her sleep is restful. For those reasons alone, he extends what was supposed to be a sojourn of three weeks to three months.

The husband in him feels guilty when she tells him she is pregnant again, for it has been scarcely more than half a year since Rhaenys was born; the man who’d read that ancient scroll is elated. Elia carries a boy, he knows it, and the birth would not only bring him with only one head of the dragon remaining, but provide him an heir in the meanwhile. The Long Night would not come for years yet, and he’s well-aware his father yearns for any excuse to name Viserys as his successor. A son he could mold into his own creature, not the disappointment he has in his eldest.

Retrospect is a cruel mistress, and if he had the chance to do things over again, it would be Harrenhal he started with. He hadn’t honestly intended his awarding the crown of winter roses to Lyanna Stark as a slight. The prospect hadn’t even occurred to him until she bluntly pointed it out. He wanted to reward the wolf maid for her valor and justice, and the crown would be the only honor she could receive. It had begun everything, inserted Lyanna into his awareness, but it wasn’t a matter of lust.

After that, nothing is the same. Where Elia had before looked upon him with fondness, had slept with him at her side, now she is colder than the Wall. Unfailingly polite, but no longer does he see her laugh, no longer does she jape with him, no longer is he welcome in her chambers. Meals are glacial affairs. It doesn’t help matters any that her entire retinue is Dornish, every one of whom regards him with scorn.

The loss he feels most acutely is Arthur, who becomes less friend and more stoic Kingsguard. Over the years, it had been easy to forget Arthur was Dornish, even with the accent that marked him as different and the distinctive ancestral sword he carried. Lewyn is better at concealing his consternation, but not good enough. Rhaegar would wonder later whether it was this icy reception from every Dornishman and -woman that ultimately nudged him towards Lyanna, or whether destiny would ensure the same end was reached no matter the path.

It is the Stranger alone he prays to when Aegon is born, for Elia’s condition declines so rapidly no other god could save her. Just as he’d anticipated, it is a boy the maester places into his arms, a boy as opposite in appearance to Rhaenys as the sun from the moon. Aside from the dimples in his cheeks and the shape of his nose, he is Rhaegar in miniature, with the same silver-blond hair and indigo eyes. His prince that was promised.

For a few blessed moments, he is optimistic. He has two healthy children, two of his needed three, and Elia is alive. She wouldn’t be wroth with him forever; he could piece things back together. Strictly speaking, a happy marriage isn’t part of the prophecy, but he wants what his parents never had, he wants stability.

And then the maester approaches him after a fresh examination of Elia, grave as a Silent Sister.

“The babe was twisted in the womb, so I had to use an experimental procedure from the Citadel in order to extract him,” he explains. “I had to cut her open.”

He is glad he hadn’t known that until now. He’d have in no uncertain terms agreed to such a risk otherwise. “But she survived. She’s on the mend, isn’t she?”

“Aye, she’s a fighter. But there is swelling and scarring, I’m afraid, from Princess Rhaenys’s troublesome birth and this operation. Conceiving again would be…difficult. And dangerous besides. If the gods saw fit to grant you another child, I fear the princess would not survive the delivery.” The maester must see the devastation in his expression, for he hastily adds, “But the babe is perfectly well, as is his sister. Pardon my candor, but I am of the opinion there is no need for Princess Elia to return to the birthing bed, even if she were able.”

No, you wouldn’t see the need, I suppose. He’s kept the prophecy under wraps, sharing his belief in it only with Arthur and Elia herself, plus Uncle Aemon on the Wall. “Thank you for your assessment, Maester Terwyn. May I see her?”

“Yes, she is awake. Though she is in a fragile state—please take care.”

He does. He tells her the name he settled on, and when she asks him to play something, he answers her honestly. “He has a song. He is the prince that was promised, and his is the song of ice and fire.” She is within reach, but it is as if she has slid behind a watery veil, her face obscured by what he knows is his Visenya. “There must be one more. The dragon must have three heads.”

She begins to yell at him, but he can’t hear what she’s saying, so he just reiterates, “There has to be another,” and plucks out a tune on the silver strings of his harp. It is one he hasn’t played before, an improvisation that speaks of sorrow. I could not play a happy melody if I tried, he muses. I don’t have it in me.

It is when she threatens to bar him from seeing their son that he snaps out of his fugue and sets her straight on that account. She concedes, if only to follow up with a threat of barring him to see her.

In a kind of desperation she paints him a pretty picture, one in which it can just be the four of them, his prophecy set aside, and for an instant he wonders whether that could really be the case. Maybe she’s right, maybe he did misread the scroll again. Maybe there only needs to be two heads after all, and he could content himself with watching Rhaenys and Aegon have the idyllic childhood he’d always wished for. But then a chill slides down his spine, a harbinger of the Long Night foretold, and all he can do is walk out the door.

What hadn’t already unraveled does so quickly thereafter. Lyanna Stark replies to his letter, Ser Oswell is set to meet them in the Prince’s Pass, and Arthur agrees to accompany him to the riverlands, albeit with a brooding, insolent resentment that Rhaegar tries to ignore. The wolf girl contrasts in every way to Elia, brash where his wife is subtle, fair where she is golden, and while Lyanna is the one he needs to mother his Visenya, he contemplates how she would comport herself as queen. The smallfolk might appreciate one who spoke her mind, but to what extent? As much as Rhaegar despises many aspects of court, most of those are necessary evils. Lyanna would have to conform, and he doesn’t know that she could without breaking first.

But she’d have to, wouldn’t she? He’s not a dullard, he knows Elia would not forgive him for this. For all his desires to have a better marriage than his parents, he has a wife that despises him. What would it take to placate her? The solution dawns on him in a trice:

Dorne.

She’d withstood Dragonstone and King’s Landing, but she hadn’t enjoyed it. The cold seeped deep into her bones, the food was bland, the fashions too restrictive. I could grant her leave to return to Dorne, but then what? She wouldn’t consent to separating from both of our children. A compromise, mayhaps…but if Aegon were to stay here as my heir, in return I’d have to let her take Rhaenys, my little princess…

But that’s a quandary for another day.

The stars in Lyanna’s eyes fade once her womb quickens, once she’s apprised of his motives that have nothing to do with saving her from an unpleasant betrothal. On more than one occasion, he sees the judgment in Ser Oswell, but at least he is cordial; that’s more than he can say for Arthur, who had long since erected a wall between them. Rhaegar does not question his loyalty, not for a single second, but he fears he may have ruined the friendship that had been forged half a lifetime ago.

Maybe I did err, he ponders in the dead of night. Maybe I could have done this differently. I never wanted Brandon or Lord Rickard to die, I never wanted this upheaval.

But the gods cast him down anyway, good intentions or no. He goes to war because it is necessary, because he was the impetus behind it. He says goodbye to his family, hugs Rhaenys so tightly she protests, and promises young Jaime Lannister that changes will be made once Robert Baratheon is dealt with.

That doesn’t come to pass. He’d misjudged the storm lord’s wrath like he’d misjudged so much else, and his sword rises too slowly to parry the blow. He’s knocked off his destrier into the river, unbearable agony rippling through his chest, and he realizes that he’s going to die. There won’t be any changes made, there won’t be any sending Elia back to Dorne, there won’t be any opportunity to know his third child. Nor, really, his eldest two.

Lyanna flashes before his eyes—Lyanna from before, from when she looked at him in awe, not enmity—yet it is neither she nor the baby girl she carries that he thinks of at the end. He thinks of dark hair and darker eyes, of grace, of strength, and he thinks it such a sweet irony that of everyone who pitied her, it is she who will outlive them all.

It is her name he says with his last breath, an apology that’s far too late.