this is a writing blog for ravennkings. ao3 can be found here. feel free to say things at me, i'll try to respond asap. and i promise i remembered to open the askbox this time.
okay, i said i’d be posting more fic instead of squirreling it away, so THIS IS ME DOING THAT. here’s something short i wrote post-2.7 as a means of character exploration! it’s 750 words and. here it is. /)(\
Something of it works - it must, because eventually Caleb’s muscles stop fighting him so hard, and he drifts aimlessly into a cried-out sleep between one of Molly’s mutters and the next. The first thing his brain attaches to, clawing its way out of the dark corner the mines had spooked it into, is the memory of Fjord’s armor from behind, coalescing over the broad muscles of his back in a flashy spectacle that had left him dripping with icy water, Caleb’s stomach hollow. Caleb dreams of searing kisses that fill his mouth with seawater until it spills over the corners of his lips.
When he wakes up, astonished by the sunlight streaming in through the window, he discovers why; whatever Molly had given him that had finally knocked him out the night before, it had made him drool heavily, and he wipes self-consciously at his chin with one soot-stained hand.
I have been feeling so gods-damned uncreative lately, writing has been near impossible. I'm gonna be really mad if the thing that gets me to start back up is goddamn CANON EROTIC ASPHYXIATION THANKS CRITICAL ROLE I WASN'T AWARE THIS WAS A THING. THANKS. THANKS.
“Haaave I mentioned how handsome and good-looking you are?” MacCready slurs - his eyes are stuck closed with sleep against the glare of the sun, but he reaches out blindly to pat Rook’s side.
Rook sloughs a laugh, and he’s out from under MacCready’s hand in a few seconds. “Yeah, yeah, I’m getting the curtain.”
MacCready frowns, eyes still shut - the sound of Rook pulling the curtain over the window is accompanied by blessed shade, though, and he cracks one eye open to see him stretching.
“Ungh,” he manages. He reaches out again with the same arm, then lets it hit Rook’s empty spot in the bed with a soft thump. “I mean. Thanks. But you should come be good-looking over here.”
He smiles when he hears Rook’s early morning laughter again, still scratchy and soft. “Alright, now I know you want something,” he teases. “What is it.”
“To kiss my husband,” he grumps, “obviously.”
Rook hums and settles into bed again, nuzzling down into the blankets and pulling MacCready to him. MacCready just slings a leg over his hip and clings to him - Rook is so warm, and just about the perfect shape for his weird contorted cuddling. He feels Rook’s hand at his back, petting him, and nearly purrs.
“You really think I’m good-looking?” Rook peeps, and MacCready opens his eyes just to roll them.
“Oh my god,” he complains, but he’s grinning. He feels Rook’s shoulders shuffling, like he’s preparing to explain - “nope, don’t, I know you’re not being a jacka - a jerk,” he fumbles out. He tilts his head, which puts him in a perfect spot to bump the tip of his nose against Rook’s bare collarbone. “But I’m still going to remind you that I married you, no takebacks.”
Rook clucks his tongue. “N’aaaww.” MacCready can feel him blushing, the heat of his neck on MacCready’s cheek. “I love you too, babe,” he murmurs, soft as his heart, and MacCready gives one of his freckles a little kiss.
You are an anonymous professional assassin with a perfect reputation. You lead an ordinary life outside of your work. You’ve just been hired to kill yourself.
My first thought is that the middle man I use–calls himself ‘Leader’, real name Brett Thompson, 46, balding, lives in PA–has uncovered my identity. Why else would I be staring down at a picture of my own face? I think it’s a warning, that he knows about the Sanchez job, and I nearly reach for my go bag.
Then I see the client’s name.
Vi Larson, the file tells me, male, 32, computer analyst.
I close the manila folder, tossing it away from me. The whiskey sour’s gone warm in my hand, but I drink it down anyway, eyes distant. I don’t need to read any more of the file. I can fill in the gaps well enough.
Funnily enough, this betrayal is just as sharp and unpleasant as the first one, the one that got me into this business in the first place.
“You at least owe me a crime of passion, you bastard,” I mutter into my drink. I close my eyes and sigh, willing away the stinging in my heart. I knew that my relationship was in trouble, but this is just cold.
In a way, I can’t believe it. Is a divorce really that hard? But, no, I know Vi. He’s methodical, analytical, and competent. If anything, hiring an assassin with a reputation like mine is right in line with his personality. Nothing but the best, even in the murder game.
I should be flattered, really. My rates aren’t cheap. Whatever I did to make him send this in–and he did, there’s his social security, his fingerprint, everything–it must have been killer.
I set my glass down on the counter and tuck the folder under my arm. I need to think and I do my best thinking in the tub. Vi won’t be back from his “business” trip for another three days, during which I’m supposed to kill myself.
As I head up the stairs, I can’t help but laugh. Finally, after three years of marriage, my husband does something interesting. And it breaks my fucking heart.
——————————————
He wants me to make it painless but horrific. There’s a script in the document, something that’s more common than people think, and it’s hard to read it, even surrounded by bubbles and soothing music.
“Your husband sent me. Said he needed to shed some dead weight.” I snort at the pun and close my eyes, resting the file against my face so it doesn’t get wet. Unfortunately, the tears do that anyway.
I never promised you an open heart or charity/I never wanted to abuse your imagination
“Howard? Why are you looming over the baby?”
Howard didn’t look at his wife, instead once more turning Tony’s wrist to the right, then to the left. “I don’t loom,” he muttered when he felt Maria’s hand on his shoulder.
“Hover, then.” Together they looked down at Tony, fast asleep in his crib. Howard carefully placed his son’s hand back on the mattress, palm down so the name on his wrist was hidden.
“We should get it removed,” he said quietly. “While we have the chance.”
“Howard, that’s his soulmate,” Maria said sternly.
“His soulmate that he’s never going to meet?” Howard asked derisively, turning towards her. “It’s cruelty, Maria. We get it done now, he’ll never know.”
“So we let him grow up thinking that there’s no one out there that will or would ever have truly loved him?” his wife challenged.
He sighed, steering her out of the room. “You place too much stock in soulmates, my dear. They’re not the be all and end all of everything.”
“Should I be insulted?” Maria laughed, running her finger along her own name carved into Howard’s skin. “Look, all I truly know about soulmates is this: when the fascists were chasing us out of Italy and I lost my parents, when I thought every day was my last, knowing that somewhere out there, dead or alive, you had carried me in your heart was the only thing that kept me going. No, soulmates are not everything, Howard, but they are enough. And besides, Tony deserves to know.”
Howard pursed his lips, thinking it through, knowing Maria won’t back down on this, and he finally nodded, earning a smile and a kiss from his wife. “He never said anything, you know,” he said to her as she began to walk away. “He must have wondered. Same last name and all. But he never said.”
Maria shrugged. “Maybe he was scared. Forties homophobia is a pretty big deterrent, Howard.” She headed towards their room.
Howard took a deep breath and let it out slowly, rapping twice on the door to Tony’s room. “You hear that, kid? You grow up and hate that name, you don’t blame me.”
fandom: masquerada: songs and shadows
pair: cicero/kalden
words: 2215
ao3 version here. this definitely is what should have happened during the game. definitely. kissing as a disguise definitely definitely should have happened.
It was not, he supposed, one of the strangest situations he'd ever been in. Surely there had been more instances, varied and colorful, over the last few years; the fact that he could only remember some as little more than their consequences lent credence to that belief. Certainly, there were few things as odd as creeping around the sewers in disguise, with a Mariner in tow, but having ended up in the gutter on more than one occasion, Cicero couldn't help but feel that this couldn't rank too highly on that list.
His companion was an odd sort; why he was so desperate to find his brother, despite not having spoken with him for years, was perhaps even stranger than their situation. Despite their differences in ideology, he and Cyrus had still spoken, and often. It only stopped when—
Hm. That was not a helpful train of thought. He shook his head to clear it, and very nearly walked straight into the Mariner's back. A large hand shot out to help steady him as he stumbled; Cicero took it by instinct, and rather than continuing to ruminate on his brother, found himself instead marvelling at the difference between their two hands. He had seen the proof of it when the ladder had broken beneath the man's bulk, and was reminded again whenever they stood shoulder to shoulder — head to shoulder: Kalden Azrus was an absolute mountain of a man. Cicero couldn't stop his mind wandering, the quiet, dark parts wondering—
"Inspettore?" The voice was soft, but puzzled, snapping Cicero out of his thoughts and the strange turns they were taking. He looked up into dark eyes, which glanced back down to where their hands were still clasped. "Is everything alright?"
"Ages," Cicero muttered, drawing his hand back quickly. "I'm sorry, I was..distracted." He laughed, and was glad that it didn't sound nearly as forced as it was. "You're quite different from Razitof. I have to wonder just what your parents fed you, growing up. Must've eaten all your spinach, and Razitof's share as well, hm?"
It was far from the response he thought he would get as the Mariner straightened up, his expression seeming to shutter as he turned away. "No," was all he said, before turning back to the mouth of the alley they occupied.
Far from put out, Cicero instead felt...what? Curiosity, surely, at that reaction. Perhaps also a touch of regret? He hadn't thought to reach a sore spot so soon, and with what he'd thought to be a harmless jest. He opened his mouth to speak, then shut it just as quickly. Chances were high that anything he said to excuse himself would only exacerbate the issue; instead, he crept up next to the man, checking to make sure their way was clear. He let a hand settle on Kalden's bare forearm, blinking in surprise upon realizing there was a tattoo there. Interesting. He didn't really seem the type. Hidden depths, Cicero had to remind himself. People are not so simple as to be one-dimensional; everyone has hidden depths, and Kalden is no different.
Once he was sure he had his attention, Cicero offered a small smile. "I...apologize, for any misstep I might have made. It was not my intent to offend, in whatever way I did; I'll be sure to take more care with my words, in the future." And then, without waiting for a response, he darted out of the alley. "Come. The coast is clear, for now."
It was gratifying, then, that Kalden followed him without word or question. They made their way across what must surely have been a trading square, dodging between abandoned stalls and tables. Cicero hesitated for only a moment before swiping an apple from a forgotten bushel; he rubbed it against his borrowed sleeve before taking a bite, and only noticed after that Kalden was watching him, an eyebrow raised.
"What is it, Mariner?"
"You cannot be certain where that shirt has been," Kalden said, a hint of amusement in his voice. "And I believe that may have been someone's produce to sell. Should an Inspettore really be stealing from the people?"
"Pah," Cicero dismissed the words with a wave of his hand. "The whole area's been all but abandoned! I'm merely saving this poor apple from a horrible fate, of rotting away and never fulfilling its potential as a food." He paused, thinking. "Though, you may have a point about the shirt."
It earned him a low chuckle, and Cicero had to look away quickly, busy himself with taking another large bite of apple. That was...an interesting sound. Fascinating, really, how it seemed to rumble deep in Kalden's broad chest before eventually tumbling from his lips. Cicero found himself wanting to hear it again.
They were working, however. This was neither the time, nor the place. Nor the borrowed outfits, despite how suited Kalden was to his.
"Anyway," Cicero coughed, once he'd finished chewing. "I believe we'll be heading that way," and he gestured to a nearby street. "We should—"
He was interrupted by a clattering on the other side of the plaza, and the two of them darted around the closest corner. Cursing echoed after them, as well as unfamiliar voices.
"Would you shut up!"
"Sorry, sorry! Someone scattered some damn bottles, nearly twisted my ankle!"
"Well, maybe if you weren't so clumsy—"
"Hey, who're you calling clumsy?!"
"Will the both of you shut up! Or did you forget we're looking for someone?!" The other two voices quieted immediately. "Alfons and Edvard didn't just lose their clothes, someone had to have taken them. We have to find and stop whoever that is!"
"Right!" "Of course! Sorry!"
Damn. It only made sense that they'd be found out; such a ruse couldn't possibly last. Cicero had hoped they'd had more time, however, and he glanced around as his mind raced. They were in a small, shaded alley, whose only outlet would deliver them straight into their pursuers' hands. That was not an option, not so quickly, but if he and Kalden were to stay put, they would surely be discovered. They needed to hide in plain sight, to have their stalkers turn their gazes of their own accord. His mind turned back to the five years he'd spent adrift, and of the fastest way he knew to disappear.
"Ages. Mariner, this way."
Cicero grabbed Kalden's arm, dragging him further into shadow. Far enough that the colors of their clothes were muddled by the darkness, hopefully indistinguishable between the Maskrunners' uniforms and a Contadani's day to day. The footsteps of their pursuers were getting louder; they must have left a trail, where they cleared debris from their path. Cicero looked up at Kalden, who was frowning toward the mouth of the alley.
"Should we not simply fight?" he muttered, before looking down at Cicero. "It sounds as though there are only the three; I'm sure—"
"Not without calling attention to the skirmish," Cicero interrupted. He winced as a basket went rolling past their alley. "And I'm afraid that is time we do not have to waste." They were getting closer. He needed to act, and quickly. He grabbed Kalden's hands, settling them on his waist, before hooking his own at the back of Kalden's neck. Tried very, very hard not to think about how thoroughly those large hands spanned his waist. "Forgive me," he murmured, before pulling him down for a kiss.
It was, admittedly, not the best plan. Hell, it was barely a plan at all. When he thought about all the various ways this could backfire, it very nearly made Cicero laugh; the Maskrunners would simply need to come into the alley, or Kalden could shove him away. He would be well within his right to, if he did, and so all Cicero could now was wait, and hope. Hope that the party seeking them would be so embarrassed by public affection so to turn away, hope that Kalden would trust him to let this work.
And somewhere deep in his chest, hope that this did not completely unravel what thin ties they had been already begun weaving.
Kalden froze against him nearly immediately. It was hardly unexpected. Cicero was well aware of how they would be treated if they were discovered, and a pang of guilt struck through him at how this might damage Kalden's reputation. His own was run so ragged and tarnished already that the thought of one more stain didn't bother him in the least; Kalden, however, was far from a disgraced exile. He might have a life, a family — the thought of upending whatever quiet life Kalden had made for himself twisted in Cicero's gut.
It was too late for regrets, however. Not a second later, a pair of shadows appeared at the end of the alley. Cicero could barely see them past Kalden's shoulder, found himself praying that their posing was convincing enough. The figures stood there for a moment, assessing — Cicero couldn't tell if they were watching the two of them, or if they were looking at something else — before thankfully, blessedly moving on.
"Nothin' down there, Liv."
"Yeah, maybe they escaped into one of these buildings? That one's got a smashed window, they could've climbed in there!"
"Then what are you two waiting for? Go on!"
The figures at the end of the alley were joined by a third, and Cicero could hear a quiet, derisive "don't they know what's going on right now?" before the three of them moved, past the alley and away.
Cicero let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, sagging into Kalden and leaning his head against his shoulder as relief washed through him. They hadn't been found out, not yet; it was this thought that kept his arms around Kalden's shoulder, to keep up the appearance of intimacy between them. There was no way to tell whether or not their pursuers would come back, or if someone else was following after them. The safest thing to do was to keep up pretenses, for at least a moment longer.
"Cicero—" Kalden's voice was tense, a deep, low whisper against his ear that sent a shudder down Cicero's spine. Ages. Who allowed this? At least he was keeping his voice down, quiet enough that only Cicero could hear. "What are we doing?"
He laughed against Kalden's neck, almost giddy at the fact this new ruse had succeeded. "At the moment? Keeping up appearances, in case those three return." Truly, I can't believe this worked, he thought, and bit his lip to keep from giving it voice. Best not to let Kalden know how unsure he'd been about all this, that he hadn't been remotely close to positive the deception would succeed.
Kalden only sighed deeply. "And before?"
Cicero watched for a moment more, before stepping back from Kalden. It was a strange shift, nearly unbalancing him; he hadn't realized he'd been standing on the tips of his toes to make himself tall enough. "I learned...a while ago, that most people are not fans of public displays of affection. To see a loving couple doting, or embracing — most turn their eyes away, so as not to stare. It makes people uncomfortable, so they unconsciously stop themselves from seeing it."
"And you figured that this would protect our anonymity?" There was a strange quality to Kalden's voice, something that Cicero couldn't quite place. "What if we had been discovered?"
His hands had curled into fists, Cicero realized. He took a deep breath. "Then we would have summarily dispatched them, and whatever reputation you may have here in the Citte would be safe." Cicero chewed at the inside of his lip, just for a second, before looking at him. "I am sorry. It was the quickest way I could think of to keep their eyes off of us. And if things had taken a turn for the worse, I assure you, the blame would fall squarely on my own shoulders. I would not allow it any other way."
Kalden was quiet for a moment, watching him. His hands, at least, had unfurled as he'd been speaking. "You are an…interesting man, Cicero."
A quiet chuckle, and Cicero nodded. "Thank you. It's far from the worst I've been called, and you would be well within your right to call me worse; I'll gratefully accept interesting, from you."
He turned then, creeping up to the mouth of the alley and peering around the corner. There was no sign of the people who had been chasing them, having apparently climbed into one of the buildings adjacent to theirs and kept moving. It was a stroke of luck, and not one that he intended to waste.
"Let's go, Mariner," he murmured, gesturing back at him. "We've got work to do, after all."
Again, Cicero found himself surprised when Kalden followed after him. Surprised, but also relieved. No doubt the man wanted to find his brother, and that was the reason; still, it was something of a comfort to know he hadn't yet cost himself an ally. Whether or not the partnership would last remained to be seen.
For now, at least, it was enough. They had a job to do, after all.
A/N: So, this is the thing I wrote at three in the morning while half asleep. Many thanks to @losebetter and @queen-schadenfreude for being my partners in crime in this nonexistent fandom and for drawing such pretty things to inspire. Bless them.
“You’ve been fidgeting.”
Cicero doesn’t start at Kalden’s voice, like he once might have, but he does fold his hands in an obvious attempt to keep himself from doing precisely that of which the Mariner had accused him.
“Have I? I’m afraid I hadn’t noticed,” he states while Kalden pulls out the stool beside him, sets his large frame down with a surprising amount of grace.
Kalden sets his gaze on Cicero’s face and holds out a large hand, palm up, eyes demanding.
fandom: doctrine of labyrinths
pairs: felix/gideon
ao3 version here. my other yuletide 2016 assignment, for harukami! they wanted a good time with felix and gideon, and this was the first thing to come to mind!
"You know, I've just realized," she began, "that for how long we've been co-conspirators, I don't think I know any of your birthdays."
I am still unsure as whose suggestion it was. Mehitabel, I suspect; while he had made a great deal of progress, Mildmay still did not seem of a mind to use such non-vital information, and though it may be true that Felix cared for me, in the time that I'd known him, he has always been remarkably bad at looking outside himself. That left Mehitabel, the only other person in Melusine I could truly call a friend, in whatever capacity that entailed. No doubt, the only other person who might care.
Contrary to the suggestion itself, I knew precisely where the idea came from. It had been a rare, peaceful moment in Felix's rooms; Felix was sat to one of the sides of the room reading, while Mildmay and I sat playing cards. Mehitabel had stopped by for a few moments to see Mildmay and tell us of her company's newest production (and was using the visit as an excuse to complain of how ill-suited one of the players was to her role) when there was a tap at the door. There was a moment of silence as we occupants looked around at each other; after another tap, Mildmay pushed himself to his feet. He limped over to the door to find a courier, a boy of no older than fifteen, whose eyes grew wide and a little bit frightened upon seeing him there.
"Letter f-for Mildmay Foxe, sir," he stammered, holding out a small envelope.
Mildmay seemed visibly taken aback by this, muttering out a quiet "thanks" before digging a few coins out of his pocket to tip the boy and, as soon as he was gone and the door shut, handing the letter off to Mehitabel. I saw Felix's brows raise, surprised and perhaps a little offended that he hadn't been chosen to receive the letter instead.
:Felix,: was all I needed to say; he glanced back at me, no doubt remembering one of the many conversations we'd had about allowing Mildmay his own time. Felix's cheeks colored, and he opened his book, furiously pretending to read.
I hadn't noticed that Mehitabel had already opened the envelope and was glancing through its contents. "Well," she said, and her surprise was evident in that one word. "It seems we've been invited to a birthday party, for one Simon Barrister. The invitation is specifically addressed to Mildmay, but we're welcome to attend as well. As thanks for saving his and Rinaldo's lives, I expect," she finished, and between Felix and Mildmay, I couldn't tell whose eyes were bigger once she'd finished speaking.
"Simon is having a party?" Felix asked at the same time Mildmay blurted out, "Why d'they want me?"
"I imagine," Mehitabel drawled, "they credit you with their escape, Mildmay. Despite it being a group effort to leave the Bastion itself," she teased. "If it weren't for us, they might not be here to celebrate. That makes it all the more worth it to do, don't you think?" Felix seemed properly cowed at this; I tried not to smile. And after a pause, she asked, "Do you want to go, Mildmay?"
It took him far too long for him to answer, made far too obvious the trouble he was having with the idea. "Dunno," he muttered, eyes casting to the ground and quickly sitting back down. I suppose I couldn't blame him; to call that period in his life troubled was doing it no justice, and it was not nearly as far behind us as he most likely wished. I could understand how he might have difficulties.
Perhaps sensing how uncomfortable he was, Mehitabel looked way, busying herself with folding the letter and slipping it back into its envelope, precise and pristine. "Well, we've until the weekend to decide. It's no rush, so take your time in deciding what you want to do."
And then she paused, an odd quirk to her mouth. "You know, I've just realized," she began, "that for how long we've been co-conspirators, I don't think I know any of your birthdays." She drew herself up, casting her eyes about the room at us. Ah,, I thought. This must be what Mildmay calls her 'teacher voice.' Indeed, there was a sort of authority to her voice as Mehitabel made sure to lock eyes with each of us, so that we understood she would not accept anything less than a date. "Mine is 21 Prairial; what about you lot?"
Felix was the first to speak up. "Mine is Eré 30. That's.. 30 Vendémiaire by city reckoning, I believe."
Mehitabel nodded. "Somehow, that doesn't surprise me at all." WIthout missing a beat, and without waiting to answer the puzzled look on Felix's face, she turned to Mildmay. "What about you, Sunshine?"
He frowned, squirming under her gaze. "...think it's 21 Thermidor?" he muttered.
"You think?" Mehitabel and Felix said at the same time, both bewildered. I couldn't help the frown that crossed my face. Mildmay made no secret of his checkered past; that this should be the thing to offend them was odd to me. Given how close they'd all become, it wasn't a reaction I'd expected from them.
Neither did Mildmay, it appeared. He shrank back, the line of his shoulders defensive. "Wasn't no one to celebrate it or care," I was barely able to grasp as he mumbled, the "So why should I?" hanging unsaid in the air.
Seeing that she'd made his discomfort worse, Mehitabel skilfully shifted the room's attention to me. It was sweet, how much she cared. From time to time, I felt myself wondering if Mildmay ever noticed it. I thought about the answer she sought for a moment, before fetching something with which to write her an answer.
"4 Pluviôse?" She read aloud, her brows drawing up nearly to her hairline. "Gideon, that's in a week! Why didn't you say anything?"
I quirked my eyebrows at her; the color in her cheeks darkened a touch as she added, "Oh, you know what I mean." I shrugged, and then paused to think. I'd told Felix and Mildmay of my faith, of the White-Eyed Lady and her courtship with death, but Mehitabel had no idea, and I didn't know what her feelings on the Lady were. I was more than used to watching the day come and go, and the fact no one else knew the date had meant I was safe from prying questions. Questions a bit like this.
I wasn't sure what to say.
"Gideon?" Felix nudged at my silence, frowning curiously in my direction.
All I could do was offer him a small shrug. :Why should I celebrate the date of my birth, when I wait for the day I return to my Lady?:
He gave a quiet "ah," as though he understood, but I could see my words troubled him; seeing the curious looks on Mildmay and Mehitabel's faces, he nodded in my direction. "As I understand it, his..culture lends no weight or import to birthdays. He says he doesn't celebrate."
I nodded. It wasn't exactly the truth, but neither was it a lie. While Felix and Mildmay seemed to accept this, Mehitabel looked troubled. I could see that there was something she wished to say; instead, she sighed. "Well, aren't you boys boring? Suppose I won't expect any surprises from you lot when mine rolls around, will I? In the meantime," and she picked herself up, handing Mildmay his letter before donning her coat, "I'm going to snoop around a bit and see if I can find an appropriate gift."
The door clicked shut behind her, and I suppose I should have noticed that she didn't specify for whom she sought said gift.
Simon's birthday party came and passed without much fuss. Mildmay did, in the end, decide to attend, if only for an hour or so; Mehitabel and Felix stayed longer to cover for his escape, and Mildmay and I enjoyed the silence of the suite for however long we were able. After a while, however, I noticed him watching me. True to his name, his observation of me was near imperceptible, and it took me far too long to realize he was paying attention to more than just the cards I was playing. Once I was sure of it, I set down my hand and tilted my head at him.
He seemed to know immediately what I was trying to ask. "Powers. Sorry, Gideon." He sighed deeply. "Mehitabel keeps askin' about you. For your birthday. Told her I ain't got a clue what you'd want, so she wanted me to find out." And then, because it seemed to amuse him that he'd already revealed as much, he added, "Wasn't supposed to tell you that, neither, but you're smart enough to get it anyway."
I offered him a smile, and while I knew he wouldn't return the expression, the caution in his posture seemed to evaporate for it. We picked up our cards and resumed our game, but from then on I was distracted. I'd thought Felix's excuse that I did not quite celebrate would settle the matter; apparently, Mehitabel hadn't quite accepted it. While I appreciated the gesture, there was only one thing I truly wanted, and it had been ripped from me, cast aside somewhere to rot. I would not get it back, no matter how badly I wished I could.
"Gideon?" Mildmay was frowning at me. I tilted my head to show that I'd heard him, bid him to continue. "Somethin' wrong?"
With a start, I realized that my hand had come to rest on my cheek, pressing lightly into the flesh and against my teeth. I took my hand away quickly, shaking my head. There was nothing anyone could do about it now. I did not need to dwell on it. I could see that he didn't believe me, but he dropped it anyway. We spent the rest of the evening in relative silence, and when we separated to retreat to our respective bedrooms, I touched his hand, nodding my head in a quiet thanks. He shrugged, and that was the last I heard of it.
For a little while, at least.
When I woke on the morning of 4 Pluvôise, it was to a strange tension in my shoulders and an unfortunately short temper. I suppose it was the memory of that conversation with Mildmay that frayed my nerves a bit; I wasn't sure what to expect, and the idea of expecting something only to have nothing happen did not lend itself too kindly to my mood. Felix and Mildmay were gone for court, and so at least I had a blessedly quiet morning; by the time they returned, my temper had simmered down a few degrees. As soon as I saw them, however, my anxious anticipation surged back. Felix finally noticed that I was sitting at the table as they were hanging their coats.
"Ah, good, you're awake," he said, pulling off his scarf. There was something off about his mannerisms, the look on his face. Like he was confused, trying to work through an incredibly complicated mental math problem. It was only compounded by the way he held out a hand to hang his scarf on top of his coat, only to miss the hook entirely; I managed to see Mildmay roll his eyes before grabbing it before it could hit the floor, and perhaps that helped soothe my mood a little.
:Yes, Felix. That tends to happen after one has a full night's rest.: He frowned at me, and I sighed, waved it away. It wouldn't do to take out my baseless frustrations on him. :How was court?:
:Utterly pointless, as usual. I swear, one of these days we will discuss something actually useful, and half the court will miss it because we are so used to banality.:
He offered me a small, worried smile before absently taking one of my leftover pieces of toast, a cold thing, and rock hard. It made it all the way to his mouth before he realized what he was doing and set it back down to instead fidget with his rings. It was almost endearing to see him so nervous, even if I wasn't completely positive as to why.
We spent a few good minutes like that before he sat up suddenly, a determined look on his face. Almost as though he'd made up his mind about something, and though I was fairly certain as to what it was, I waited for him to speak. :Gideon, what are your plans for this evening?:
I raised my eyebrows at him. :Well, I almost always have a fully booked planner, as you know. I may be available tonight, though, I'll need to check.: It was a silly question, but in all honesty, it was a comfort as well. At least I knew I hadn't woken up anxious for no reason. :You know I'm free, Felix,: I said, a bit kinder this time. :What do you need?:
Felix rolled his eyes, shifting to drum his fingers against the tabletop, idly conjuring a small witchlight to dance along his knuckles. :Well, I thought perhaps I might set the Mirador on fire to see what reaction I might instead receive.: And then he winced, as though realizing that, despite its being at his own expense, the joke was in rather poor taste. :I thought,: and he paused, obviously weighing his words. :It has come to my attention that I am..perhaps not the most attentive of persons.:
Tactfully, I said nothing. It was true, after all, and I knew I had Mehitabel to thank for this realization. His cheeks colored, but seeing that I wouldn't interrupt, he decided to press on.
:So, despite birthdays not bearing any importance for those who worship Nera, I thought I might take you out for an evening. Dinner and a play? Mehitabel assures me that her company's rival does an absolutely atrocious Three Faces of Cosette. I thought we might have a nice dinner, and then laugh at what is purportedly a hilariously terrible rendition of a great dramatical tragedy.:
The words spilled out of him almost rapidfire, as though he was nervous about the proposition, and if I had been anyone else, I might have said yes immediately. It was, after all, a lovely idea for a birthday celebration. I was not, however, anyone else; it was a fact that the other wizards in the Mirador liked to snicker about whenever I would go out with Felix. Considering the mood I'd woken up in, I wasn't certain I wanted to put up with such naked passive aggression today, especially if Felix and Mehitabel wanted to make a thing of it.
:As wonderful as that sounds, Felix…: His face dropped as soon as I began to speak. I hadn't expected him to be so enthusiastic about this, given his nervousness in asking and the way he'd accepted that I wasn't really one to celebrate. I sighed, leaned forward to touch his hand, so that I might continue. :As wonderful as that sounds, I think a night spent in with you would be much better.:
I did not miss the sharp intake of breath as he looked up at me, eyes wide and, just for a few seconds, innocently shocked. Perhaps it was mean of me, but I laughed, just a little, taking his hand to kiss his oddly uneven knuckles. :How does that sound to you?:
Felix watched me for a second, probably to see if I would withdraw my suggestion. Then, quietly, :Are you sure? What about dinner?:
:Do people not eat dinner if it isn't at someone else's expense?: I asked idly, and received a laugh for the effort. Good. I smiled warmly at him. :We can always eat here, send for someone to bring up food instead. And if you truly insist on making an event of it, we can invite Mehitabel and Mildmay to join us.:
Felix chuckled, squeezing my fingers. :This whole thing was her idea, you know. It is surprisingly difficult to plan an evening for someone you care a great deal about. I'm absolutely terrible at it.: As if not realizing what he'd said, he stood, twisting our hands so that he could kiss mine this time, instead. :I'll see about making preparations and having dinner sent up to us. Perhaps I can work something out to make it truly special...:
He trailed off, and I watched him wander over to Mildmay's door, knocking quickly to retrieve his brother. I wasn't sure why the both of them were necessary for whatever errands Felix was running; he simply had to ask for some food, didn't he? Still, if it made him feel better, I would let him continue. It was a compromise, something I was learning to get used to in our relationship.
They had been gone a few minutes before I realized with a start — my bad mood had completely disappeared, leaving a light warmth in its place. I smiled, and pulled a new book from Felix's shelves.
The brothers were gone most of the day, and oddly enough, I found myself remarkably bored in their absence. I read through two books, shuffled through the stockpiled bits of parchment that I was saving to write on, whenever the need arose, and rearranged what meager belongings I had stored in Felix's closets. By the time they returned, I was near to stir-crazy and so relieved to see them I nearly jumped out of my seat. I was lucky enough to stop myself, instead looking up from my book and nodding in greeting.
Felix didn't make it past the entryway before he was frowning, looking quickly around the room and apparently finding it not up to his tastes. "We'll need to clean up," he muttered, and began to collect the books he'd been stockpiling by his chair. Mildmay and I watched him for a few minutes, until he realized we were not helping and said, "Well? I am not cleaning all of this mess alone."
I couldn't help a laugh at that, and if I didn't know any better, I'd almost guess that Mildmay had chuckled. I couldn't be sure, and of course there was no sign of it in the next second. Still, we both stood to assist, and after an hour or so we managed to get the sitting room presentable. Afterward, and despite the fact we were staying in, Felix insisted we change into nicer outfits. It seemed silly, and I could tell Mildmay thought so as well; still, in the interest of not spoiling the good mood that was starting to pervade the room, we shuffled back into our rooms to change into finer things.
It was perfect timing, apparently; by the time I exited the room, Mehitabel was standing in the middle of the sitting room, her hair gracefully pinned up and wearing a lovely wine red dress, with a wrapped package in her hands. I frowned, wondering if she was on the way somewhere, before realizing. I froze, my breath caught in my lungs, some mix of surprise and fondness. She turned, and as soon as she saw me, smiled. She crossed the room, walking over to me, and kissed my cheek.
"You can open your gifts after dinner."
It almost seemed as though it was planned; as soon as she finished speaking, before I had time to realize what she meant by gifts, there was a rap at the door. Mildmay, now dressed in smart trousers and a newly-pressed shirt, opened the door, and in swarmed a host of waitstaff. They laid out a veritable feast, certainly too much for four people to eat alone. Still, as I looked over the plates they brought, I noticed a good number of Kekropian dishes, things I hadn't eaten in years and hadn't realized I missed eating until this very moment. Unkindly, I wondered just how much it had cost Felix to bribe someone to cook them, then shook my head to clear away such a hideous thought. Instead, I swept over to him, kissing his cheek. He looked at me with wide eyes, feigning innocence and more than obvious for it.
:Why, Gideon. Whatever was that for?: He teased, adding, :Not that I'm complaining, of course.:
:Of course not,: I laughed, sliding my hand into his. :I don't suppose you left any food for the rest of the Mirador, did you?:
He flapped a hand dismissively. :So Stephen will have one roast chicken for dinner, rather than his customary two. He'll survive.:
We shared a moment of laughter, before Mehitabel cleared her throat and reminded us that we were not the only ones in the room. "You two wanna share with the class, or can we start eating?"
Felix rolled his eyes, though I could tell that his mood hadn't actually soured. "Very well, I suppose," he drawled, and we all sat down. Before we could eat, however, he raised his glass, looking shyly over at me. "To Gideon," he toasted, a small smile on his face. "For being kind enough to tolerate my whims."
Mehitabel laughed, and I swear I could see Mildmay shrug in agreement. Felix colored slightly, my own cheeks burning hot, but they raised their glasses to toast, and the evening only got better from there.
We ate until we could barely move, and despite being an attempt by Melusinian chefs, the Kekropian dishes were passable. Mildmay, in particular, seemed to enjoy them more than Mehitabel and Felix; between the two of us, we managed to polish off at least half of each plate, as Felix and Mehitabel made snide, harmless comments about how we had no tastebuds.
It was surprisingly fun, and I found myself laughing more than I had in the last year, a feat I hadn't imagined possible. Once we were done eating, the three of them gave me gifts: a new book from Mildmay, who assured me his "cadeskiff friend" recommended it with the highest praise. Mehitabel presented me with a beautiful scarf, deep emerald with gold trim. And from Felix, a wax tablet replete with stylus. "So that you don't have to keep scraps of paper in your pockets," he explained. It was, truly, one of the most thoughtful things I had ever received, and I realized with a jolt that it may be the closest I might ever get to being able to speak again. I clutched it to my chest, before writing thank you, and Mehitabel clapped when she saw it.
After dinner, a few of Mehitabel's acting troupe members came in and performed an abbreviated version of The Tragedy of Saints, a play I'd mentioned wanting to see before the events in Aiaia. It was excessively, certainly, but so wholly surprising and enjoyable that I forgave Felix and Mehitabel for planning it out. The actors she'd joined up with were very talented, and despite its pared down state, I was just as enthralled with their performance as I might have been with a full set and cast.
It was a lovely evening. Once we were done, Felix called for the waitstaff to clear the dishes; Mehitabel's troupe stayed to have some wine with us, and we spent the rest of the time chatting and generally enjoying each others' companies. I had not ever expected this, and when things finally drew to a close, I found it a little bittersweet, wondering if most birthdays were quite so wonderful. I knew it couldn't be possible, but still — if it were, I don't think I might have minded it every so often.
I kissed Felix's cheek as we readied for bed, thanking him quietly. He offered me a smile, and we fell asleep curled together, comfortable and peaceful.
Perhaps there was some merit to celebrating one's birthday, after all.
fandom: wolf 359
pairs: none
ao3 version here. written for DigitalMeowMix for yuletide 2016! it was an absolute delight to write ;u;
Tired of wrangling her new crewmates into cooperating and sick of expecting a mutiny at any time, Lovelace decides not to follow up when she hears a couple of them planning. Are they actually plotting against her, though? Or is it something else entirely? Plus, bad puns, a makeshift celebration, holy hell, and an offense to life, the universe, and everything.
"Come ooon!"
He was wheedling, but that wasn't any different from normal. In fact, it was actually becoming something of a comfort. A bit of normalcy in the middle of what was absolutely a neverending nightmare cycle of catastrophe and fixing and catastrophe and fixing. As obnoxious as it could be, from time to time, she actually somewhat enjoyed it.
"Can't she hear us right now? I don't know if you've thought this plan all the way through."
She could hear them. They didn't know it, but she could.
"She can't. It'll be fine! Now are you in, or out?"
A sigh. She should have figured. She should have known something like this would happen, knew something like this would happen; and she knew she should stay, to figure out what they were planning, how they were going to undermine her. But for some reason, today, she couldn't. She didn't want to know. She didn't want to find out. She'd had enough of treachery and betrayal and anticipating the worst; today, she would give it a rest.
Lovelace pushed away from the wall, moving herself along the corridors back up to the bridge. She'd noticed Eiffel and Minkowski acting shifty when they thought she wasn't looking; Eiffel had grabbed Minkowski, and Lovelace tailed them as they snuck off to Selberg — Hilbert's old lab, the one that Eiffel had let slip Rhea had no eyes on. Whatever went on in there, she was blind to it. It made a pretty decent war room to plan in, since one of their co-conspirators was incapable of lying to her commanding officer.
...Hera. Her name was Hera now. Not Rhea. Her name was Hera, and she was...something. A personality all her own. In all honesty, she liked Hera a lot better than Rhea. Hera could actually respond to jokes.
"Hera."
"Yes, Captain?"
Lovelace didn't want to wonder just how eager Hera would be to help Eiffel and Minkowski with their mutiny. Best to keep both of their minds off such things, at least for a little while. "What's the saltiest fish in the sea?"
It took a minute for Hera to respond. "Uh... What?"
"It's a joke. A pun, actually." Lovelace didn't look up as she pulled out navigational charts, comparing them with notes on the shuttle's repair progress and projections. "What," she repeated, "is the saltiest fish in the sea?"
"I..." Hera paused. "I know the correct answer, but if it's a pun, I'm afraid you'll have to enlighten me." Was that resignation in her voice? Hatred? Lovelace didn't want to think so, but there was a good chance of it. "What is the saltiest fish in the sea?"
"Tuna."
There was silence on the bridge. At this point, Lovelace was very pointedly not looking up, partially because she almost expected to see a quizzical face staring back at her like she was insane, but mostly because if she did, she might start laughing. It was a stupid pun. A really stupid pun. But it was so bad it was good, and one of her favorites.
Finally, finally, Hera responded. "Excuse me? How is tuna the saltiest fish in the sea? That's a terrible joke, tuna aren't even comparable to—"
"It's a chemistry joke, Hera. Remember, joke? Not literal." Lovelace cleared away the navigational charts, instead pulling up the list of repairs she still needed done. This one was a little less depressing. A little. "Na is the symbol for sodium on the periodic table of elements, right? It's 2Na. Tuna."
Hera didn't say anything, and after a few minutes it began to feel like an eternity. Lovelace stood there, listening to the ambient noises of the station, the quiet hissing of air being filtered in and out of the room, the low groans as the hull creaked. Oh god. She hadn't fried Hera's personality matrix with a bad pun, had she? "Hera?"
"That is the worst pun I've ever heard. And that's including the ones Officer Eiffel has told me."
Finally, Lovelace laughed. "Wow. That bad, huh? I'm honored, Eiffel does seem like a fount of useless phrases."
"Pft." If Hera had a physical body, Lovelace was positive she'd be shaking her head. "Just make sure he never hears that one. I'm pretty sure he stores all the really bad jokes to use on Commander Minkowski when she least expects it."
Almost as if it were divine providence, the doors to the bridge whooshed open, and Eiffel and Minkowski walked in. Both their eyes narrowed once they noticed Lovelace, though at least Eiffel's look was less suspicious.
"Did I just hear something about bad jokes? Did I miss somethin' good?" He strode in past Minkowski and Lovelace, overly casual and way too obvious with it as he relaxed into a nearby chair. "C'mon, don't be stingy. Share with the class, ladies!"
"No. Please be stingy," Minkowski groaned. She looked exhausted. So did Eiffel. Lovelace couldn't help feeling a little guilty for working them both so hard. Then, she remembered hearing them plotting. The guilt evaporated a shade. Minkowski brushed her hair out of her face, attempting to tie it back into a tight ponytail. "If I ever hear another bad joke, it'll be way too soon."
"Are you sure?" Lovelace couldn't help it, smirking just a little at her. It was an olive branch, a tiny one. A shred of camaraderie, despite knowing about their plot. She understood, after all. If she were in their position, she would probably do the same. "I'm told this one is worse than all of his previous works."
"Now you've gotta tell me," Eiffel insisted. "Captain, bad jokes only make me stronger, and if it's as bad as you say then we gotta get my power level to over 9000."
Lovelace frowned. It could only be another of his ridiculous pop culture references, but… what did that even mean? She looked at Minkowski, who only shrugged, shook her head. "Hera?"
"Nnnope."
"One of these days, Eiffel, one of your references is going to make sense to one of us." Lovelace rolled her eyes at him, a short grin. "One of these days."
"Knowing the two of you?" He yawned, stretching as he did. "Probably not ever gonna happen. Doesn't mean I'm gonna stop trying, though. C'mon, did neither of you watch any Dragonball Z when you were kids? No, wait, don't tell me. You were both too busy with your Terminator training to watch cartoons. Figures."
Lovelace couldn't help a small chuckle. "I can neither confirm nor deny those charges." And in the way most contagious things went, she raised a hand to stifle her own yawn. "We worked pretty hard today. Think it might be time to call it a night, huh?"
"Really? You're giving us the night off?" Eiffel pulled out a watch, whistling low. "Captain, it's only 1900 hours. Are you feeling all right? There's still a few more things to do—"
She raised her eyebrows at him. "Well, I was trying to be generous, but if you want a few more tasks, that can always be arranged."
Minkowski shot him a glare, and almost immediately, Eiffel jumped back out of his chair. "Nope! Never mind, I'm good, thanks! Night, Captain!"
It didn't escape her that both he and Minkowski left together after a polite, "Good night, Captain Lovelace," from Minkowski. She allowed herself a small smile at seeing how close they were, unable to help wondering if they'd have ever become friends if they weren't on this mission. Knowing Eiffel, probably not. So, one good thing had come from this hellscape they were all trapped in.
That was a comfort to think about, at least.
Lovelace took a deep breath, running a few more scans on the shuttle before shaking her head. She couldn't concentrate. Hera, Minkowski, and Eiffel reminded her too much of her own crew, of Fourier, Hui, Lambert, and Fisher. A slightly smaller crew this time, obviously, but the camaraderie was there, the genuine caring for each other. Of course, there was also the fact that Selberg was still alive, was going by Hilbert now, but as long as they kept him away from her, she would suffer his continued existence.
This time when she called Hera's name, it was quiet, almost none of the joviality from before. "Hera?"
"Yes, Captain?"
Honestly, she wasn't sure she wanted to ask this question. It would bother her, though, if she didn't. If she didn't at least find out. "Obviously, Cutter didn't tell Eiffel and Minkowski about my crew and I before sending them on this mission." She took a deep breath, steeling herself for the answer. "Did they tell you?" A pause. "I mean, did they keep information about us? Is there anything in your databanks about us?"
"One moment, please." Hera was silent then, and Lovelace took the opportunity to marvel at how efficient she was, even with all the things Eiffel told her had happened. She was such a contrast to Rhea and the beeps she could only give in response. And when she finally answered, it didn't surprise Lovelace at all. "I'm sorry, Captain Lovelace. There's nothing about you, your crew, or even another Hephaestus station in my memory."
Lovelace sighed. It didn't surprise her, but that didn't mean it wasn't still a bit of a disappointment. Knowing what she did of Command, she wouldn't have been surprised if they'd swept all traces of their existences from the face of the Earth, too. "I didn't think so. Thank you, Hera."
"That's not to say they don't have records somewhere, Captain!"
Lovelace narrowed her eyes, looking up. "Hera?"
She sounded a little cowed, almost embarrassed at the exclamation. "That is, I mean— I'm sure they probably have all the files on you still, somewhere, and just didn't give me access. They had to know what they'd need to improve...upon..." There was an awkward pause. "Sorry, Captain Lovelace. I didn't mean to say it like that."
There was a dark little laugh. "It's all right, Hera. I get it. And you know what, you're probably right." Just one more thing to take back when she finally got back to Canaveral.
"Captain?" That surprised her, and Lovelace cocked her head. "Can I... Why do you ask?"
Ah. She hummed. "I don't remember where I heard it, exactly." Lovelace busied herself with clearing her workspace, everything back in its proper place. "There's a belief out there that when someone dies, it's not really the end. They're still alive, as long as someone remembers them." A deep breath. God, she missed them. Even Lambert, that stick in the mud. "I still remember them. If Command wants to erase us, they're going to have to go through me first." Her fist closed, knuckles pressing into the console in front of her. "And when I get back, I'm taking whatever they have on us. As far as I'm concerned, they don't deserve to even say their names."
Hera didn't say anything while Lovelace finished tidying up. It was all right. She didn't really expect her to, especially not if Hera believed she'd really leave her behind when they left. She made her way down the winding corridors to the quarters she temporarily called her own — the irony that they were Hilbert's didn't escape her. As she changed out of her uniform, started to wind down for the night, Hera finally spoke up again.
"You're a very brave woman, Captain Lovelace. I'm sorry they did this to you."
Lovelace closed her eyes. She wasn't brave. She was angry. She was angry, and she was going to rain holy hell on Cutter and everyone else who'd decided her crew was expendable. "Thank you. I'll see you tomorrow."
"Yes, Captain. Good night."
"Good night, Hera."
She spent the evening reviewing Eiffel and Minkowski's logs, and when she could no longer stand reading about the second Hephaestus mission, turned off the lights and went to sleep.
Lovelace woke with her former crew's voices echoing in the back of her head, Lambert scolding Fisher and Fourier as they laughed; it was a strange sensation, at once unsettling and yet comforting. She hadn't thought about them very often since boarding the new Hephaestus. Sure, she'd thought about them, about how what had been done to them was unforgivable and wrong, but not the people themselves. It was...nice to dream about the people, rather than reliving the nightmare of losing everyone one by one.
When she got to the bridge, she was surprised to find it empty. She'd given up on Eiffel waking before 1000 hours, but Minkowski was always either awake before her, or just on her heels to it. To find her not in the bridge, even after Lovelace had allowed herself an extra fifteen minutes to fully wake, came as a bit of a shock.
"Morning, Hera."
"Good morning, Captain. Or, whatever passes for morning here. You know how Wolf 359 never..sets, or anything."
Lovelace laughed. "Yeah, I'm familiar. Thanks for maintaining such a steady clock for us to judge by, by the way."
"Oh, it's nothing," Hera deflected, but there was a note of pride in her voice. "Thank you for noticing! You humans don't seem to understand just how important it is to maintain a normal routine every day. Flesh bodies are so unreliable."
A pause. "Uh huh. I'm not sure I want to know," Lovelace grinned.
"That's probably for the best."
Lovelace shook her head, but couldn't wipe the smile from her face. God, she'd missed this. "Hey, speaking of routine, can you tell me where Lieutenant Minkowski is? She's normally here before even me, it's almost weird not to see her."
"One second, please."
Lovelace stretched as she waited. How convenient would it be to be a near omni-prescient AI? Hera could scan the entire station within seconds. Maybe she was onto something about flesh bodies being inconvenient.
"Ugh!"
Lovelace frowned. That was new. "Hera? Are you all right?"
"Yeah, I'm fine," Hera grumbled. "She and Eiffel keep going into that room. The one I can't see. He told you about it. If you're looking for Commander Minkowski, you'll find her there." Lovelace could almost imagine her crossing her arms over her chest and pouting as she continued, "I hate it when I can't see what's going on in my own station!"
That sobered Lovelace's mood a little. She'd nearly forgotten about the duo plotting yesterday. She took a deep breath, pushing away from the console she'd been holding onto. "Thanks, Hera. How about this: I'll go find out what they're doing, since you helped me find them. We'll figure out what they're doing."
"Are you sure, Captain? It might just be nothing."
"Oh, I'm sure." They'd wanted to make sure they were secretive enough yesterday. Time to figure out what their plan was, and put a stop to it.
The first sign that something was up was the marker floating in the middle of the hallway toward Hilbert's old lab. Lovelace stared at it for a few seconds before plucking it out of midair. What the hell? She paused on the threshold, trying to listen around the corner to see if she could hear anything; when all she got was hushed whispers, she closed her eyes. Sighed. So it would come to this, huh? She took a deep breath and swung around the corner—
—and just narrowly avoided crashing directly into Eiffel.
"Whoa! Captain Lovelace, careful! Are you okay?"
"I, uh— Yeah. Yes. I'm fine," she stammered. She hadn't expected to literally run into one of them. And now that she was actually in the room with them, it...didn't look like some kind of dastardly mutiny plan at all. In fact, it looked like... "What are you two doing?" She asked, nearly as confused as she'd been on seeing the Hephaestus again.
"Did we not tell you?" Eiffel looked over his shoulder at Minkowski, who had her tongue stuck out of the corner of her mouth as she worked. "Sorry, Captain, it was kind of rushed— C'mon in!" And as he ushered her into the room, he stuck his head back into the hallway, calling out, "Sorry, Hera! Borrowing the Captain for a little while!"
There was an unintelligible protest before the door slid shut behind them, and as Eiffel explained what they were doing, Lovelace couldn't help but laugh. She'd been stressing over this? She shook her head, unsure whether she'd underestimated this crew, or if she'd overestimated them. But—
"All right, I'm in," she said. "Where do I start?"
Eiffel grinned, handing her a handful of materials. "Get to work, Captain."
A few hours passed before any of them left the lab after that. Hilbert joined them once or twice to give updates on the project he'd been working on for them, giving her a wide berth as he reported to Eiffel. Lovelace noted silently that, interestingly enough, even though both of them technically outranked him, they were deferring to him for this. No doubt it was his plan, the thing he'd been trying to persuade Minkowski about yesterday. The fact he was awake so early was impressive enough by itself; that Minkowski and Hilbert were both following his directions was just ridiculous. It was endearing, though, and Lovelace found herself taking to the work.
When they were finally ready, they gathered together to concoct the final stage of the plan, and once the details were ironed out, they nodded conspiratorially, and readied to fulfill their parts.
Minkowski was first out of the room. "Hera, will you help me out? I want to see if we can patch you into that room, so that you don't have any blind spots anymore."
"Finally," Hera exclaimed. "We might be able to go in through the power conduits in engineering..."
Her voice trailed off, following Minkowski as she moved towards the engineering section. As soon as they were out of sight, Eiffel and Lovelace shot into the hall, making their way towards the comms room as quickly as they could. There was no doubt Hera could still see them, but it helped to have her attention split elsewhere. The two of them scrambled to and fro across the comms room, sticking signs and cut-out shapes all over the walls and non-vital equipment. Wherever they could, and by the time Minkowski returned, Hilbert had joined them with his contribution. He was also, quite noticeably, the only one who didn't chime in when they shouted.
"Uh, guys?" Hera sounded troubled as she spoke. "What did you do?"
Eiffel was the loudest as he and Minkowski, and to a lesser, quieter extent, Lovelace, all shouted out, "Happy birthday, Hera!"
"My... But I don't have a birthday. Comes with being artificial, y'know?"
"Pshaw." Eiffel grinned. "You're just as much a member of the crew as any of us, and your program was booted up for the first time sometime, right? Since none of us know, and we haven't celebrated it yet, we've got at least some chance of it being today!"
"So you... You did this all for me?" The room was covered in stars, and flowers, and makeshift banners, and hastily scribbled (and possibly badly translated) binary code, all with some permutation of happy birthday and you're the best and other ridiculous sentiments written across them. It was completely absurd, but... "You guys!" Hera seemed to love it. So, it was worth it.
Minkowski elbowed Eiffel as Hera exclaimed about the decorations, and Lovelace was just barely able to make out a quiet, "This was a good plan," as she did. It seemed to spur Eiffel into motion, who jumped.
"Wait!" He turned to Hilbert, who'd been loitering at the edge of the room — there was a tray in his hands, with four oddly-shaped lumps on it. If Lovelace squinted, they almost looked like… "I almost forgot the piece de resistance!" Eiffel took the tray, proudly displaying the lumps. "Now, obviously we don't have any real ingredients, and if we did I doubt Dr. Caligari here would be the guy to turn to. But I got him to whip up some—"
"The closest approximation," Hilbert interrupted, shifting uncomfortably.
"Fine, the closest he could get, to cupcakes!" Eiffel eyed the things on the tray, frowning. "Wow, Doc, you really...didn't put in any effort into these at all, did you?"
"Is rather difficult to synthesize the taste and texture of doughy substances when you have neither flour nor baking soda." Hilbert frowned, muttering, "I did the best I could with what I have, in a very short time frame."
Eiffel eyed him for a moment. "Sure you did. Anyway, I figured that, since you don't have a mouth, Hera, you'd get to celebrate by watching us eat these and try not to die horribly! And I know what you're thinking," he said, reaching out to grab Hilbert's arm and keep him from floating away. "This guy's tried to kill all of us at least once; how do we know he didn't poison these? Fair question. If you'll notice, there are four; Hilbert is going to eat one first, to prove they're safe!"
There was silence for a moment. Then, "You know what? I'm okay with this." And if Lovelace didn't know any better, she could definitely believe that Hera was grinning as she said it.
Hilbert shot Eiffel a dark look before reaching for one of the lumps; before his fingers could close around it, however, Eiffel snatched it out of his grasp and instead tossed it to Minkowski. There was a distinct harrumph as Hilbert grabbed a different one, staring at it sullenly. Eiffel offered the tray to Lovelace, who took one for herself, and then he let it float away as he claimed the last.
"You don't make cake with baking soda, by the way." Eiffel was smug as he said it. "It's baking powder. Now eat up, Doc."
"I want the both of you to remember that this was Eiffel's idea," Hilbert groused, before taking a bite of his "cupcake". His jaw worked up and down for a minute, a conspicuously chewy noise heard throughout the room, before he swallowed it, visibly straining to do so. And then he glared. "Your turns."
The "cupcake" was grotesque: it had about the same consistency as taffy mixed with oat, with a distinctly seaweed taste; within minutes all four of them were gagging and shoving the creation as far away as possible. "Ugh, that is just— That's just offensive," Minkowski moaned.
"I know, right?" Eiffel agreed, scraping at his tongue. "I can't get it to go away!"
Lovelace couldn't stop the shudder sliding up and down her spine; the taste was just so pervasive, and so disgusting. "That," she gagged, "was an offense to life, the universe, and everything in it."
"I dunno, I thought it was pretty great!"
There was an aggrieved chorus of "Hera!" from the humans. Once they got their tastebuds under control, Hilbert gathered the remains of the "cupcakes" and the tray, muttering something about disposing of these abominations; not long after, Eiffel began singing "Happy Birthday", and even managed to get Minkowski to join in.
Lovelace grinned as she watched them, and was struck with a sudden flash of her own crew, celebrating for Dr. Hui. It made her homesick, a little bit. They were great people, and she knew she would always regret that she couldn't protect them. More and more, however, she was finding that a fondness (however begrudging) was starting to form for this new crew. Maybe in time they would welcome her into their fold; who knew, maybe in letting her in on Hera's birthday, they already were. Watching them now, though, they weren't so different from her old one, and it was a comfort she was beginning to want to protect.
hi tumblr. I’m feeling kind of angsty, so if anyone’s around - if you send me a pairing and a prompt, I’ll try to write something? no promises, seeing as how inspiration is rare and fleeting, but if it inspires me then I will do my best.
OKAY BUT LIKE, NOW YOU HAVE TO WRITE INAPPROPRIATELY TIMED CONFESSIONS FOR PERCY/VEX. (ALSO I'M IMAGINING THE WILL/ELIZABETH WEDDING FROM POTC. VM IN MID-BOSS FIGHT, VEX IS LIKE, "MARRY ME??" PERCY'S LIKE "AL;SDF;AS NOW??" AND THEN THEY'RE LIKE "PIKE! MARRY US!")
ARE YOU ASKING ME TO LIVE UP TO THE GREATEST WEDDING EVER PUT TO FILM??? BECAUSE I’M NOT SURE IF I DID THAT BUT HAVE A FIC.
–
If someone had asked Vex’ahlia for her thoughts on the matter, she would have advised seizing life by the throat and not letting go. Time was short for all of them, and could be made shorter still in an instant. She who was so briefly dead should understand that better than anyone.
When it came to baring the heart though– fear still ruled her, more often than she liked to admit.
Fear of– gods, what exactly? Of her own feelings? Of such a paltry thing as her heart? Of honesty with the man she trusted everything but herself to?
It all seemed so stupid, facing down the gigantic red beast, the essence of fire himself. The world had turned to fire and ash and seemingly endless waves of lizardfolk come to their lord’s aid. Lava bubbled up from the underground volcano, called up to the surface by Thordak’s might.
There is fear, and there is resignation, and there is need, but he never wanted this. Gods are made by blood and sacrifice. Gods are made by hard choice and harder mistakes, by cutting off every piece of yourself sliver by sliver until not only the chaff, but the wheat is gone, until you are whittled to nothing and all that’s left is the huge hollow space you could never find when you were real.
Sometimes he misses being an ant.
It began with necessity and it ended with necessity. The Ravenites died in the course of his desperate machinations. He drowned himself in the guilt of their blood. Whitestone was smote to ruin beneath the festering corpse of Raishan, and the few survivors showered him with offerings. Gifts, they called them, but offerings they were, gratitude for being spared the vicious teeth of his plans.
He could still feel the tatters in his soul, catching against the ragged edges of their admiration.
Death was never convenient. There was never a right time. Thordak fell, Emon fell, Vex and Scanlan fell. None of them rose again. There was much rebuilding to be done. There were more wars to be fought, scavenging the golden rivers flowing from the dragon’s corpse. More blood seeping into the fabric of his soul, but he did it, because it had to be done. Because no one else would.
Belief, Pike told him once, was a terrible thing.
War was such a bitter thing, but with practice it became easier to swallow. He did what had to be done. Vax fell. Keyleth fell. Pike grew uneasy in his presence, the light of her holiness dimmed and obscured, as if by cloud. There were always more wars to be fought. There was never a right time to die. Word by word and inch by inch, people began to believe in him.
And as the world does, things fell apart. Vechna found his way into the world. Vechna found his way past the world. Gods died. Vechna died. There was a war. He was there, and when the dust settled and the blood dried out, there were things to be done.
He never wanted this.
But one does not become a god by wanting, Percy thinks. Wars rage in the palm of his hand, and he feeds upon them like a carrion crow.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Critical Role (Web Series)
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: that’s an excellent question, do you SEE how many checkboxes I hit under ‘category’?
Characters: Percival “Percy” Fredrickstein Von Musel Klossowski de Rolo III, Raishan
Additional Tags: Episode 70 spoilers
Summary:
Wherein I send Percy back to the Whitestone library, this time to have another conversation with Raishan…and he gets a good look at an uncomfortable assortment of her masks. A slight alternate take on episode 70, where they have more time between meeting Raishan and enacting their eventual plans.
Morning reblog. Sort of morning. More like “it’s 4:45 a.m. and I can’t sleep so it still feels like last night, but it’s already morning at the least for most of you…”
Fic: The Unconstant Dead [Percy, Cassandra, Pike, Vex | 1300 words]
Spoilers for Episode 69.
[AO3 | FFN | More Fic]
During his first night back in the realm of the living, Percy is visited by three ghosts. It’s a great deal more comforting than it sounds.
The Unconstant Dead
Sleep comes easily. Rest does not.
He dreams, fitfully, of trying to clutch a tattered cloak around himself, of smooth silk slipping between numb fingers, of a cold that claws and tears at every breath. His mouth is dry, parched, and he watches a long strip of desert wheel away beneath him, a tantalizing glimpse of mountains, and then the endless unbordered ocean breaks over his head, cold as a river in winter. After a time, he stops reaching for the shore, stops grasping at the jagged shards of glass that spin past, and drifts, watching his blood cloud the water like a shadow.
A hand on his shoulder, warm, insistent. For a moment, he expects Keyleth, bloodied and ragged and fading with him in and out of consciousness in that screaming hell of gunfire and glass and shattered bone.
But when he finally manages to force his eyes open, it’s to a dark, cool, silent room. He inhales, slowly, and the chill air streaming through an open window does a great deal to dispel the stench of stale blood and sweat and black powder that clings to his clothes. With an effort, he turns his head to one side.
Cassandra is sitting on the floor beside the bed, chin resting on her hand, her face so close to his that he can feel her warm breath moving his hair. She watches him, and he sees something in her jawline, something in the shock of white in her hair, that reminds him of Anna. He finds he doesn’t feel any particular way about that at the moment.
“You’re going to fall off the bed, brother,” she says, eventually. “Your legs are hanging off the edge and your head’s where your feet should be. Were you actually asleep before you stepped in the room?”
