#*drabbles;

[wiltedahlia-blog]

The moment Dahlia switched her car off, she knew her vague idea of a plan to sneak in through her window was a bust. The curtains fluttered in a telling way, and already Dahlia could hear her mother stomping her feet in her mind as she slipped her keys into her purse which she slung over her head, making certain it was impossible to snatch off of her body. Leaving Jess’s had been practically painful, in more ways than one. The main of which being, she knew she’d have a million and one questions to answer the second she so much as touched the handle of the front door. 

The people of her church would never expect how furious Mrs. Tang could be. In public, the woman never so much as rose her voice an octave above a caring tone, unless the situation absolutely called for it to an extreme extent. Oh but how she could always see the anger in her mothers eyes. Dahlia always behaved in public, and thus she never saw the need to become vocal, until they arrived home and were behind closed doors where no one could see or hear. 

And then the flood gates would open, and Dahlia would be informed of minuscule things she’d done wrong that no one else had noted or cared about. Until college, Dahlia assumed it was the same for everyone other than Trace. Or that maybe even Trace experienced the same, but rather than curling in a shell like she had, he busted out of his and decided to do as he pleased. It’s what drew her to him in the first place. It fascinated her, and caused her to be worried about him day in and out. Yet he continued to do it, continued to be as confident and seemingly happy as ever. 

So she’d let herself go out with him in hopes it’d do the same for her. She’d never really realized that much before until now, after talking to Jess and hearing that their community was nothing like her own house. Seeing her house now, Dahlia couldn’t remember a time she felt less inclined to go inside. 

All these years, she’d been blaming Trace for making her question God, and with every step she took towards her front door, Dahlia felt the truth sink in. 

Her mother made her question God. 

She couldn’t quite wrap her head around it. Around the fact that someone who loved her so much could lead her astray. How it could both be for her own good, but also be not the right way to go about it. It didn’t make sense to her, and yet even from the brief bits Jess had explained just now, it was overtly apparent to Dahlia that they’d lived by very different rules and morals growing up. Yet, Dahlia’s mother had always seemed to adore Jess, as far as Dahlia knew. 

Swallowing hard, Dahlia forced herself to turn the knob of the door, and open it, only to be stunned at what she saw inside. Her mother greeted her first, lips in the thinnest of lines, eyes glaring with a thousand flames. But to the side in the living room, she noticed movement. Cornelius. 

“Tang Lihua, close the door and come inside,” her mother commanded, and with a deep breath, Dahlia did just that. The usage of her Chinese name always left no room for debate. “I hope you had a good time last night.”

The words may have been kind, but Dahlia knew the tone as her mother spoke quietly as possible. Still, she nodded her head, not quite looking her mother in the eye in her shame. 

“It will not happen again. Slumber parties should be given fair warning. Wearing the same clothes today is a disgrace. Cornelius is here to take you out for the day. You will go upstairs, clean up and change. Then you will show him around town, and take him to dinner. He will pay, and bring you home. Tomorrow you will spend the day at church, sitting with him. Am I understood?” 

“Yes mother,” Dahlia breathed out, trying to keep her face as blank as possible as the dread grew in her stomach. 

“Good. Go clean up, we will discuss this further tonight so that you may pray properly tomorrow.” 

Without further ado, Dahlia went to her room, closing the door behind her and leaning against it, her eyes closed as she reached up to pull her hair out of its tight bun. As the black and red strands cascaded around her, the scent that was so distinctly Trace enveloped her. Her stomach twisted in the oddest of ways, a mixture of familiarity and pain. 

It’d been stupid, to think that they could ever be even remotely what they were in high school. He’d grown up into an even better version (if not more confusing) of himself, while she’d lost everything she’d ever known to be her. 

How had they ended up like this? 

How was she supposed to ever end up even half as put together as he seemed? 

More importantly, how was she supposed to ever move on from him if they were living in the same town again? 

The feelings that’d taken over since seeing him both infuriated and warmed her in the strangest of ways. So much of what happened between them before last night had made her want to rip her hair out. Yet, he’d taken care of her again. Why hadn’t he just had Jess take her to her house last night? Why wouldn’t he let her leave his car? 

Nothing made sense. Nothing ever made sense with Trace. 

And if Jess was right, Dahlia would never make sense for him either. Even if some part of her desperately wanted to change into whoever he wanted, she knew she couldn’t. Knew she couldn’t be like the girls who he’d made out with in the middle of school. Even if she could, he never kept any of them around anyway, so why do it? 

“I’ll be right back, I need to check on Dahlia.” 

Automatically, Dahlia flipped the lock on her door and rushed to her closet, pulling out the first modest dress her hand touched and began to prepare herself for what would surely be one of the longest, and dullest days she’d ever spent in this town. 

[aeonianapollo-blog]

There's a time in every soldier's life where they have to decide which sacrifice is need, and which isn't. The sacrifice of love, of friendship, for lives he's even yet to touch. It's a soldier's duty to decide for those who can't. As for Devin, he never expected much. Not before the invasions, not before all the death. A nice N7 term with a plaque on his desk when he retires. He didn't see the fine print in the contract that read "In case of Reaper invasion." There was no way to predict that everything would be gone in a matter of seconds, that every inch of his humanity would be stolen right from his bones. He would sit there in the unnecessarily eerie silence with a rifle in his hands and death in his eyes. A soldier shaking his shoulders, yelling a muted "We've got a live one!" A live one. The agony. Never would he have known that soldier, shaking his shoulders and checking his breathing, was Commander Shepard. How pathetic could he be? This is how he met the person whom would give him some kind of purpose. A last first impression. Commander Shepard and the man who was too cowardly to pull the trigger.

Now, however, was a different story. He'd spent half a year with the men and woman aboard the Alliance's finest ship. The Commander grounded for their work with Cerberus. Devin knew them briefly, but he was a good judge of character. The Commander was not a traitor. If they were, Devin was, too. Sometimes, the conversation would steer that way. Two soldiers contemplating the sadness of the lose of humanity they've both experienced. Friends dying right next to them. Devin always gave the tone that he wasn't judging, he was looking for something to relate. He wasn't in need of revenge or closure. He was in need of somebody rather than something. Shepard was that something. How they would admit their faults -- faults in saving those whom they've sworn to protect. Things never did get any easier. Things only got harder the more they talked, choking back scarred up memories as the conversations dwindle into small talk. Devin had never felt so at home than he did with his Commander. Maybe the whole crew felt that. One giant mass effect core of a home. 

The night before the final run was the hardest for everybody. Devin would wake up, choking on air that wasn't there, biting his lip to remind himself that he was real. The dreams were over. His dreams became more vivid; warm and fresh in his mind. He could feel the tips of Shepard's fingers against his cheeks again. He could feel that rush of laughter after the one day of shore leave they received. It was so vivid, he was afraid he'd never experience this ever again. The feelings of joy -- the feelings of something. That's what was terrifying. That he would never get that chance again. That after tomorrow, there wouldn't be any laughter to be had. Shepard's smile would disappear along with fragments of Devin's memory, of his heart. Little by little, Shepard was dying from this war. And Devin was the only one to notice. 

He took a step into his Commander's cabin; eyes glossy with the lack of sleep. I need to tell you something, he said. Can it wait? Shepard responded. Maybe it could. Maybe they would survive this suicide mission together long enough for Devin spill his secrets. Except, some part of him knew you don't get to survive two suicide missions.

That's when the decision weighed down on him. London, a place he hadn't been to since he left Ireland. Left Earth. His duty to decide what's wrong and what's right. If that block of concrete hadn't--- no, that wasn't an excuse. Devin focuses his blue hues on the saddening step of his Commander, their bodies swaying in the Earthly light. He stepped forward, stopped by a pair of hands.                    No. Don't do this, Commander.                    Please don't do this. We can                    make this right. But we can't                   do it alone.

He can't do it alone. Devin Murphy, N7 and commended soldier, couldn't face this world alone again. He couldn't speak a word through the pain of his aching leg, or the tears swelling at his eyes.

                                   Why can't we laugh, one last time?