Pairing: Azriel/Eris/Reader | Rating: G | Word Count: 1121
Read here on AO3 | Neapolitan Bonds Master List
Summary: Your cycle showed up and you hid yourself away in your temporary chambers. Az and Eris are not having it.
A/N: HI!!!! Surprise. For my ACOTAR peeps who have put up with me not posting for forever and then when I did, it was stranger things. I am hoping this year is kinder to me.
You knew your cycle would come eventually. It was only a matter of time before you dealt with it while visiting with your mates. It came the second day of your stay. You didn’t bother to tell them, just declined to sleep in their bed and stayed in your chambers across the hall. They didn’t like it, but they didn’t argue and gave you your space.
The next day, you ended up staying in bed all morning with nausea and a headache. You only got up to use the bathing room and change into a soft green sweater and leggings. Near noon, you requested a servant to retrieve the Healer and have something blander brought in from the kitchens. You should have known they’d also tell your mates you weren’t well. You got back into bed, pressing your fingers to your forehead to try and will away the ache in your skull.
You heard the knob turn and the door was thrown open. You sat up wincing to see Eris wide eyed with panic standing in the doorway. Azriel was right behind him, shadows slinking along the carpet. Eris in his more courtly blue coat and Azriel in (from what you could see) a soft black tunic.
You huffed through your nose, wincing. “What?”
“Isabelle said you were ill and asked for a healer.” Eris’s eyes raked over you but he still didn’t approach.
“I asked for a healer but I’m not ill. I’m fine.” Neither of them responded or moved. “I’m not contagious.”
“You don’t know that,” Azriel muttered.
“I do know that, just go away.”
You really didn’t want to explain it to them. Nor were you in the mood for any more questions. You laid back on your pillows, head throbbing and stomach rolling again.
“Boys. Move.” A female's stern voice came from behind your mates.
You opened an eye and a curly red headed female was beside you. Edith was a younger healer- a few decades older than Eris, but the best in Autumn. She held up a purple vial.
“You’ll want to drink this for the nausea.” She helped you sit up. You downed it quickly- wincing at the taste. She had handed you another vial from her white apron. “This should ease your pain for a few hours.”
“Only a few?” It was Eris who asked with a glare, based on his tone.
Edith ignored him. The other vial tasted a little better.
“Drink you some tea,” she added and held up two extra vials. “I’m going to leave these here. If you still feel unwell by nightfall, take them.”
“Thank you,” you said softly, already feeling the tension in your eyes ease.
“You did not answer my question, Edith.”
“You know as well as I potions only do so much. Think with your mind, not your mating bond.” She walked over to him. Even being over a head shorter, she still looked him up and down, her curly hair swaying as her head moved while she did so. “You could put those hands to use and help your mate instead of fussing at me.”
Eris and Az stepped aside and watched her leave, confusion etched in their faces. It wasn’t until a shadow swirled around Azriel’s head that his expression changed.
“Oh.” His wings tucked in tighter.
“Oh?” Eris turned to him.
“It’s um,” Az peered around at you, looking for permission to continue.
“I’m on my cycle,” you rolled your eyes. “I wasn’t going to bother you both about it.”
“Oh.” Eris’s face scrunched up.
You furrowed your brows. “If you both are disgusted then leave.”
“I’m not disgusted,” Eris replied quickly, clearly offended at the implication. “I only have brothers and a male mate for a decade. I forgot it was something that happened.”
“I wish that was me,” you laughed but it sounded hollow.
“Is it always this bad?” Az asked.
“No,” you laid back, putting your arm over your eyes to block out the light. “Maybe? I never remember.”
You heard soft steps on the carpet. You pulled back your arm and Eris was beside you. He’d shed his coat and was now only in his loose white shirt. He sat on the bed beside you and brushed his fingers along your forehead.
“Do you want me to help?”
“How?” You were getting sleepy with the pain in your head gone.
“Warm hands.”
He put his palm against your forehead, a pleasant warmth radiating from it. You hummed and closed your eyes. After a moment he went back to rubbing his fingers above one of your brows.
You yawned but didn’t open your eyes. “Is it strange if I ask for you to put your hand on my stomach?”
“No. Move over for me.”
You moved to lay on your side in the middle of the bed. You felt the covers lift and Eris curled his body against your own. You sighed once he slipped his hand under the band of your leggings and rested it on your lower stomach.
“Why have I never thought to ask you to do this before?” You whispered. “You’re doing this every time.”
“Gladly.”
After a moment, you heard the door knob turn again.
“Az?” You opened your eyes and sat up a little. “Az, don’t go.”
He was at the door, hand on the knob still. He tucked his wings in tight and looked back at you.
“There isn’t much I can help you with, baby.”
You pouted. “You can still cuddle.”
”That bed is not big enough for the three of us.”
“Please?” You felt Eris let out a soft laugh behind you. “Just for a little bit?”
Even in the dim lighting you could tell Az rolled his eyes. There was silence for a moment, and he sighed. You grinned when he let go of the door knob and walked over to you. You laid your head back down and he lifted the covers to climb into the bed. You put your arm around him when he scooted in close.
“If my wings get a cramp I will hold you responsible,” he said with no bite in his tone. You hummed and he kissed the top of your hair. “Happy?”
”Very.”
You don’t know how long the three of you laid there, but with your nausea gone, you were suddenly very hungry. Az and Eris agreed to have something brought in but only if you moved to their chambers. You also had to promise to never try and hide from them again. You agreed. If anything, it was the easiest trade you’d ever negotiated and very much worth the extra apple tart Az had the shadows sneak out of the kitchens.
A muted shade of green ✧ Chapter 8: It's a natural progression
genre: will ever write something not angsty?
word count: 6793
pairing: reader x spencer reid
description: you and spencer finally give into the tension that's been growing between you, but what happens now?
a muted shade of green masterlist
previous chapter // next chapter
I decided to give you all a pause from Abigail because we're now turning into an Abigail Hater Club HAHAH
This is the third time you’re saying this, but you’ll keep saying it until Spencer hears you. “I am not relocating.”
“Y/N, if she found out where you are, we need you to be somewhere else,” Spencer groans, but you have no mercy on him; not this time. Not after everything.
His hair is pointing everywhere, surely from the way your stubbornness is making him tug at it like he needs the sting on his scalped to remind him to focus. It’s been almost thirty minutes of you two arguing, and this isn’t exactly the conversation you wanted to have when you first woke up that morning. In fact, you could have lived your entire life without having this conversation and you would probably have been a very, very happy woman. Alas, things never really seem to go your way even when they are going right. And right now, you are far, far away from things going right.
“I am not going to relocate!” You say again, exasperation getting to you the more he insists. Now, your hands are flying around you and it’s like you two have switched places for a second– while he seems tense and immobile, you are gesticulating like crazy, trying to make a point with your entire body; you are not leaving. “I’m done relocating! I’m done being am active case that doesn’t move on! I’m done being thrown around like a doll! Maybe that’s her end game, Spence– have you thought of that?! That she gets some sort of… of… sadistic satisfaction from seeing me squirm away every single time!” You cry out, brows furrowed in frustration. Nothing is making sense to you, and your anger only grows. Why is he so okay with sending you away like it means nothing to you? Why is he not using that big, beautiful brain of his to find other solutions than just rid of you? “I can’t keep running! I can’t keep stopping my life anymore, Spence, I can’t! I–“
An odd sense of coldness comes down on you, like a wave crashing against the walls of your stomach, spreading through your veins, cooling down your stressed out brain. It takes you a little while, but you finally understand. You understand his hesitation, his silence, and you understand it as an answer. “I’ll go home,” You mumble, looking down at your hands. They laid lifeless on your lap, almost like they are now tired from all the talking through them. “Yeah, I– I think that’s the best idea. It’ll be relocating, right? I’ll g back home. You must be tired of me here, anyways, and–“
“Don’t.”
The ice in his voice startles you enough to have you scoffing. “Excuse me?”
“Don’t make this about something that it isn’t,” His voice is in that whisper-scream pitch that you’ve heard him using with other people. Never you, though. Spencer never got this aggravated with you before, not even when you kept leaving your tea bags inside your empty mugs until they were dry. This, the way he is talking right now, is beyond annoyance. This is anger. Spence is angry at you and that doesn’t make you feel any better. “I’m trying to keep you safe.”
“The give up already,” You whisper back, slowly getting up from where you’re sitting. “Because I’m not going anywhere that is not my own apartment across the street.”
The package is still sitting on his counter, and you hate that you can feel it burning deep in your soul. At first, he didn’t want you looking at it, trying to keep you away, but you don’t like when you Spencer keeps secrets and you just push away his hand that is reaching for you. This sounds a bit insane, now that you think back to it, but when you first see the book cover, so familiar you can quote some of its content, you laugh. It’s a daring move, but an effective one– Kill Me If You Can, by James Patterson and Marshall Karp, is all about the chase. And all about the run. “That fucking bitch,” You whisper to yourself, grabbing the book and opening it to the cover page, where her inscription would obviously be– Dear Y/N, Check-mate. What now? XOXO Cat.
You’ve never hurt a book before, but you have half a mind to rip that one to shreds with your bare hands.
“No, no, no, you are relocating and that’s the end of it.”
To Spencer, you are the sweetest of the sweets– sugar pours out of your lips and he had the pleasure to taste it. No way he will risk losing that now, not before he can have a chance to douse himself in them. But every time you cuss, every time you frown, he swears that sugar gets the slightest hint of bitterness, and every time he blushes because of it, every time he lets out a sharp exhale with his eyes fixated on you, he can’t help but wonder how well that bitterness would mix in with your sugar.
Right now, though, you are about to get downright rotten.
“Who the fuck do you think you are, Spencer Reid?” His full name sounds wrong when you feel this pissed off. “You’re not my dad!”
“No, I’m not your dad, I’m your boyfriend, and I’m trying to keep you safe!” This time he screams; he truly, really screams, neck veins popping out and face reddening with the strength of his words. Spencer revels yet another side of himself to you. “I’ve lost enough, okay?! I’ve lost enough… First Maeve, then Gideon, and, a-and, and now you– I can’t lose you! You can’t die, you can’t die on me, and it’s like you keep trying to! You refuse to cooperate, you-you are the most stubborn woman I’ve ever met, and you’ll drive me insane! So please, don’t… don’t let me lose you…”
The way his voice dies out should’ve been enough to get you to quiet down, but tensions are high and now you feel like you’ve just been hit with a brick to the face.
“You’re my what?!”
This is news to you, though it doesn’t seem to be news to him. You’ve been dreaming of hearing that word slipping from his mouth, you won’t lie, but not like this. Not in a fight, and your first fight at that.
Spencer seems shocked at your surprise, and you two go quiet for the first time in what feels like hours.
“Am… Am I not?” You are still in awe of how Spencer can go from zero to a hundred in a matter of seconds. A second ago, he looked like he was about to rip his hair out of his head and now he was back tohis normal bright, wide eyes and fidgeting hands. Whiplash isn’t enough to describe how you’re feeling, staring at him with your mouth hanging open, willing for words to come out but failing every single time. “Oh god, I’m not. I’m sorry, I just assumed that after last night we–“
“Wait, stop, stop, stop!” You shriek, hands going up to cover your face. “I need a second to think!”
“No, you don’t, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, just forget everything I said, I just–“
“I might not have an eidetic memory, but I don’t think I can ever forget what you just said,” You breathe out, hands shaking as you pushed your hair back and away from your face. “Spence… you thought we were dating?”
This has him paralysed. “That’s what you want to talk about? Right now? After everything I said?”
“I want to talk about everything,” You do, you really do; but you need to get this out of your chest right now. You need to start clean. “But we need to talk about this first… because I need to know how to act when we get to the rest of it.”
“What do you mean?”
“Spence, we kissed,” You whisper, hands sliding down your face with a frustrated groan. “And I thought that maybe… I don’t know, I thought we were going somewhere good, you know? Somewhere at all! But then we got to the room and you just pushed me away!”
“I didn’t want you to feel like you had to do anything you didn’t want to!” Spencer defending himself like this feels like you’re living in an alternate reality. To be honest, even if you had had the chance to talk to him like you initially intended to, you weren’t really sure what you’d do after. It wasn’t a situation in which you could predict an outcome, not when it comes to Spencer– he is too good in hiding form the world. Too good in hiding from you. “Y/N, I swear, that’s all! I wanted more, I always want more when it comes to you but I don’t want to get greedy and scare you off.”
“What about the next morning?” If you don’t sit down, you think your legs will buckle under you. So you sink onto the couch, head on your hands trying to keep you from looking at him with hopeful eyes. Spencer doesn’t want to pressure you and you don’t want to pressure him– and just like that you two fall in a cursed, never-ending dance. In a game where both are in defence, no one wins. One of you has to either take a risk or go home crying. And you’re oh so tired of going home crying… “The next morning you didn’t kiss me or, or, or talked to me! I woke up and you weren’t even in bed!”
“I wanted to make you breakfast in bed,” This is getting more and more ridiculous by the second. Had you really jumped the gun here? “But when I got out of the shower, you were already freaking out about Abigail!”
“What– But what about after?!”
“After we talked about Abigail, I got a call from work and you were almost pushing me out of the door yourself!” This time around, you don’t ask anymore questions, not when you can see how exasperated Spencer is getting. “You said–”
“Now is not the time to quote me,” You say as softly as you can. Though sometimes it can sting, having your words thrown back at you, you can’t help but smile every time he does it. The secret is in knowing Spencer isn’t trying to hurt you, but simply attempting to logically solve whatever issue he has to face. What he doesn’t seem to understand though, is that sometimes, the issues of the heart, aren’t logical to begin with.
“I’m just trying to… I don’t know what I’m trying to do, but this is all a bit misunderstanding,” He shuffles closer to you with that look in his eyes that you’ve seen before in the mirror, your own familiar desperation glaring back at you with that lost, confused glint of what will happen next? “Please, I don’t… I don’t have much experience but I– I don’t want to lose you. Y/N, please… help me.”
“Spence, what do you mean?”
“Help me,” He whispers again, worry sketched on his face like it belongs there. His breathing is shallow, and you notice the way his hands wrangle each other in his lap. If anything, he’s trying, and failing, to hide from you for the the first time. As gently as possible, you reach up with a small smile playing on your lips, and you press your thumb to the lines between his brows, soothing them in a back and forth motion. “Help me, I don’t know what to do.”
The way he chuckles in that coy way he does whenever he feels like he’s out of his league is what pushes you forward, the carefulness of your actions clashing with the eagerness in your kiss. You’ve been waiting for this all day, and everything inside you melts when you feel his hands reaching up hold you close, cradling your face as if you’re the most precious thing he has ever touched. There is a slight shake to them when his lips move over yours and you can’t help but smile, laying your smaller hands over his– I got you, you want to tell him. I’ll help you.
“Y/N…” His words hit you with a puff of air, lips brushing against each other every time he speaks. If Spencer pulls back an inch, you follow; if you try to put some distance, he follows. The wall between you two that had been shaken before was now completely shattered, bulldozed by his hands sliding down your neck, your sides, tugging on your waist until you’re as close as you can possibly be. Until you’re on his lap, surrounded his arms, overtaken by him and him only. “Don’t go home.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” You promise, laying your head on his shoulder like you’ve done many other times before. “I’m not relocating.”
“Y/N–”
“Who’s Maeve?”
His body tenses underneath you horribly, and you hate that it’s all because of you. “I–“
“You don’t have to tell me now if you don’t want to,” You say, pushing his hair away from his panicked eyes. “I just want you to know I heard you. I heard you talking about Maeve and Gideon and me, and I think if we want to start… whatever this is… we need to lay our cards down,” It’s a risky move, if anything. Not only are you asking him about his past, you will also allow him to ask about yours, and that is only fair.
“But what is this?” He asks, eyes sharp on yours while you play with his hair to try and distract yourself from the reality of it all. “What are we?”
“I mean, you said you were my boyfriend, right?” You don’t want to be the one to make a decision this big, but then again, it shouldn’t be all him.
“Then what are you?” He mumbled, eyes threatening to shut the more your fingers run through his hair. “Are you my girl?”
A move you don’t really expect from Spencer, but that is welcome nonetheless. The way you two look at each other, like teenagers all giggly about confessing, is equal parts pathetic and hilarious. But it’s the way you two chose to go about it and that is all that matters. Until you remember that this is reality, and you’re not a teenager anymore– there are higher stakes at play here that have to be addressed. There is heartbreak in the end. Pain. Hurt. Fear. That’s what you had before, waiting for you in the end of a very dark tunnel, and you’re scared that’s what will be waiting for you this time around, too. Not because of Spencer, but because of you.
“Joshua McMannon,” You mumble, slowly climbing out of his lap and sitting on the other side of the couch. Like a barrier, you bring your legs up, hugging your knees close to your chest in an action that Spencer will surely read right– separation, space. It happens whenever you talk about Josh, the wave of shame and embarrassment that paralyses you inside-out. The self-loathing. “He was uh, a big shot new player in the stock market, worked for some big firm I forgot the name. We met in a bar, I think. I know this sounds crazy but I blank on a lot of memories that include him, it’s– it’s hard to think back.”
“Y/N–“
“No Spence, I can’t ask about you your past without telling you about mine, that’s not how it works,” You say with such a tone of finality that he doesn’t even try to fight you on it. “So please, just… listen to me. The entire thing, because it makes me look dumb and foolish, I know it does, but I want to be honest with you, I don’t want this coming back later to haunt us, okay? So just… don’t judge me to harshly. Please.”
His silence is enough to encourage you to keep on going.
“You know a bit about it and there isn’t much more to tell, to be very honest,” There are some undertones of anxiety in your voice, and you know he hears it. You know he wants to move, pull you back to him, comfort you, anything. But he respects the shield you’ve put up and he listens, just like you asked. “He was one of those guys that love the chase, you know? Likes showing off, too, so I was always uh, well dressed and all that jazz. Josh hates when I– no. Sorry. Josh hated when I looked sloppy. He worked hard to play hard, according to him, so he wanted to show things off. Expensive restaurants every day, expensive clubs every night… expensive girlfriend all around.”
“No,” Spencer quickly blurts out one of the many words he’s surely holding in. “No, Y/N, you’re not something to show off, you’re not a thing!”
“You’re sweet,” You chuckle. “But I was a thing to Josh. Something he owned, remember? And I fell for it, Spence. I was so, so stupid and desperate that I said nothing, I just went along and played into his fantasy until I couldn’t anymore. So I started talking back. Saying ‘no.’ You know what happens next, I guess. You know his type. I didn’t.”
Gulping, you look down at your hands embarrassedly. Spencer would’ve clocked Josh on the dot. He would’ve known who he was and what he’d do in a second. You, on the other hand, hadn’t been so smart. Probably still aren’t. Probably never will be. It’s hard, not putting yourself down when you’re telling the smartest man you know about such idiotic mistakes.
“Y/N, don’t even think about it,” Spencer hisses and all restraint is gone. He is sliding down the couch to sit close to you, and his hands sneak under your knee and give a gentle tug. He’s trying to respect your need for your own space, but he needs to make sure you’re listening to him. “You’re not dumb. You are not stupid. You are a kind woman with a heart too big for assholes like him, and I won’t have you thinking this was your fault. Sweetheart, this is all his fault. You had nothing to do with that, you… you were just in love.”
“I wasn’t, though,” You whisper, shaking your head slowly. “I really liked him. Like, a lot. But I didn’t love him.”
“It doesn’t matter, sweet girl,” He gently put your legs over his, hands holding onto your calves like it’s his lifeline. “There is no scenario in which this is your fault. None. Do you hear me?”
“I hear you,” You’re not lying– you hear him, you truly do. But believing him is a whole other thing, and you’re not sure if you’re there yet. “I’ve been hearing you, Spence. Every time you explain something new or you tell me some more fun facts, I hear you. It’s just that this time around it’s a little bit harder to process, that’s all.”
“This is a fact like all the other facts I’ve told you,” With one more pull, you get closer and closer to his body until you can feel the press of those perfect lips against your forehead. “It’s irrefutable– none of this is your fault, angel. None of it.”
Nodding, you relax onto his hold, head resting on his shoulder when you deliver the final blow. “Him hitting me wasn’t my fault, I know that much. I ran after that. It sounds a bit drastic, but I had never been in the position before and Josh is someone with a lot of influence back in New York. I would have never survived in there and I would’ve been scared all the time.”
“He touched you?” The way he says it, voice sharp like a knife, makes you look up at him with squinted eyes. “Where?”
“What does it matter?”
“Where did he hurt you?”
Chuckling, you grab his hand and lean your cheek onto it. “Right here,” You whisper, turning a little to drop a kiss on his palm.
“Oh, sweetheart,” Everything about him screams comfort, from how his thumb gently caresses your face to the way his lips pull downwards in disscontempt. You know that by now, he’s making a mental note to run Josh’ name through Garcia, but that is something you will deal with later. Despite their good intentions, that is not a door you want to open any time soon. “I–“
“You will do nothing about it, Spencer Reid,” You say with as a teasing warning. You don’t know that, but Spencer wonders how can you smile while telling him about such terrible memories; how could you withstand pain so well without telling anyone about it before. “Whatever happened happened and it’s done. I just wanted to be honest and give you the full picture before… we make decisions.”
“And what do you think this will accomplish, huh? That it will change my mind? Make me regret it?”
“I don’t know Spence,” You groan. “I’m just… trying to be honest.”
“And I appreciate that, Y/N,” This time, he kisses you on the lips, but it’s too fast and too light to satisfy the yearning inside of you. “But nothing will make me change my mind. Much less that asshole. I want you. I’ve wanted you since I met you, I–”
His pause lingers in the air with a something heavy over it. This time, you shuffle on his lap to try and get a better look of his face, legs holding you up on each side of him. It’s such an intimate position to be in, you straddling him with his hands dragging from your waist to your thighs then back up again; your hands playing with the little curls by the nape of his neck; his lips, opening and closing and opening again in what feels like failed attempt after failed attempt to tell you something.
“I– I think I’ve wanted you since Maeve died.”
There is a lot to unpack in this sentence, but you keep your expression clean of any reaction. He doesn’t need you gasping and fawning over him… he just needs you to listen.
“And I know it sounds messed up and weird, but like, the metaphorical you, you know? The you you are but disembodied and– and now I’m not making any sense, but I mean it.”
“I know you meant it,” You whisper, nails gently scrapping his scalp. “It’s okay, you can not make sense, I’ll figure it out. I’m good with puzzles.”
“You are terrible with puzzles, angel,” He chuckles and your shoulders relax a little. “I’ve seen you trying to put together that Pride and Prejudice poster puzzle… I think you’re just good with me.”
“Hm, I think so to,” You smile. “Why don’t we start from the beginning then? Tell me your story.”
Nodding, Spencer tugged you a bit closer and you like it– this tugging habit of his, the need to have you pressed against him winning against his need to keep the germs at bay. In a very simplistic way, it makes you feel special.
“Maeve… I loved Maeve,” He admits, eyes looking into yours with an insecurity that is misplaced– though you are not above feeling the poke of jealousy down deep in your gut, you are mature enough to know when you are being an absolute idiot, and you smile at him. “I love Maeve, but I am no longer in love with Maeve. I mean, she’s dead, so…” Spencer clears his throat for a second, and when he’s ready– only when he’s ready– he continues.
There is real pain in his voice as he tells you the entire thing, and there is real pain in your voice as you call him name oh so carefully. The tears in his eyes are few, but they are there, and you thumb them away as gently as you can. In your hands is the shell of the man you know, his words slowing down as his brain surely relieves memories he wishes to delete.
“Spencer,” You call, his eyes shut so tight you think he might just hurt himself if he continues like this. “Spence, I’m so sorry that happened.”
“It was my fault,” He whispered as if he is in a confessionary. “Diane Turner. That was the name of the girl that killed her. We were trying to negotiate with her and… and I failed.”
“Spencer, no,” Oh how the tables have turned. “The girl was going to kill Maeve no matter what, and I’m sorry that it came to this. I’m sorry–“ You can’t even say it, confused with your anger and how it makes your hands shake.
She blindfolded him.
She read his letters, his fears, and she made them real.
That is enough to have you wishing you had shot her yourself.
“Sweetheart,” He chuckles sadly, bigger hands coming to encage yours in a futile attempt to extinguish your anger. Bringing your knuckles to his lips, he kisses each and every single one of them, and for a moment you think he knows– he knows you’d be someone you’re not, for him. Someone who hurts other people. And you think he’d hate himself if that ever happened. “It was a long time ago…”
“But it wasn’t your fault…” You move until you embrace him, body covering his like a blanket willing to keep him from the cruel, cruel world around you two. “No matter how long ago it was.”
“I guess that’s just something we both have to learn,” His voice is muffled by your sweater, and you pull back a little. When he offers you his pinky finger, you don’t need any explanation, wrapping yours around it with a giggle. “Something we’ll help each other learn.”
“It’s a deal,” You whisper, leaning forward and dropping a slow kiss to his lips. “Sealed with a kiss.”
“Does this mean that now you’re actually my girlfriend?” He asks after a while and you laugh, loud enough to burst the bubble you two created.
“If you want me to be, yes.”
“I want you to be, in case you haven’t noticed by now,” God, you love when he jokes, the casual tone of his voice making you both relax. “But I also want to be your boyfriend.”
“Hm, you want an awful lot, don’t you?” Pushing his hair back, you smile impossibly wide. “Good think I want a lot, too.”
The way he kisses you makes you believe that you truly are the only girl in the world, even if just his world. “Now you have to tell all the guys that hit on you that you are taken.”
“Spence, what guys?!” You snort, eyes wide when you try to move and sit next to him. He is quick to catch you, though, and place you back on his lap.
“Just because you don’t notice people flirting with you doesn’t mean they don’t!”
“Okay, wait a second, I notice–“
“I’ve been flirting with you for months!” He says in that way that makes his voice go a tone higher, his smile so wide and bright that you can’t help but laugh.
“Maybe you’re bad at flirting?”
“Even Garcia noticed,” Spencer points out and you groan, knowing that if you admit defeat he will forever gloat. “But that’s okay. We got there in the end.”
“We did… which is why I’m not relocating.”
“Y/N, this is for your safety.”
“I’m safer closer to you,” You whisper. “Spence, I won’t be safe with god knows how many strangers surrounding me in a location I have no clue how to navigate. Here, I have you and I’m in a familiar place– I know the closest subway, bus stations, taxi points. I know the owner of the cafe down the street, I know your neighbours, hell, I even have Abigail! Isolating me is not safe. Please.”
For a moment, you wait. You’re unsure if you got through to him, his eyes looking at you so intently that it’s a little embarrassing. Everyone knows his brain works differently– it works faster, better, more precisely. Whenever Spence zones out like this, it’s not because of lack of attention, but simply because he’s thinking… and what a wonderful thing it is to see him think; to see those theories taking form in his beautiful head, to see those honey coloured eyes working out probabilities that you’d never even get close to understand. He’s a special one, and you love that about him. Because you love him.
And as much as everything between you two is new, this feeling is quite old.
This growing warmth in your chest, expanding like rivers of gold adoration through your veins.
It’s not surprising that you love Spencer.
It’s only natural, considering how much he loves you.
How you know it?
“Yeah, okay. I’d feel more comfortable with you here with me, anyways.”
Well, it’s obvious.
“And you’re right, you know?” He continues, speeding through his words as if he’s trying to convince you and him both. “You know this area well. Cat has managed to get through us easily, and I don’t know what I’d do if she found you and I was the one to send you all alone to strange place where you can’t ask for help…”
“That won’t happen,” You promise, shaking your head at the terrifying thought. “So does that mean I’ll stay here or go home?”
The reason you enjoy asking Spencer obvious questions is because sometimes, times like this, you get to see his personality shinning like a beacon in a dark night. His sassiness is so refreshing that you can’t help but giggle every time he lets it out. “Don’t be ridiculous,” He mumbled, rolling his eyes like the little know-it-all he is. “You’re obviously staying here. You’re my girlfriend, you’ll stay where I can protect you. Which is also something we have to talk about.”
“Nooo,” You are so tired of talking about things at this point. “Can’t we talk about it tomorrow? Please, I just want to spend one nice evening with my boyfriend without discussing the fact that his psychopathic stalker wants to kill me.”
“Y/N, that is not funny!” He gasps when you chuckle. “Sweetheart, I just want you safe. I think it would be important for us to have a plan if someone ever breaks into my apartment, for example. You should know where my gun is and–“
“Woah, woah, woah, no way!” You shriek, climbing off of his lap and standing right in front of him. The though of having to use a gun makes you nauseous. “I don’t want to know where your gun is, and I don’t want to even think about the possibility of having to actually point it at someone!”
“Okay,” Spencer says softly, getting up too and coming to hug you. Despite people thinking that Spencer is not quite adept to human touch, he has gotten quite good at comforting you, knowing exactly how to hold you and how to talk you down of your rising panic. “That’s okay, it’s okay. We’ll talk about it another day, we don’t have to overwhelm you right now, it’s alright, my angel.”
For a moment, the two of you just… stand there, swaying from side to side while he whispered sweet nothings into your ear. “Can we just be normal for a night and watch a movie?” You finally ask, looking up at his smile because right now, that’s the only thing that matters to you– him.
“Yeah, let’s watch a movie.”
For a few hours, life is perfect.
For a few hours, you get to kiss him like you’ve been meaning to. Touch him like you’ve been meaning to. You get to run your hands through his unruly hair, pushing it back and feeling its softness slip between your fingers like the finest silk that ever was. He touches you, too, albeit a bit more reservedly. His fingers find the sliver of skin on your hip, thumb caressing back and forth, sending shivers up and down your spine. His lips brushed against your cheeks, your neck, your collarbones.
For a few hours, you laugh and smile and chat. You memorise more fun facts to put on your little notebook later, now secure on the left bedside table, right next to where you lay every night. He tells you how the movie doesn’t make logical sense and how they have physics all wrong. He points at the screen and his voice gets higher and higher with his passion for correcting fiction and you can’t help but shut him up with a languid kiss.
For a few hours, you two are just a couple. This is just a date. And this are just good.
But the higher you climb, the better it gets, the harder you’ll fall. This might just be what Cat wants– you, in perpetual anxiety, always looking over your shoulder, always scared of losing the little you were able to build in your new life. From what Spence and his team have told you about her, Cat’s main skills are all mental; manipulation, gaslighting, coercing. Is this how you’re going to end? Terrified with ever step you take, antsy at your boyfriend’s house while watching a movie, giving up on your bookshop so that strangers don’t have such an easy access to your life?
For a few hours, you didn’t have to worry about that.
For a few hours only… because once the second movie is done, you two are forced to pull apart thanks to the incessant knocking on Spencer’s door. “If this is Abigail again,” Spencer warns as he gets up, lips all swollen from kissing and making out. “I will arrest her.”
“On what grounds, agent?” You hug a pillow close to you, completely ignorant to your current messy hair and blushed face.
“Cockblocking,” It’s so rare to hear such a word coming from someone like Spence that you can’t help but burst out laughing. “JJ?”
The name has your smile slipping a little. Why is JJ here? Did something happen? The moment Spencer opens the door, she’s marching inside, her beautiful blonde hair floating in the air as if she is some sort of magical being. “Spence, what the fuck?!” She cried out, completely oblivious to your presence in the couch. “Why are you not picking up your phone? I’ve been calling– Hotch mentioned something about you not taking Y/N to a secondary location, are you insane?! You can’t take care of her all by yourself, she’ll–“
You clear your throat as loud as you can, smiling sadly at her when she turns around with a shocked expression. “Hi, JJ.”
“Y/N, I’m– I’m so sorry, I didn’t know you were here…”
“She is,” Spencer suddenly sounds quiet, eyes cast down as if he’s a child who’s been caught red-handed doing something wrong. But then he raises his head, chin high and chest puffing out a little. “And she’ll stay here with me. Y/N doesn’t want to be moved to a secondary location, and considering we don’t know who Cat’s secondary is, I wouldn’t say it’s wise for us to do so. She’ll be alone in an unknown place. I… I would prefer if she’s here. With me. And officer Kaper.”
JJ’s eyes go wide and you can understand her surprise to hear her usually shy and quiet co-worker being so adamant. Hell, even you are a little bit surprised. “What you prefer?! Spence, this is not about what you prefer! This is about– oh my god, you two were making out.”
Her observation is so dry that you almost choke on air. “What?!” His voice is a dead give away. Or maybe it’s the way you wince, looking away from her, that gives you two away. “JJ, this is none–“
“You are having an interpersonal relationship with a victim under our protection in an active case,” It’s the way she describes you as a victim, as if that’s the only thing you are to her, that makes you exhale harshly. “Yes, Spencer, this is my business.”
“Uhm, technically–“
“Y/N, I’m sorry, but not now,” She speaks to you like a mother, and from what Spence has told you about her, you know that she has two wonderful boys. Two kids for her to mother. You, however, are not one of them.
Slowly rising up from the couch, your voice is shaky when you speak, but your proud of yourself regardless– confrontation is not your best suit, some might say it’s your worst suit, but there is no escape this time around. Not if you want to stay with Spencer. “I’m sorry, JJ, but yes, now. I’m the one this is all happening to. I’m not a passive participant in all of this and I do get to make choices, even if those choices are against your recommendation. I chose to stay here. Not Spence.”
“Why here? Why not–“
“I know the area!” You basically squeak, frowning deeply at her. The JJ you know is sweet and soft-spoken. This JJ is… well, not that. This JJ is someone who gets the job done. This JJ sees you as a job. And that hurts. “Cat knows you guys, she has shown us again and again that she is one step ahead– look at what happened to Officer Kaper. He has a family! His wife and kids were there and– fuck, JJ, if something happens here, I know where to go! I know where to run to, I know the back alleys, I know the people… I can’t handle you guys taking me away from everything I know again. I can’t, I’m sorry, I just can’t, I–“
“Hey, hey, it’s okay, you’re not going anywhere,” In a second, Spencer is by your side, arms pulling you into his chest. “You’re stay here, sweetheart.”
“Spence–“
“JJ, do you think I’m stupid?” The question shocks the words out of both of you. “I calculated the odds, okay? I know the risks. I know the pros and cons. But do you know what else I know? I know that when we thought Maeve was safe, her stalker was in her apartment. We put her under protective custody, and Diane still got to her. She could’ve been with me, I could’ve saved her!”
JJ doesn’t speak, and neither do you. You are frozen in place. Spencer had told you about Maeve just hours ago, described the entire thing, told you all the details of what happened back then… but he never touched on the now. On how he feels now. On how he remembers the whole thing now. On how it still affected him now. You can feel the anxiety on the way his breath shudders. The anger in his words, the regret, the fucking guilt As gently as you can, you circle his waist and squeeze. There is a part of you that hates doing this in front of someone else, giving them a part of this reality in which only you and Spencer exist; but he need to know you’re still here. Next to him, where he can keep you safe.
“Maeve wasn’t your fault, Spencer,” JJ whispers, and you see in her a glimpse of the woman you’ve met before. “It wasn’t your fault…”
“But this is!” He shouts back, stopping himself from lurching forward thanks to your body glued to his. Instead, he cradles your head closer, shuts his eyes tights, and let out the most pitiful exhale you’ve ever heard. “This is my fault… Y/N wouldn’t be in this position if it wasn’t for me.”
“Spence–“ You can’t even deny it. Logically, it is his fault this is happening– Cat is after you simply because she’s after him. That is undeniable, and you lose yourself in the endless search of what to tell him, how to comfort him. This is your Spence. Your boyfriend. And you don’t want this type of phantasmagoric guilt hovering over his head over the course of your relationship. This is how things end before they begin.
“I won’t let her take Y/N away from me,” When he looks at JJ again, you gasp. His eyes shine with a determination you’ve never seen before, jaw tense and hands holding you to him like he means in. This time around, you know he means is. “Not now, not ever.”
Summary: The first time Lockhart Obliviates someone in front of Quirrell
Notes: This completes the Greece Holiday Trilogy. <Part One | Part Two>
Gilderoy had already planned how to Obliviate Quirinus, if necessary.
It was unfortunate, because he quite adored Quirinus. But some things required protection more than sentiment.
The elderly witch was English, and had retired to Greece for the climate, she told them.
Mrs. Cromwell (no relation) was quite taken with Gilderoy, as they always were.
At the moment, she was engrossed in grilling Quirinus.
Interesting. Gilderoy never had an interview partner with him before, so this was something to note for next time. Provided there was a next time.
“These are curse burns, aren't they, dear?” she said, picking up Quirinus's hands.
Quirinus glanced at Gilderoy, who shrugged behind the old woman's back. Best to keep her talking.
“Yes, ma’am. A dark wizard cursed a b-book that I happened upon,” he answered slowly. “I unbound the curse.”
“Aye, that was a bad one,” she agreed. “And Dumbledore left you to it, did he?”
“He didn't know,” Quirinus replied. “My own fault, really. I thought I could handle it.”
The old woman laughed and reached over the table to pat Quirinus’s unmarred cheek.
“Ah, the fatal flaw. Keep at it, and you too can live alone in your old age,” she said.
Gilderoy walked back in front of her and smiled.
“The pretty one,” she said. “I wondered where you'd gone. Let dear old Cora have a look at you.”
“I was admiring your collection," Gilderoy said, presenting his best angle. “What a marvellous library you have. I've never seen so many titles on gorgons in my life.”
“It's my speciality,” Mrs. Cromwell said. “Why you're here, no doubt, Mr. Lockhart.”
Gilderoy brightened at being recognised.
“Indeed, it is. Professor Quirrell encountered your gorgon colony during his research. Of course we had to locate you right away. That's a tremendous feat.”
The kettle began to boil, and the witch crossed the tiny kitchen to fetch it. Gilderoy heard her knees pop as she stood.
“I like to think so,” Mrs. Cromwell said. She returned with a ceramic pot, tea steeping inside. “And what is it you want to know, Mr. Lockhart?”
“Why, simply everything,” Gilderoy said. “Spare us no detail. It's incredible what you’ve accomplished.”
He would be doing her a favour, really. Shrivelled old woman, out in the middle of nowhere, no one to hear her tale. But at last, the world would know.
“Do you mind if I take notes?” Quirinus asked.
“Scholar are you, dear?”
Don't hesitate, Gilderoy thought at him as hard as he could. She's too clever. Don't…
Quirinus hesitated, head cocked. Then he found a faint smile, and Gilderoy relaxed.
“I'm afraid so. Magizoology. I'm always looking for a new angle. Academia is a bit cutthroat these days,” Quirinus said. “That's how I came to be Mr. Lockhart's research assistant, in fact.”
“Better than teaching,” she agreed.
“Yes, ma’am.” The smile appeared again, which she returned.
Quirinus was a natural. So polite. Almost boyish. A promising venture, indeed.
“Please, Mrs. Cromwell, start at the beginning and omit nothing,” Gilderoy said. “We're positively riveted.”
She looked up at Gilderoy, one eye green like a cat's, the other milky. He smiled at her again.
Mrs. Cromwell returned it, then began to speak.
It took three hours to explain the background and creation of the gorgon colony. Swift compared to other interviewees.
“Were you in academia as well, Mrs. Cromwell?” Quirinus asked once she concluded and took a drink of her latest tea.
“I was. The world grew tired of my barmy hypotheses on breeding gorgons. So I left and came here to practise it instead of hypothesising.”
“Breed?” Gilderoy turned around from another shelf of her belongings and tilted his head. “Aren't they all female?”
Mrs. Cromwell shifted her eyes to Quirinus. "Professor Quirrell, my Magizoology friend, do you care to answer."
Another test.
Gilderoy grew more impressed by the hour. Lucky stroke he’d not tried this one alone.
“Sex reversal,” Quirinus said. “Hagrid has a text on it in his hut from when he was a student.” He glanced at the old woman. “Professor Cromwell's hypothesis was that increasing the habitat temperature might eventually cause at least one gorgon to change sex for reproductive purposes.”
“But that would take a lifetime,” Gilderoy said.
“It did,” she said. “But it worked.”
“Do you have any other petrifying creatures you've worked with?” he asked.
“Cockatrices. They breed faster than gorgons or basilisks, and they're smaller too. Easier to handle.”
Gilderoy nodded and walked behind Quirinus to read over his shoulder, but couldn't make out anything.
Muggle shorthand. The nerve.
Quirinus started to ask her another question, and Gilderoy drew his wand.
“How many gen—” Quirinus began.
Gilderoy raised his wand over his head.
“Obliviate!”
There was a crackling sound, and Mrs. Cromwell froze in place, blinking. Gilderoy held the thread of it: the colony, the cockatrices.
Quirinus froze as well, spine straighter than a rail spike.
Gilderoy kept his wand aloft, breathing fast. He had told Quirinus nothing beforehand. If he objected now, there would be no second chance.
Quirinus made no move for his wand, instead slowly turning around in his chair to face Gilderoy, both hands kept in sight.
He said nothing for a moment, then nodded at Gilderoy’s arm.
“Your wand is still raised,” he noted quietly.
“I know.”
“Well.” Quirinus sighed. “What are you going to do? You could've done the same to me already, and you haven't.”
Gilderoy got his breath under control.
“I'm waiting,” he said. “I must know I can trust you first, Quirinus.”
Quirinus took longer than Gilderoy liked. It didn't encourage him to let down his wand.
“You told me nothing of this in advance, gave yourself the element of surprise, had a wand at my back, and you want me to trust you?” Quirinus said, one eyebrow raised.
It was Gilderoy's turn to sigh and he lowered his wand this time. The window of time to adjust Mrs. Cromwell’s memories was closing rapidly, and Quirinus posed the smaller risk for now.
He sat down across from Mrs. Cromwell, leaving his back open to Quirinus for several seconds.
Gilderoy brandished his wand a second time and leant across the table.
“You, Mrs. Cora Cromwell, are deeply involved in the breeding of cockatrices...”
g | fem buddie | first dates/didn't know they were dating
Summary:
"Brush the flour of your cheek and go put on a nice dress," Eddie's voice filters through Buck's subconscious.
She'd been so distracted by her baking that she hadn't even heard Eddie come in the loft.
Femslash February 2026 Day 12 - wine and dine/dough
Read on AO3
"Brush the flour of your cheek and go put on a nice dress," Eddie's voice filters through Buck's subconscious.
She'd been so distracted by her baking that she hadn't even heard Eddie come in the loft.
"Eddie, the dough still needs a little more kneading then I can set it to rest. But I'll need to bake it in a couple of hours."
Eddie gives her a fond smirk, making a hand motion to proceed. Buck's heart clenches at Eddie's sweetness. she wishes it meant what it felt like it means, but she knows it doesn't. So, she pushes it down and pushes her feelings right into the dough, just like she's been doing since the break up with Tammy.
"You know you have a fridge and pantry and counter full of sweets and pastries and breads, right, Buck?" Eddie says, calling Buck on her shit lovingly.
"I'm aware!" She calls, finally getting to a stopping point.
She plops the dough into a free bowl and covers it with a damp cloth before fighting a little for space in the fridge.
"Promise I'll have you have back in time to bake it, okay?" Eddie assures.
"Okay, babe," Buck says, using the term in the friend way she does some time.
Eddie's eyes are sparkling.
Buck takes her apron off and tosses it onto the still-messy counter. That's a future Buck problem. "Wait here," she instructs, already heading toward the loft stairs. "Where's Chris by the way?" She calls, taking the steps two at a time and barely even getting winded.
"He's too cool for his mom," Eddie calls up as Buck goes to his closet, rifling through the barely-worn items she stored in the back. "Dropped him off at a friend's house on the way over. Figured I'd swing by since I was already out."
"Where are we going?" She calls as she finally pulls out a black sundress with little yellow sunflowers on it that used to belong to Maddie when she was a bit heavier. It only fits Buck's wide shoulders because the straps are adjustable.
She strips out of her ratty t-shirt and sweatpants she was baking in to switch into the dress. Checking herself in the mirror leads her to resolve to throw a cardigan on to hide her shoulders. She rifles through her usual suspects and pulls out a cream one with some cabling on the front panel she's pretty fond of before returning to the main floor. She gets a chance to examine Eddie and her outfit before the other woman glances up from her phone. Eddie's in a forest green dress and a leather jacket Buck's pretty sure she's never seen before. It looks good—maybe unfairly good—on her best friend. Her ogling is cut short when Eddie's clever eyes meet hers.
"Oh," Eddie says, an indecipherable look on her gorgeous face. "I've never seen this before." Her hand reaches out and snatches up a little of the fabric in her left hand.
"Good?" Buck asks, suddenly insecure.
"It's beautiful," Eddie confirms, sounding almost…breathless?
"Is it appropriate for wherever we're going?"
"It's perfect," Eddie confirms. "Now, hurry up. I'm driving."
…
The restaurant is nice, through not so nice it needs a reservation. It's Greek, which Buck loves, and Eddie immediately orders a nice bottle of white wine for the table. The waiter offers to pour it for them, but Eddie politely declines, opting instead to pour them two generous glasses herself.
"To us," she says, holding her glass aloft.
Buck can't resist but return the gesture, tapping her own glass to Eddie's. "To us," she agrees.
The restaurant is intimate, low lights, a comfortable but small booth with a tea light candle on the table. They split appetizers—grape leaves and spanikopita—and drink wine and order the lamb—even if Eddie grimaces just a little at the price—to be indulgent. It's good food and good company, maybe it's the best Buck has felt since her breakup with Tammy.
"You know, if I didn't know any better," Buck snorts, as she's forking in the last few bites of her lamb before she's too full, "I'd say you're trying to wine and dine me!"
Eddie falls silent, her face carefully neutral as she pushes some rice around on her own plate with her fork. "What if I am?"
Buck freezes. "I appreciate you trying to cheer me up, Eds," she tries, casting out for some reason to make this make sense. "but I'll be fine. No need to…do any of this."
A determination sets over Eddie's features, her jaw straining and ticking where her short, dark hair hits it. "What if it isn't just for you? What if it's for me, too?"
"I'm sure it's no hardship to have a nice meal with your best friend…" Buck tries to joke but is promptly cut off by Eddie.
"No, Buck. This isn't…" she's getting frustrated. "This isn't trying to cheer you up. I'm trying to woo you."
Buck blinks and blinks, pushing her curly hair out of her eyes to make sure she's seeing Eddie clearly, her face flushed pink at the confession.
"Woo me?" Buck repeats.
"Yes, Buck. I'm trying to do…romantic stuff. So that you'll fall in love with me instead."
"Oh, Eddie," Buck reaches a hand across the table to still where Eddie's fork is still scraping across the plate. It makes Eddie look up at her, beautiful honey brown eyes catching the flickering light of the candle and Buck's breath catches. "I'm already in love with you."
It's Eddie's turn for her breath to catch and Buck can't help the small sneak she takes at Eddie's cleavage she'd been trying not to stare at all night. But now that she knows it's for her, well. All bets are off.
"Can we," Eddie starts, soft and tentative, "can we get the check so we can get out of here? And I'm paying by the way. don't try to fight me on this one."
Buck puts her hands up in supplication. "Whatever gets us out of here the fastest. I have a girl I really need to kiss."
Eddie's cheeks are so cutely pink as she waves to the waiter for the check. Buck doesn't even care about getting home to the dough anymore.
You suck in air rapidly, as though you had been drowning just moments before.
You found yourself in white sheets, your body was free from the lice which bit you before, and your hair, slightly longer, had been cleaned.
The starched sheets were strewn about, as you found yourself in the Healer’s chambers.
Rays of golden light shone a blade through the window, as the resplendent statue of Caesar glared right at you, strong jawed and thick muscled. Not at all like you one saw him.
You swallowed, eyes wild and still darting around at your surroundings. A dark brown hand clasped your clammy cold one in a motherly warmth.
The Healer.
She had set a warm bowl of bone broth on a wooden table beside you with a light thunk. Her brows were knitted in concern for you, gently, she laid you back down with kind hands.
You felt weak, lighter, your muscles eaten away by hunger.
Your head fizzes as you are set back on the pillow, your slightly longer hair splayed out around you.
Your ribs are still in pain, as they ache lightly you groan.
The Healer shoots up, and walks to her bubbling alchemical station, once again, she returns to you with the same herby cup of tea she gave you before. The cup heated your hand as you held it.
Caesar’s painted green eye glared at you. Tutting you pulled the sheer curtain shut to block the bastard out.
You swore you saw the Healer smile.
“Th-thanks,” your voice was horse from misuse; sands from the desert coating your trachea.
Sipping the verdant concoction you feel your stomach twitch with hunger and it is agony, singing in a wretched harmony with your healing ribs.
You drink down the pain-killer, the liquid coating your raw stomach with a soothing balm.
“I’m uh…” your brain was eaten too, you could barely think. “Pretty hungry. Is there any food.”
The Healer nodded and stood. Behind you you heard her pour out the old brown broth.
Something plopped into the bowl she was originally drip feeding you from, the salty bone residue was still present on your lips.
Walking over, you used what little you had of your strength to lift yourself up slightly. As the Healer gave you a chunky bowl of vegetable soup.
It was beige and smelt brackish, with carrots, potatoes and turnips floating inside, your stomach howled again and your mouth watered.
She gave a gesture, her palms beckoning in a “slow down” motion. She wrapped her arms around her waist and grimaced as though she was in pain.
You understood. Eat this too fast, and you’ll just end up hurting yourself. The first chunky spoonful was heaven, your eyes widened as you swallowed.
“This is the best thing I’ve ever eaten,” it was true, at that point, hunger was the best sauce and you hadn’t eaten anything solid for weeks it seemed.
You looked at her face, the lines around her eyes, once crinkled with laughter, were now worn by fear along with the passage of time.
You had to ask her, the question you didn’t have the time to ask when she patched you up all those weeks ago.
“What’s your name?”
It was her turn for her eyes to widen now. Her head darted around and she fell upon a snellen chart with letters of varying sizes.
It seemed like she was not permitted to write or speak. For the latter, her stubby tongue, the Legion took that option away from her.
But why?
Had she committed a grave enough sin to warrant the chop? And yet one so minor that she managed to keep her life?
What a life this was, to tend to the wounds of foaming mouthed red beasts.
Smoothing out her long linen tunic, she sat back down by your bedside. Yet again, she looked around, no doubt looking for legionaries who would punish her for her next act.
She pointed to the letters.
“G”
“U”
“H”
“Guh?” You still had a frog in your throat from your lengthy slumber.
She pointed outside where the sun shined beyond the sheer spider-web-esque curtain.
“Light?”
A shake which caused some strands of grey and black hair to sway on her long face.
“Day! Guh-deh?”
She nodded at your answer and pointed to the next letters.
The final syllable, the final tap on the pallet with the tip of the tongue.
“L”
“E”
“E”.
“Guh-deh-lee!”
She grinned, there was a pleasant gap in her teeth, and her long nose crinkled like a rabbit’s when she smiled.
That was a name, most likely, she has not heard in some time.
She held up a long finger. There was more to come.
She tapped her mouth, then her right year, and shook her head.
What was she trying to say?
She made another motion, like she was writing. Then tapped the make-shift chart again.
“K-A-T-E-R-I”
Interesting.
It’s Kateri, but not Kat-ear-ee… From a language you are not familiar with, no doubt.
“I like that name. Kateri… Kateri… Kateri…”
She smiled every time you said her name correctly. A beautiful smile, but she waved her hands in front of her, and pointed outside. Then, pressed her finger to her lips.
“I get it, don’t go callin’ you that when they’re ‘round,” you took another mouthful. “Look at me, bein’ slow an’ all. It’s damn good soup.”
She nodded again, her face was as if the sun was lighting her from the inside.
You pondered as you slowly finished your soup… Why on earth was she so happy to see you? Did she know you were once Courier Six?
No… couldn’t be just that, you were a failure now, and Courier Six died when that poor boy was tuned to ash upon the pyre.
Or, perhaps, ‘he’ died the moment Vulpes told you that he knew since scorched Nipton, or when you put a bullet in Boone’s head.
Kateri, you thought, was more than she seemed.
And you had even more questions for her.
“Can you nod if you know Arcade Gannon, and like… three times if he’s okay?”
She nodded once, but shrugged, her eyes downcast.
“You met him?”
Another nod.
“Last I heard he was given to Caesar… I dunno if that’s a good or bad thing, in relation to his survival anyway.”
Her hands curled into fist when you said ‘Caesar’.
She huffed, and looked at you once again.
Spying your empty bowl, she places her palm flat facing upwards in the air, with the fingers on her other hand she “walked” on it.
“I could probably do with the fresh air. No use stayin’ in bed all day. Gotta try to walk at some point.”
She aided you to your feet. Your feet felt like useless dry concrete, your thighs, desert eaten trunks of scorched trees.
Waking up to a kindly stranger who healed you from the brink of death again. You really made this a habit.
-
You had found yourself in the same long white tunic as Kateri, it was fastened at the waist with a strip of cloth and tied at the shoulders.
You breathed freely and deeply as you were no longer in your bindings to flatten your chest. The air was clear and crisp by the square window.
Taking a few “test walks” in the tiled healer’s quarters, she leant you a pair of sandals which tied up your shins.
The small square window you looked out from blew in the smell of sweet flora.
You longed to be outside again, There, there was no ceiling nor walls to close you in, no cracks in them the shape of sneers to laugh at you while you starved.
You wanted to be among the little bugs, the humming bees, things that wouldn’t kill you for a change.
But, there were plenty in this conquered city who would love to kill you, if they knew who you really were.
Kateri pointed at the sun outside before you made to step out, then at your uncovered head. She made an “x” with her arms.
Before you could say anything she darted to get something in their room, which was attached to her work station.
She returned with a long white veil and draped it around you.
You thought of Raul, how he would scold you for not wearing your hat out in the Mojave sun sometimes.
“Mija you will get an ugly burnt head like me if you don’t cover it up,” you almost heard his rough voice echoing as the soft fabric was draped around you.
Adjusting your veil over your lengthened hair, you wobbled on your feet as you found yourself in a garden of sweet smelling flowers of pink, blue, yellow and orange, they dripped heavily from bushes and trees despite the dryness of the Wastes.
They sang in the breeze despite the walls of this garden.
You were alone again, and your heart fluttered with fear of the isolation as gooseflesh raised on your arms.
The cage, it seemed, consumed the fire in you, snuffing it out like a butterfly in a vacuumed bell-jar.
It left you a timid unicorn, startled as you were approached by a thick armed greedy hunter hungry for your horn.
The private garden had a fountain in the centre, it flowed with sweet smelling rose water, already slightly weakened by your brief walk you sat by it.
The marble was pale and strangely cool to your flesh.
The glittering water flowed down and kissed your hand when you touched it.
The high white sun was cooking your flesh while it ran down your fingers; you longed to plunge into it.
Marble statues gazed down at you, there stood the naked forms of paralysed nymphs and heroes with their bows and swords.
They posed among the flora, as if hiding from you, as if they were moving like humans before you stepped out.
You spied one hidden in fauna and ensnared by purple lilies. You stood to see ‘who’ it was.
Brushing some of the flowers away, you found a woman in armour and a tunic.
Her sword was clasped in her hands, a helmet was placed on top of her head and an owl perched on her strong shoulder. She was beautiful and fearsome, yet paralysed in shrouding thorns and flowers.
You longed to be her one day, a woman free and a warrior. Something touched you, a paralysed woman, former warrior, entrapped in this cruel place.
You heard it, a scuffle. Had a statue come to life? You thought with a smirk.
But there he was, amongst the stone people, peering at you with bright blue eyes.
A child.
He was in a white tunic and his brown curls shone chestnut in the sun, he couldn’t have been more than seven or eight.
“H-hey k-” You reached out to him.
A spooked baby satyr, he was gone in a blink, like he was never there to begin with.
You turned to follow the rabbit down to Wonderland, but he really did disappear into the bushes.
In your wandering to try and find a small child and enquire as to why he was there, you found him instead.
The man who broke your ribs, threw away your weapons and Pip-Boy, the one who locked you in a cage for three weeks.
The man who basically proposed to you.
He sat on a seat under a shelter, he wore his leather Legion armour still and had a book in hand while he lounged.
A high bridged nose, you would mistake him for one of the heroic statues that surrounded you both.
He did not divert his attention from the worn red tome, merely letting pretty words fall from his thin lips. His voice was starlight, lofty and bright.
His mute murmurings increased volume when you approached with trepidation. It was like he wanted you to hear him.
“Athenian Pallas! Tameless, chaste, and wise. Tritogenia, town-preserving Maid. Revered and mighty; from his awful head Whom Jove brought forth, in warlike armour dressed,” he read from his book.
Then he looked up at you, his vulpine eyes creased as he smiled. The sun warmed your back and you flesh remained uncooked from your white linen and sheer head covering
“Golden, all radiant…”
“Pretty words,” your voice was meek and weak, not at all like how you wanted to sound, like some mild maid.
You were still eaten by the cage and loneliness, you’re not going to be the same for a long time.
Can a butterfly go back into a cocoon?
You felt as though you had to, to survive this place, to undo yourself and live something you never knew how to; ‘woman’ now, reduced to the fruit you could produce.
“You have the strength to talk already, this is good,” he smiled with one corner of his mouth while he sauntered over closing the well-read book.
Grabbing your hand he kissed it, his lips were ice.
“You would have been draped in silk instead of linen, you would have looked like a queen, but now…” he looks you up and down. “A half starved tomboy.”
“No thanks to you.”
You yanked your hand away, like his kiss was a brand.
“You were a fool to reject me my dear,” he was a serpent in the garden. “If you took that emerald, you would have saved yourself a lot of trouble. But still, it’s never too late to change your mind. And you do look lovely in Legion wear.”
He plucked a purple lily from the statue you were looking at. He placed it behind your ear, in your growing hair that now reached past your ears.
“I would have had artists sculpt you to preserve your radiance forever, so that our granddaughters may know where their beauty comes from. The pride I would have in the sons you would give me would extend to Luna and back.”
His words were as enchanting as his face. He was a walking enigma, a strolling Gordian knot you could not unravel. It would tangle more if you tried to unbind it.
“What’s your deal Inculta,” you spat. Goodness the flower he gave you was beautiful though…
“You want me to be your woman I get it, but ain’t you got some Legion princesses to chat up? That was the reward for me, wasn’t it? So, why haven’t you taken it? You seem more interested in a ‘tomboy’ like me.”
His visage was one of smugness, he knew more than you; he knew it as well.
He drew his long pale fingers along the rim of the marble fountain.
“You thought you were in a Labyrinth out there, dearest. Where your problems can be solved with brute force and agility. You expect to get the answers you want right away. Your crude ways may have worked in New Vegas, but in New Rome,” he walks closer, you crane your head to look up at him. “It’s an entirely different story.”
“So, what d’you mean?”
“I mean,” he offered an arm to you. “You have much to learn about being a Legion woman. There is a gamemaster at play, one who is neither pawn nor king, but the one moving the pieces, the one who knows all.”
You begrudgingly take his arm.
“Arcade told me about this game you’re talkin’ about. Says the pawn can become a queen if it’s sneaky enough.”
He arched a brow, impressed.
“Rest assured, you, and your little healer, are safe. Unless you do something stupid, which I pray you do not.”
You walked with Death, and he walked with you. Not through caverns of flesh and reeking death like you would think, but through a garden of dripping flora and paralysed gods amongst you in marble.
You had no choice but to cling to his steady hard arm, out of your physical weakness. Before you would have bit him, sparred with him verbally.
You thought of the spear in the desert, the one that opened many throats.
You would be too weak to lift it now, you knew that for certain
If only you had the strength, had the spear to un-seam his head from his neck, take Arcade, take Kateri, and steal away into New Canaan.
But alas you were here, living in fear of the maw of the cage you nearly starved to death in.
“Am I your prisoner?” You spit.
“Yes,” he declared. “You are.”
“I will permit you one more question. Though, I am sure you have many more. Afterwards, I will escort you back to the woman. It is not everyday one of my prisoners gets to ask a question of me, it is normally I doing the questioning.”
His grip tightened.
“And it normally isn’t in pleasant gardens in an even more pleasant stroll.”
You looked up, he was tall, taller than you anyway. You nod, mute as a stone.
You wrecked your scarred brain. One more question, you felt stupid now, it was obvious you were Vulpes’ prisoner.
Caesar was as weak as a new-born filly when you saw him last, whatever is eating him is eating him up fast. But what benefit would you have to know Caesar’s malady?
You were in the dark as to their plans for you, you would be left alone for now, according to Vulpes, but how could you trust him? How could you trust what tumbles out of his mouth even if he answered your chosen question?
There would be one thing to set your mind at ease.
“What about Arcade?”
“Dr Gannon is alive and well. He is Caesar’s personal physician, he is treated well and has proven to be an excellent intellectual sparring partner.”
You sighed, a cocktail of relief and fear. Chemical. Acidic. Balmed.
If he was Caesar’s own doctor, he couldn’t afford to make any mistakes. Whatever plagues the tyrant will be soothed and perhaps cured by Arcade.
That would be a mal-feat for him to do, to cure the tumour of the Mojave with primitive salves and herbs.
“He was worried about you, you owe him, he was the one who brought you out of that cage. He reckoned that one more day and you would be beyond the brink of saving,” his voice was pure hot honey, despite his often poisonous words.
“And why does Caesar want me alive? Does he know I’m-”
“Ah ah aaaah,” he waves his long finger. “That is three questions in total. All you need to do is heal up for now.”
The heat of the sun, how it scorched even your covered head, you felt like some fainting maid, likely because you were one.
Swaying, bamboo in the gusts, you fell.
Right into his arms.
He smelt of leather and incense. A man of faith perhaps, you found it hard to picture him at the shrine of any other god than the god of war.
Did his effigies drip with the gore of the innocent? Did Vulpes drape the viscera there in his genuflection?
The image in your mind was not the God of mercy you knew little of from your travels.
This was not the kris-tee-ahn God you heard of before by some of the Followers and freed slaves, but a god of radiation, of death, of crying widows and orphaned babes.
“Ah, you poor thing,” He sighed, your vision spotted black. “Poor little butterfly has come out of the cocoon too early.”
You didn’t feel it, but he picked you up as you breathed heavily, your flush face tingling.
“P-put me…” You didn’t even finish the sentence. -
You woke again in the same bed, Kateri dabbed a cold cloth on your forehead.
You apologised of course to the poor woman. You realised you had the Head of the Frumentarii at her door, with you having fainted in his stupid strong arms.
In the coming days, steadfast Kateri helped wash you in your weakness, she fed you vegetable broth in growing chunkiness as your stomach re-adjusted to food.
You were too weak to leave her chambers, you dared not risk another fainting in the sun until you gathered your full strength back.
Despite not being able to talk in a conventional sense, you got to know her.
News of your rousing reached the ears of Caesar no doubt. But his intentions for you? A frustrating mystery.
To be left on the brink of suffering or death… You would rather join Boone in the primordial soup than wait continuously on your punishment.
The cage was not a final penance from Caesar, there was something else brewing, and you felt it.
For now you were in this purgatorial healing, awaiting your full fate.
Kateri had indicated that once you were strong again, Caesar would yet again meet with you.
How fun.
-
It had been two weeks since your fainting, and you started to feel like you. Kateri indicated that it takes the stomach sometime to adjust to eating normally again.
You had yet to regain your muscle, but slowly you were on the way to your regular weight.
Your hair, for the first time since you were ten, had reached past well your ears. It felt tickly and heavy on your head, a crown of strands.
You had come to see Kateri as a close friend, a mother figure, you wondered if she was one sometimes.
One night, you sat on the floor with you by candle light, simply communicating.
She learnt about Benny, how you lost your memories. Your friends, who you hoped made it to Zion. Your dad Peeler seemed to be a favoured character of hers.
You spoke of the queer Big Empty, with floating robots, who were likely wondering when you would return with more samples for them to experiment on.
You spoke of the Sierra Madre. She wasn’t fond of Dean for what he did to poor Vera. You spoke of Dog, of God, of Christine and her scarred fate.
But now it was your turn to ask about her.
“Do you have any children?”
She frowned, shaking her head.
“Well,” you said, crossed legged on the floor with her, your ribs mercifully healed. “You’re a busy lady, but you can’t work all the time, you must do some things for fun.”
She flashes a brief, mischievous smile, and stole away into her room.
She brought out a stack of tomes.
“Woah I already know I ain’t smart enough for that. Can I?”
She gestures to a book, nodding.
You open one and it’s in a strange text you never saw before. You recognised another as Latin. And the third… she swelled with pride when you opened that book.
“I don’t know any of these languages… just this one… You must think I’m pretty dumb.”
She shakes her head.
“What’s this one?” You point at the weathered grey third book.
She points at her tattoos. And then her mouth.
“It’s your tribe’s language,” you said with realisation.
She hug the book to herself, performed some hand gestures, points at the tattoo again and flips off a statue of Caesar out the window.
“So…” You wreck your brain. “The signals you use… it’s…” You ponder. “It’s like your real language… but with hands? And you have the book and talk like that as a fuck you to Caesar?”
She breathes a laugh and nods again.
But then, she pressed her petal lips together, her obsidian eyes downcast, darting from side to side? A memory, you guessed, floated and flapped like a bat in her brain.
“Kateri… are you okay?” You reach out to her.
She stood up quickly and went into her modest chamber. She came back holding a picture.
Breathless, she points at the folded photo as she handed it to you. Graciously, you took it.
It was her, younger, happier, fuller faced. The white coat she wore, the symbol…
The same as Arcade's.
She was a Follower.
The picture was faded and folded, the colour melting into pastel, eaten by age.
“You’re beautiful. And you were a Follower? Arcade’s a Follower too! I helped them… b-before. Before this.”
The Followers, Caesar was one before, you hoped that in that necrosis heart there sparked some sympathy for his old people, though you doubted it.
You only could hope they found their way out of here. Or in your dreamt up triumph over the Legion again, you would free them along with the slaves.
Kateri smiled sadly.
And unfolded the page.
Your hair stood on end.
She was standing with a woman with big brown eyes.
A woman that looked exactly like you.
They were in a half hug and smiling at the camera.
You blood went to ice, you shook with your mouth dry and open. She touched your hand lightly.
“That’s… who is that.” Your voice trembled too.
The floor was clean and tiled but she drew a small circle on it with her finger.
She pointed at it, then at you. She drew a line up from it and another small circle.
She pointed at it, then the photo.
You shook, you never thought you could cry again, your thoughts of Boone dried them up, they pinched your tear ducts closed.
“M-mom…”
Fat tears fell from her eyes, nodding.
You took a shaky breath. And swallowed.
“Did y’know… m-my…” you couldn’t say the word “father” without thinking of Peeler, your real father. “The man who made me?”
She scowled and her black eyes were a mirror of hate.
Shaking, her thin arm pointed outside. Right to the open window above the bed.
summary: Lucy takes on a cat-sitting job for a stranger, hoping for a quiet week in a nice London flat, with free food, no bills, and enough time to finish an art commission.
But the cat is a menace, and the stranger’s friend is ridiculously charming—and a huge distraction.
rating: T
words: 2,048
note: I visited home today, which meant I edited this chapter while being pestered by my own two cats, who are the most loveable, attention-seeking little creatures I've ever met. I'm starting to realise I may have taken more inspiration from them for Skull than I thought…
Lucy awoke not to birds chirping, nor an alarm beeping, but a single cat screaming so loud she feared for the window panes.
As Skull paused to catch his breath, Lucy closed her eyes in relief, but the sudden, sharp noise of something clattering to the floor had her shooting out from under the covers. She cautiously peered over the back of the sofa—it was pulled out into a bed, which wasn’t the comfiest, but it was preferable to sleeping in George’s—to inspect the damage.
A picture frame lay face down on the floor. Skull looked down on it from his vantage point on the cabinet.
Lucy’s silently repeated mantra of please don’t be shattered, please don’t be shattered must have been heard by some higher entity, because when she slowly picked the frame up she found it still intact, glass and all. The picture within was of two teenage boys grinning with their arms around each other. They wore matching white polo shirts graffitied with messages and doodles in a rainbow of colours, the school leavers' tradition, and Lucy promptly realised what the thinking cloth reminded her of. One of the boys was clearly George, with a rounder face and wider eyes, but the other boy, dark-haired with a dazzlingly bright smile, Lucy didn’t know.
“He’s bloody lanky,” she murmured as she carefully put the frame back in its place. She shoo-ed Skull off the cabinet and coaxed him towards the sofa bed, hoping to distract him with the plush, kneadable duvet. He fell right into her trap, leaving Lucy feeling rather proud of herself and free to enter the kitchen without the possibility of Skull destroying everything.
Lucy popped the kettle on and peered in every cupboard in search of the tea, then stumbled upon a treasure trove—English breakfast, Earl Grey, Green, oolong, matcha, chai, chamomile, Darjeeling, ginger, stacks upon stacks of colourful boxes, some describing flavours she’d never heard of in her life, in flat bags, pyramid bags, loose leaf, sachets…
The kettle pinged to signify it was ready. Overwhelmed by choice and reminding herself she had a whole week to be adventurous, Lucy plucked a bog-standard English breakfast bag from a box and plonked it into a mug adorned with He-Man’s face, accompanied by the caption ‘A good cup of tea is the colour of He-Man’.
As she reached for the kettle, the unmistakable sound of the front door’s handle rattling echoed through the flat.
The door creaked open.
Skull scuttled into the kitchen, wide-eyed and fur stood on end, and she picked him up to soothe him. She crept across the room, every step increasing her heart rate, then froze when she heard footfall heading her way.
Someone turned the corner and entered the kitchen.
It all happened rather quickly, really—Lucy had no choice but to act on instinct.
Skull screamed. Lucy held him out in front of her. Whatever words were about to come out of the intruder’s mouth were cut remarkably short as a flurry of paws and claws descended upon their face and torso.
The person stumbled backwards, pressing themself against the far wall, and when Lucy realised he looked oddly familiar she lowered the deadly feline in her hands.
“Oh my G—” He heaved, hand braced against his chest as he came down from his panic. “Christ. I think I almost had a heart attack.”
“Who are you?” Lucy demanded, raising Skull back up in the air between them, an unspoken but certain threat.
“Who are you?” the man replied, incredulous. “Where’s George?”
Lucy narrowed her eyes. The man straightened and pushed away from the wall. Upon seeing his height and long limbs to their full extent, Lucy realised where she knew him from. “Are you his friend?”
“I like to think so,” he said, with a smile Lucy assumed was supposed to be charming. “Again, apologies if I’m being rude, but who are you? Why are you in George’s flat?”
She gently wobbled Skull in the air, as if to prove her point. “I’m cat-sitting.”
The man’s face was blank for a moment, before lighting up in realisation. “Ahh, I see. I could’ve sworn his trip was next week… Though I’ve never been one for calendars and keeping on top of schedules. That’s George’s thing. I’m Lockwood,” he added, holding out a hand.
“Lucy.” Both of her hands were full of Skull, so she resorted to manoeuvring him to gently tap Lockwood’s hand with a paw.
Lockwood flinched away. “Please don’t. He hates me.”
“Sorry.” She gently lowered Skull to the floor with a frown. He had gone oddly quiet. “Is that why you couldn’t look after him, then?”
“Indeed it is. He’d claw my eyes out in my sleep, or piss in my shoes, or carry out some other dastardly act of torture,” he said, cautiously eyeing the mass circling Lucy’s legs. “This is George’s first trip away since taking him in. Skull can be a bit…” he gestured vaguely. “So he was a little concerned about finding the right person.”
Skull began to nibble on the hem of her sock. “I reckon I’ll be alright.”
“What a strange little creature,” Lockwood mused. He raised his eyebrows. “Well, sorry for disturbing you. And startling you.”
“Sorry for shoving an angry cat in your face,” Lucy added sheepishly.
“Water under the bridge, Lucy.” Lockwood smiled again, and this time, Lucy was unnerved to realise she did find it rather charming. “I’ll leave you both to it.”
He turned to head for the door.
Lucy's mouth opened before she could process her thoughts. “I just popped the kettle on, so you’re welcome to stay,” she called after him. “If you want.” There was also the matter of the Swiss roll, which she really didn’t want to go to waste. Ten in the morning was a reasonable time for cake, right?
Lockwood turned back around, smile widening.
–––
After the sofa had been restored to its original form, and the small coffee table was relocated in front of it to store their tea and cake, Lockwood fished the TV remote from the depths of the cushions (so that’s where it was hiding) in an act of familiarity that told Lucy he spent a lot of time here. He turned the TV on, then paused. It had been left on a documentary channel.
“Do you mind if we keep this on? I’m quite fond of whales.”
Lucy huffed a laugh into her mug. “Go for it.”
Lockwood inhaled the steam from his tea—he’d gone for the Earl Grey—and sank back into the cushions.
Skull jumped up into the space between them. In the blink of an eye, he aggressively batted Lockwood with a paw before hopping over Lucy’s lap and wedging himself in the small space between her thigh and the arm of the sofa.
“I’ve never done anything to hurt him, honest,” Lockwood insisted. “He knows I’m friends with George, and I’m here more often than my own home, yet he still treats me like I’m some…” he sipped his tea while he reached for a word. “Fiend.”
“You know George from school, then?” She took a bite of Swiss roll and almost failed to hold back a mortifying groan of pleasure; it was dangerously delicious.
Lockwood frowned, and Lucy nodded to the picture frame. He smiled in recognition. “Ah. Yes, I do. He got the highest grades in our year group. I managed to beat him in history, though.”
“You like history?”
“My parents did. I listened to enough of their passionate ramblings to give me a partial PhD.”
The past tense didn’t escape her notice; she quickly thought of something to back out of that line of conversation. “Do you know Holly, then? Holly Munro?”
Lockwood nodded as he balanced the plate of cake in his lap. He began to methodically unroll it, transforming the Swiss roll into a long Swiss snake, before ripping bites off bit by bit. “I do. Incredibly lovely woman. How do you know her?”
“She’s my flatmate,” Lucy said as she watched Lockwood rip off a small chunk of his cake snake and daintily pop it in his mouth. She wearily eyed her own slice and the giant bite taken out of it.
“I see. What’s she up to nowadays?”
“She writes for a fashion magazine.” The name escaped her, which came as no surprise. She had never considered spending her hard-earned money on a magazine that would try to tell her she couldn’t wear Converse with every single outfit (Holly did that more than enough). “She’s hoping to break into the design side of the industry, though. I don’t know much about fashion, but she seems to have a good eye for it.”
“Good for her,” Lockwood said fondly. It surprised her to hear how sincerely he said it; she hid her expression by taking another bite of cake. “What do you do, if you don’t mind me asking?”
Lucy hesitated. As nice as he seemed, Lockwood was still from Holly’s hoity-toity southern school. The chances of him not taking her career seriously was worryingly high—but damn it, for all intents and purposes, this was technically her flat for the week. She could chase him out with Skull if he turned out to be an arse.
She ran a reassuring hand through Skull’s fur as she responded. “I work part-time in a cafe to pay the bills, but I do art on the side. Hoping to eventually make that my full-time gig.”
“Really?” Lockwood’s eyebrows shot up into his hairline, and Lucy steeled herself for the incoming ridicule. “What kind of art do you make?”
Lucy’s hand stilled on Skull’s head. Here, she could feel the gentle rumbling of his quiet purrs. “I mostly work with acrylic paint. On canvas, usually. That’s what all my commissions are in, anyway. I sketch all the time, though. Helps clear my head.”
Lockwood’s eating slowed. “You take commissions?”
She nodded, feeling the beginnings of heat in her face. “I’m working on one now, actually, for a friend of Holly’s. I booked the week off to work on it while I’m here. George is letting me use his room as a makeshift studio.”
Lockwood’s gaze darted to the bedroom door.
“No,” Lucy said immediately. Startled by her own sudden brashness, she sank further into the sofa. “I don’t like people seeing my works-in-progress, if you don’t mind.”
“Of course,” Lockwood said with a smile. “Though I am curious, what’s the subject?”
“A really flashy portrait. I get the impression he’s a bit of a snob, so—”
“Wait.” Lockwood paused. “Don’t tell me his name is Kipps.”
Lucy narrowed her eyes and ate the last of her slice. “How the hell did you figure that out?”
“He also went to the same school as us. A couple of year groups above, in the same one as Holly. We both went to fencing club, and my God, did he hold a grudge against me. You jokingly prod a man in the backside once…”
Lucy snorted, startling Skull and sending him racing into the kitchen.
“Shit,” she hissed, chasing after him. “Sorry, he just— he can’t go in— oh my God, stop squirming away!”
“It’s alright,” Lockwood called as she wrestled to keep Skull in her grasp. “I ought to get going now, anyway.”
When she finally succeeded in ushering Skull out of the kitchen, Lockwood was by the door, tugging on his long coat. “It was lovely meeting you, Lucy. Sorry again for the intrusion.”
“No worries, honestly.”
His slim fingers toyed with the hem of his coat. “Are you up to much this week?”
“Not really. Working on the commission, keeping this little menace in check…" She shrugged nonchalantly. "You’re welcome to swing by and watch whale documentaries any time.”
Skull watched the swaying coat with sharp slit pupils. Lockwood eyed him cautiously. “Something tells me he wouldn’t be very happy about that.”
In a movement that was becoming all too familiar now, Lucy stooped to bundle Skull into her arms. He dug his claws into her skin as a silent warning, or perhaps to convey his displeasure at being taken away from his prey. “He’ll have to suck it up.”
U2’s The Edge, the guitarist with a social and often funny side
“I wanted to be internationally successful from the start, and I wasn't ashamed of it.”
The Edge/U2
INTERVIEW: JOE BOSSO
Photo: In 2005, The Edge founded a charity called Music Rising to help local musicians who lost their instruments and equipment in the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina, which hit New Orleans. As part of the charity's efforts, U2 and Green Day teamed up to record a cover of The Skids' “Saints Are Coming”. They also performed together at the Louisiana Superdome on September 25th, 2006. Those recordings have been released and the proceeds donated to those in need through Music Rising. The cover of this magazine features the artwork for “Saints Are Coming”.
L→R: Mike Dirnt (b., Green Day), Adam Clayton (b., U2) Bono (vo./g, U2) Billie Joe Armstrong (vo./g. Green Day) Larry Mullen Jr (dr., U2) The Edge (g., U2) Tre Cool (dr., Green Day).
PHOTO BY KEVIN MAZUR/Wirelmage.com/MediaVast Japan
After refusing the green tea offered to him and ordering an extra-strong black coffee, The Edge sits back on the sofa and reflects on his own career. Contrary to the public image of a well-read, quiet man, The Edge is actually a sociable man who laughs a lot. He has a sharp sense of humour, and his quick, punchy responses give him a sense of intelligence. The interview with him was full of surprises in the best sense of the word, so much so that I had to check a few times to see if he was moderately drunk on Guinness (beer) instead of coffee. I don't know if The Edge is having a midlife crisis. “What am I doing here today?” The Edge asks curiously, stroking his salt-and-pepper beard as he looks out at the calm surface of the Hudson River and the opposite bank of New Jersey. We are in the spacious and luxurious M Studio, a penthouse in Manhattan. We are enjoying the sun shining between the overcast skies.
—You have a distinctive Irish guitar sound, with monotones and high pitched tones. You were born in Wales but grew up in Ireland, did you listen to a lot of Celtic music?
The Edge (g./vo./keys.): I know what you mean and I certainly think so myself. From an early age, I would store away whatever I heard so that I could use it in some way. For me, the most important thing is how you listen to music. How you listen to it and how you want to listen to it. I don't want to sound cliché. So if I stand out as a guitarist, it's because I've always refused to follow the conventional path. I always want to add a new spin on what I play. It's a difficult thing to do, but I think that's what keeps me going.
—When did you realise you were good with echo pedals?
The Edge: When we got our first Memory Man echo machine, we were making some demos. We'd already been playing for a couple of years at that point, and we were looking for a way to add some colour to our sound somehow. We were trying to do more than just play together in a band. Within minutes, I was instantly drawn to the rhythmic possibilities of using echo, as well as the textural qualities of the echo itself. We were a three-piece band with a lead vocalist to begin with, so being able to create more rhythms really helped our sound.
—You're a “less is more (simple is best)” type of guitarist, but have you ever thought “more is more”? U2 has always been a three-chord kind of band, so why not ten or twenty-five chords?
The Edge: I get that a lot (laughs). I've never been one to just try and do this and that with the guitar. I'm not one to overcomplicate things. I'm always looking for the simplest way to express myself. Great songs, riffs, ideas… That's what's important to me. Anyone can do that, moving their hands quickly on the fretboard. It's like an Olympic guitar competition, it's pointless.
—On “The Fly” from the “Achtung Baby” album (1991), you jammed like crazy, but the exquisite playing you showed me on that crazy solo was amazing.
The Edge: (laughs and nods) That was definitely fun. But it was good because it was that song, it's not like it's always good. Like I said before, it's the sound. I'll do whatever it takes to make the sound I want to make. But I'm not trying to show off my skills at all. I'm not interested in that stuff, it's never even crossed my mind to think “I can do this”.
—With “Achtung”, I think the sound was more along the lines of “the more flamboyant the better”. The guitars are complex, they go in and out of the song, in and out of focus… It's all a bit disjointed, but it's the disjointedness that works best. The guitars on “Until the End of the World” are a bit of a mess.
The Edge: That's definitely true. The song itself needed that kind of guitar. I always try to get the most out of the least amount of effort (laughs).
—See, you're lazy and it's showing (laughs).
The Edge: Maybe so. No, I think you have to give the guitar a good complexity sometimes. I'm totally fine with that. But that complexity isn't always good, you have to choose the right moment. A lot of guitar players don't know when to put on the brakes.
—What about songwriting? Some of the hits like “Bad” (on 1984's “The Unforgettable Fire”), “One” (on 1991's “Achtung Baby”) and “I Will Follow” (on 1980's “Boy”) have one or two chords, maybe three at most.
The Edge: I love that kind of thing. The most powerful ideas are often the simplest. “One” is a one-chord progression with very few changes, but it's still a great song. If you add anything more to it, it'll just be messy, it doesn't get any better. The same can be said for “Bad”. It reminds me of something I made with Brian Eno [producer] at the time. We took this two-chord mantra [meaning a recurring theme] and made it repetitive. We kept repeating it until we couldn't take it anymore. When it got to that point, we changed the chords and it was dramatic. That's the kind of music I'm drawn to.
—I think U2 has become less sarcastic and cool since the last tour?
The Edge: Yeah, I think so. It was definitely there up until PopMart ('97-'98 tour).
“Yeah, I don't want to remember the mullet again. It was almost a fashion crime at Live Aid.”
—Nowadays there is a wholehearted rock attitude, and U2 has recently taken a more politically aggressive stance, right? At the New Jersey show, Bono (vo./g.) was performing with the same fearless attitude as back in '83.
The Edge: Yeah, that guy… I can't really pinpoint one reason for that. In Bono's case, and in all of us, we want this tour to mean something. We've been doing that for a long time, looking back on everything we've done. Even Zoo TV ('92-'93 tour) had a grand concept. There was a concept of what was going on in the world of media and digital technology and all that stuff that was going on in the world, and it was all mixed up in a blender. PopMart had the same concept of mixing all these things together and making it right. So when we were discussing this tour, the first thing that came to mind was, “What is the purpose?” “What is the agenda?” I think a tour has to have a purpose. The Elevation tour (2001 tour) was about U2 and the songs, so I guess it's fair to say that this tour continues to be about U2 and the music of U2. Bono does a lot of work outside the band, doesn't he? It's something he does personally, but it has some influence on the band in the end. What we're thinking about now is part of the band's activities. The biggest difference is that instead of holding up placards outside of these meetings, Bono is actually in the centre of them now, speaking out about what he knows about the issue, the statistics, etc., and taking it to the public. As a person, Bono has changed a lot. So we've taken that into the band and made it rock‘n’roll. Musically speaking, it's the songs that make the show come alive, every time. It's the songs that drive the show. Having said that, it would be strange to say that we didn't incorporate a lot of political elements into this show, considering what has happened around the world since the last tour. Our music reflects what's going on around us and on a personal level. Politics, spirituality, sexuality, fashion… It's a mix of all those things.
—One of the cool things about the show was the changes you made to some of your hits. On “Bullet the Blue Sky” (from 1987's “The Joshua Tree”), Bono left the second half to you and you played a pretty bluesy solo on it, didn't you?
The Edge: We don't like to repeat the same thing, even on songs that people already know well. If you keep playing the same song in exactly the same way night after night, it's going to get old. I know people want to hear those songs exactly how they sound on CD, but I think the audience will be happy to see us challenging ourselves and having fun with the songs in that way.
—Unlike previous tours, you've played some older songs on this tour, haven't you? “The Electric Company” (from “BOY”) and “I Will Follow” are songs from years ago. Is that related to the fact that you were just inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame?
The Edge: (smiles and thinks for a moment) Many of the fans who come to our shows have been to our shows on the previous tours. So we don't want to do a set that lists our greatest hits. On the other hand, I want to mix a little bit of different songs and cover every era of U2. And now, old songs like “The Electric” and “Gloria” (from 1981's “Irish October”) feel really modern.
—It seems like the '80s are hot again!
The Edge: I hear that. But I'll never do that mullet (a hairstyle with long hair at the back that was popular in the 80s) again .
—Why? You and Bono had a pretty persistent mullet period in '83-'84 or so, didn't you?
The Edge: (groans) You're certainly not wrong. We didn't invent the mullet, but I think we're responsible for popularising what it means.
—What does it mean?
The Edge: I don't know (laughs)! Nobody knows. Sure, Bono committed a terrible crime in the fashion world with his Live Aid haircut (shakes head). It's a shining moment in the mullet world. No, I don't think we need to bring back everything about the '80s.
―Are there any old songs that you couldn't play again?
The Edge: Some songs just fade away or lose momentum with repeated play. If we feel that way ourselves, then everyone listening will feel that way too. The reason we didn't play “Sunday Bloody Sunday” (from 1983's “War”) for a long time was because we felt we were at an impasse, so we shelved it for a while. I think you have to wait. Songs will come back when they come back.
―What is the one song that you can play over and over again, and it still feels the same as when you wrote it? I think you've played “Pride” (from 1984's “The Unforgettable Fire”) on every U2 tour so far?
The Edge: “Pride” is a good example. We actually didn't play it at the beginning of this tour, but we had the time to play it in the set. It's like they're asking us to play it. There's no such thing as a perfect song, but if you play a song too many times, you get bored of it. Like “With or Without You” (from “The Joshua Tree”), sometimes we don't play a hit song because it doesn't fit the set.
―Maybe the problem is that U2 has too many good songs.
The Edge: That's a nice problem to have (laughs). If it's that kind of problem, it's always welcome. But you know what I mean? We have to be aware of it. We have to have a reason to play the songs. Of course the audience wants to hear the hits, but we want to play each song 100%. As I told Bono, “It's not good to rehearse too much, because then you can't make mistakes.” I think people like U2 because we make mistakes on stage. It's a risk, but I don't think anyone would go to see a band that's perfect. I don't think people want to go to a show with a band where every night is exactly a repeat of the night before. We go on stage every night and do the best we can. Sometimes we overdo it and mess it up, but I think that's fine. We don't want to be professionals (laughs). I don't want to be in a band that's not interesting on stage, like wallpaper. If we mess up, that's fine, but we have to try.
—U2 have a reputation for their amazing live shows, but do you ever feel like the pressure is getting to you when you perform? Do you feel like you're fighting against your own glory?
The Edge: I'm fighting not just the glory, but everything. When I'm on stage, I'm pretty much on the edge. Stiff Little Fingers, Rory Gallagher, and The Clash were the first three shows I saw and I was blown away. I felt the same way when I saw (Bruce) Springsteen live for the first time. It was like the moment I woke up for the first time. It was cathartic, and that's what we want to do every time we play our show. We never want to forget what a live show means. Sure, some shows are better than others, but that's inevitable. But we try to make every show the best it can be.
—You've been inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, but what has been your most memorable moment so far? The outdoor concert in Red Rocks, Colorado (1983)? Coming out of a giant lemon on the PopMart tour? Or appearing on a big truck in the middle of Manhattan?
The Edge: (smiles) All those things in many ways. People forget this, but we've always played shows that were like a stage. Even when we were a new band in Dublin, we knew that rock‘n’roll was a show. We were very influenced by David Bowie. His songs are great and he's a great performer! We've come this far because we want to be like that. It's something we've always asked ourselves, how do you play a great show while keeping the friendly atmosphere of playing in a garage? But it's interesting you mentioned Red Rocks. When I watch the footage from that show, I'm amazed at the amount of mistakes we make on stage, as well as the huge change in fashion (laughs). Some of them were just too embarrassing. Of course, I was so nervous at the time, but… I felt like it was a really big show. Anyway, there were mistakes on stage and things that didn't go well, but we definitely took it seriously.
—What was the most embarrassing moment at Red Rocks?
The Edge: I think it was Bono waving the white flag. It's become an important symbol for us. But the flag was originally held by the audience, and it wasn't something Bono prepared and did on purpose. A lot of fans bring in flags and banners, and Bono just waved them.
—U2 are not afraid of being “big”, are they? The sound is “big”, the ideas are “big”, the approach to live performance is “big”… Did you ever feel that being “big” was a hindrance?
The Edge: No. We knew very early on that that was what we wanted to do. We wanted people to hear our music. When we were kids, we used to get really excited when our favourite bands came on the radio or appeared on “Top of the Pops”. It was rare for our favorite bands to do that. When punk rock became popular in general, when the Sex Pistols and The Jam were on “Top of the Pops”, it had an enormous impact. "Look at them! Our heroes are sitting next to the enemy artists!" So from the very beginning, we wanted to be a band with the potential to be a global success. We were on TV and on the radio, but we wanted to break out of the norm and be musically special, and we've never been ashamed of that. We had to do everything “big” to be able to do what we wanted to do. We were always on the cutting edge and we wanted everything (laughs).
“The only way to make something pure and unique is to ignore your surroundings…”
—Did you ever feel like you were outsiders? Punk rock in the '70s was anti-rock, anti-“big”, wasn't it?
The Edge: It was against crappy music, but it wasn't really anti-rock stars. Punk rock is a response to all the boring, pretentious bands. It was a back-to-basics reminder of what rock‘n’roll was all about in the first place. That it has to be political and passionate. It's something that should play a social role in the community and it affects everyone's life. I'm quite influenced by it. I'm convinced that the worst thing that ever happened to rock in a musical sense was the progressive rock and jazz fusion era of the '70s. I just think the music has become so corrupted… It's as if there's no passion. There was a great deal of self-indulgence and self-reproach.
—Which bands are you talking about?
The Edge: I don't even want to name names. But who knows what band I'm talking about? That ridiculous progressive stuff went way off the rails, and in the end that music never really led anywhere. It's like, where's the passion? You know, rock‘n’roll is not a career, it's not a hobby, it's a way of life. It's very basic. I'm not doing music so that we can get our kids through University without difficulty. Rock‘n’roll is what I have to do, that's all. In many ways, it's my raison d'etre. Great music can change people's lives, and I want to listen to that kind of music, and I want to make it myself. I don't want to make interesting wallpaper. I want to make something worthwhile.
—You don't want to make a “product”.
The Edge: “Product”… That's a word used by record companies. I don't think any band wants to make a product. But it's easy for bands to fall into the trap of trying to please the industry. But that's just fatal. The only way to make something pure and unique is to ignore your surroundings. Don't worry about what's popular now or what's going to be popular in the future. Of course, after you've made an album, it's perfectly reasonable to think about how your work will perform in the market and how to best perform it.
—But the industry follows the music, not the other way around?
The Edge: Exactly. A lot of people forget that.
U2's first performance in Japan in 8 years, 20,000 people sing along
November 30th, Saitama Super Arena/REPORT BY YUKO KATO
Saitama Super Arena, which can accommodate 20,000 people, was full to capacity, with standing on the first floor and seats on the second floor, even up to the seats near the ceiling. As far as the naked eye could see, not a single empty seat could be found. The first U2 show in 8 years was greeted with such high expectations.
Behind the huge stage, probably the largest LCD screen in the world spread across the entire surface, and gently curving runways stretch from the left and right sides of the stage to almost the midpoint of the arena. At 19:45, the first song ‘City of Blinding Lights’ was played with the house lights on. Halfway through the show, the house lights go out and the members take to the stage for the second song, ‘Vertigo’. Bono, holding the Japanese flag, was dressed in black from head to toe, sunglasses too, and his familiar voice. He sings in that distinctive crouching position.
The LCD screen at the back creates different images for each song. For example, in the third song ‘Elevation’, several bright red bombs are displayed in an ominous manner, while in the fourth song ‘Until the End of the World’, yellow flashes are added to geometric patterns.
During ‘Until the End of the World’, Bono begins his MC speech in halting Japanese, saying, “Beautiful, Japan is beautiful”.
The majority of the audience was men, probably older than usual. Behind me, these old guys are sighing and saying to each other, “This is so cool…”. I was moved by something else. On stage are four people who have not changed at all since the band was formed: Bono, The Edge, Larry, and Adam. There were no backing musicians. And this power. Of the three, The Edge occasionally went up and down the runway as if invited by Bono, but his movements were minimal. It was almost Bono's show. Then, on ‘New Year's Day’, Edge makes a rare appearance. He skipped up and down the aisle, playing his signature high-tone, shimmering guitar, and danced around. However, his calm expression showed no signs of excitement, and he was cool as hell. Someone who saw the live the day before said, “A songlist!? I don't need it, I don't need it. It's all songs I already know”, but the 125-minute show, including encores, was a hit parade of representative songs from their third album “WAR”, which was their big breakthrough, to the present, and indeed, even if you don't know the titles, there are no songs that you don't know. It was 23 years ago that ‘New Years Day’, which is on ‘WAR’, came out. Since then, U2 have always been at the forefront of the music industry. This show is their great history as it is. They don't just play the hit songs as they are, but sometimes improvise with other artists' choruses, which is fun. On ‘Sunday Bloody Sunday’, the song turned into the Clash's ‘Rock the Casbah’ halfway through. The song is about terrorism, which was flourishing in Northern and Southern Ireland at the time of U2's debut, and weaves in remembrance of the innocent victims and anger at terrorism. The LCD shows the word “co-exist (共存)” in large letters in response to the song. From this point on, the live show changed from simply being a musical performance to one that strongly emphasised U2's stance. And a message appears on the LCD screen. Fighter planes, burning war flames… Then, a part of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights is addressed to the audience, both in writing and in the voice of a black woman reading it out. The web address of a relief organisation called Hottokenai is then shown.
For the encore, Bono skips down the aisle holding hands with two sexy girls. It breaks the atmosphere that was starting to become stiff… or rather, it's strange. After singing seven songs for three encores, Bono said “good night Tokyo, god bless you” and left the stage.
Translator's Note: When I got this magazine, I honestly thought it was gonna be an interview with both U2 and Green Day. Instead, I was disappointed to find that it was solely a U2 interview. But, well, I've already scanned it, and there's pics anyway, and I know a mutual of mine loves U2. So there's a silver lining, at least.
I honestly thought that The Edge being embarassed about his and Bono's mullet era was an exaggeration. Bono didn't look too bad with a mullet... right until I saw The Edge's mullet, and I completely understood why he hated it LMAO
author note: prologue for my 1000 followers events! Event explanation and poll to follow shortly, keep an eye out for it! (๑˃ᴗ˂)ﻭ
Life has a way of throwing curveballs at you.
Some can be small inconveniences, like when you go to the supermarket only to find out that your favourite ice cream is no longer on sale. Or when you make a cup of tea, only to find out you have no milk.
Other times, the inconveniences can be a bit larger, like when an appliance breaks and you suddenly have to fork out for a replacement. Or when you lose your wallet and have to cancel all your credit cards.
Or for you, when you get hit by a fictional carriage and end up waking up in the world of your favourite mobile game.
Life is just full of curveballs.
You thought you were dreaming. No, you wished you were dreaming. Either way, being transported into the fictional world of your favourite game was not on your bingo card for this year.
The lid of the coffin you rested in suddenly burst into blue flames and slid away, hitting the stone floor with a dull thud. You squinted as your eyes were assaulted by the green glow of the lanterns that lit the room, and then you jumped when you heard a surprised cry in front of you.
“What?! You ain’t supposed to be awake!”
You stared with wide eyes at the familiar furball in front of you. You blinked a couple of times, rubbing your eyes and thinking that you’d gone insane. “… Just gimme your uniform, and—”
“G-Grim?!” You shouted, your expression twisted in disbelief. “Yeah, that’s me! Wait, how do you know—” Grim yelped in surprise as you all but fell out of the coffin, scrambling to your feet with a wild expression on your face. You span around, seeing the familiar sight of floating coffins and gothic interior. It took until Grim blew a puff of blue flames at your feet did you snap out of your shock. “Now listen here, human—”
“Don’t do that, you little rat.” You huffed, picking up Grim with ease and balancing him against your hip like you would a small child. Grim spluttered, taken by surprise by your casual attitude, flailing his little arms and preparing to blow another bout of flames. “H-hey, whad’dya think you’re doing—”
“Shush, I’m trying to think,” you scolded, shooting him a reproachful look as you added, “and don’t even think about blowing any more fire at me. If a single hair on my head even gets singed, I’ll feed you to the lion.”
“What?! What lion?!”
You only gave a pointed look before you carried on your investigation. You left the coffin room, feeling your stomach twist and a tension buzzing against your skin. This couldn’t be real, right? This must just be an incredibly realistic dream. With your free hand, you pinched your cheek, hard. Nope, still here.
“Ah, I’ve found you at last. Splendid. I trust you’re one of this year’s new students?” You looked up suddenly at the new voice, only to find yourself face to face with the infamous Night Raven College headmaster, Dire Crowley. “My, were you ever eager to make your debut,” Crowley snarked, arms folded as he glowered at you, “and bringing a poorly trained familiar with you? That is a clear violation of the school’s rules.”
Oh no. Oh no no no. This was playing out exactly like the prologue of Twisted Wonderland. Out of the corner of your eye you saw Grim open his mouth to complain, and you quickly gave him a squeeze, effectively shutting him up with a disgruntled squeak. “Yeah, yeah, we’re a package deal – sorry about that,” you waved him off, eager to get back to the matter at hand, “where am I? This must be some mistake—”
“No, no. There’s been no mistake. Your orientation has already begun. Let us return to the Mirror Chamber.” Crowley declared, and that sinking feeling in your stomach just got worse. This was proceeding exactly like the prologue.
It wasn’t until you looked on at the chaos currently taking place in the Mirror Chamber, Grim having jumped out of your arms and begun rapidly spouting flames at everyone in sight, Riddle and Azul chasing after him whilst Kalim hopped around helplessly, sporting a freshly singed behind, that you realised that you had indeed been transported into Twisted Wonderland. Right in the place of the poor, often dumped upon and always in the wrong place at the wrong time main character. You felt your shoulders sag as the implications of your situation begun to hit you full force.
