Warnings: Mentions of war and conflict, non-graphic depiction of an amputated leg.
Summary: When Alma is told about a newcomer to the Encanto, she goes to welcome him, and is startled to see a familiar face looking back at her.
Or, after fifty years, Pedro finally finds the Encanto and is reunited with the love of his life.
- - - - -
The Encanto didn’t usually let people in, and when it did, they often had a reason to need shelter. The newcomers were almost always running from something or someone – be that a relationship, conflict or other hardships. They were often scared, alone and confused, so as the leader of her community, Alma made an effort to always welcome newcomers, and help them settle into their new life.
When Dolores knocked on her door, and meekly told her she heard a stranger wander into the village - that he seemed disorientated and confused - she expected their encounter to be just like all the others. As she made her way to the street Dolores told her the man had last been, she practiced her welcoming speech in her head, hoping she could get all of this over and done with quickly so she could get back to her family.
Things had been better since Bruno came home and she wanted to keep it that way.
Turning the corner, she caught sight of the stranger for the first time. The first thing she noticed was that he was walking with a cane, and that one of his trouser legs had been sewn up; he had likely lost the limb. It wasn’t uncommon to see lost limbs, especially with so much conflict happening, so she wasn’t too surprised. Was that conflict what the man was trying to escape from?
He was an older man, most likely around her age, with greying hair, and his hands were shaking, even as he held onto his cane. Something about him seemed familiar, but she couldn’t quite place his face.
Then, the stranger did something she didn’t expect. He looked her in the eyes and spoke. “Alma?”
How did he know her name? Wait… Was this?
“Pedro?” she said hesitantly. She couldn’t believe it was really him, after all these years.
“Ay Dios mío, it’s really you.” Pedro held her face in his hands, still as gentle as he was when he was a young man. “I could never forget your face,” he continued. “Even after all these years, I could never forget you.”
Tears threatened to spill from his eyes. “I’m so sorry. I couldn’t find you. I looked everywhere for you. I thought you were dead. I thought our children were…”
Alma pulled him in for a tight embrace. “They’re okay, I’m okay.”
“Can I... Can I see them?”
“Yes. Yes, of course.”
“Mi vida, te amo.”
“Yo también.”
***
Alma didn’t quite know how she was going to break this news to the triplets; she still reeling from the surprise herself. “Just, give them a minute when we go in,” she warned. “They might be a little confused by all this.”
Pedro merely nodded, as Alma pushed the front door open, stepping into the courtyard. “Pepa, Bruno, Julieta! Can you all come here for a moment?”
Julieta stuck her head around the kitchen door. “We’re all in here Mamá,” she said, grinding the pestle and mortar she was holding. “Who is this? Are they a newcomer? Are they hurt?”
“Not quite,” said Alma, taking Pedro’s hand, leading him into the kitchen. Pepa and Bruno were sat at the kitchen table, both drinking a cup of coffee, probably taking a break. They both looked up at the stranger who had just walked in, suspicion clear in their eyes.
Alma cleared her throat. “Kids, this is your father.”
There was a moment of total silence.
Bruno placed his cup down so quickly Alma worried for a moment that he might have broken it, and Pepa stared at Alma and Pedro, unblinking. Julieta was the one to break the silence. “Why didn’t you tell us about this Bruno?” she demanded. “This is the sort of thing you need to tell us about.”
Bruno shook his head. “I knew Mamá was bringing someone home, but I didn’t know—”
He was cut off by Pepa running into Pedro’s arms, hugging him in a tight embrace.
“Whoa there Pepi,” said Pedro softly, stroking Pepa’s hair. “You nearly knocked me over.”
The bright sun rays above Pepa’s head were replaced with a storm cloud that looked ready to start a downpour at any moment. “Lo siento Papá,” she said. “I didn’t mean to.”
Pedro wasn’t exactly surprised to see it. As soon as he arrived in the town, people started telling him about the magical people there; his family might as well be those people. “Don’t worry about it Pepi. I’m still getting used to this myself,” he said, readjusting his grip on his cane.
“Did it hurt when you lost your leg?” asked Julieta.
Pedro glanced towards Alma, then nodded. “I thought I was going to die,” he admitted. “But I managed to push through.”
Julieta gave a hum of acknowledgement, handing her father a plate of arepas. “Here,” she said, patting him on the shoulder. “To get your energy up.”
“Thank you.”
Julieta wiped her hands on the front of her apron. “Shall I go get the others Mamá? They’re just doing their chores.”
Alma nodded. “Please, if you can. Pepa, why don’t you help your sister?”
“There are others?” said Pedro.
“Yes, our grandchildren.”
“I have grandchildren? How many?”
“Six: four girls and two boys.”
If Alma thought Pedro looked ready to faint when she told him they were having triplets, he defintely looked ready to pass out upon hearing that news.
Bruno sheepishly walked up to them once Julieta and Pepa had left, awkwardly scratching at the back of his neck. “Hey Papá,” he mumbled. “Do you think I could get a hug too, since Pepa got one.”
“Of course Brunito.”
And just like that, their family was finally complete.
You wanna know what love is? Love is being willing to wake up next to someone in a small apartment and be happy that you woke up to see them. Love is having coffee while subconsciously playing with their hair or rubbing their legs. Love is being happy with yourself and someone else, or multiple. Love is wanting to spend your life with the people you love and care for most.
Another part of the tales of the Institute Green. This one following the Illustrator, Ms. Steam.
.
A puff of smoke dissipated after swirling and distorting the stars it hovered in front of.
"Fear is strange. Was there any reason not to have it that you can be certain of?"
"For myself?"
"No, of course not." The pale man made a vague gesture into the building from their spot on the balcony. "Their fear."
He took another deep drag, awaiting her answer.
"All mortals have fear, Mr. Pale. The end always looms like the back cover."
He contemplated, letting his gaze take in the curvy and soft form of his coworker. She liked her candy striper outfit most of all and it let the inviting roundness of her form offer refuge in the form of a vast change in scenery from the black iron and gold speckled dark wood of their world.
"That's what I had figured too. But the fear is on all aspects. They love, there's fear; they succeed, there's fear; they give up...you get the idea."
Ms. Steam gave an amused hum before turning to him fully. "They are yellow. Maybe it's not the fear that gives you pause when dealing with them?"
Ms. Steam took the spent cigarette out of his hand and flicked it over the railing. He had a nasty habit of burning the filter when he was lost in thought. The smell was never pleasant.
Mr. Pale was slender and ordinary, his overall countenance being somewhat "beige", though his eyes held a sharp intelligence and his tongue a wicked wit.
Ms. Steam liked talking to the scrivener, he was always agitated over their charges and the conditions in which they were formed. The illustrator had an idea that it may be his only way to show his caring side for anything.
"I believe you're right," he finally said, "I am more enraged by those who live without that...I guess it would be more a concern for the welfare of others than fear…"
"Compassion?"
"Compassion! Yes, thank you. Those that lack compassion for others and make grand swathes of suffering. They hold my ire."
"Had one recently that's got you in this tizzy?"
"No. It'll be later this evening. I would feel bile rising in my throat if I had the capability. I taste the lies and excuses on my tongue and moving through my fingertips to take the last vestiges of their existence to print."
His voice grew ever darker, as he mimicked typing on his typewriter, his hands looking suddenly more large and sharp, his plain face gaining sharp edges and wider eyes, his teeth sharpening and slowly multiplying.
"Sickening, wretched filth!" He gurgled out.
Ms. Steam shrugged, unbothered. "We are only the record keepers. No need to grow attached."
He cleared his throat and fixed his appearance, brushing his blond hair back and suddenly looking more to his normal human-like form.
"We aren't machines, Ms. Steam. Every monster we document can feed our own monstrous nature, teach us our own excuses for screwing over other lives."
"What do you suppose we do for it then? Become judges for life forms that are under our care?"
"Teachers. I think the Evil need to be taught a lesson. We should make an example."
Ms. Steam waited for Mr. Pale to continue, but it was obvious from the way his eyes darted around in his head that the idea was still cooking.
She pat his head and made him look her in the eye.
"When you figure it out, set it up. I'm in thorough need of distraction. But for now, we must tend to our duties."
He gave a small nod and a tight lipped smile. It was no secret that he disliked his job, but he was the best at it.
She took her leave, walking in from the cold of outside to the warm hallway. Her shoes were almost silent upon the hard wood. The reflection of the candy striper outfit was blurred for a moment in the polished floor before it showed Ms. Steam in a plain, floral, flowy dress. She used the key around her neck to unlock her office door and step in.
The yellow glow of the human soul took a moment to take shape. Young and small.
"Sorry for being late," she smiled, "Are you ready for your portrait?"
The 'studio' was large. The ceiling was high and vaulted, the floor had many different colors and textures that one couldn't tell if it was made of dirt, marble, wood, or any of the other things floors are usually made of. There looked to be all sorts of settings along the long wall. Beaches to mansions, forests to kitchenettes, mountains to dumpsters.
The girl looked to be a little younger than a teenager. Short dark hair and brown eyes, sun-kissed skin and a strong jaw. She was in night clothes and looked overwhelmed, looking around from her seat on a fainting chair.
Ms. Steam went to her large desk and picked up some materials. She loaded a small tray with chalk pastels and paint.
"Take your time," she said to the girl, then paused giving her an understanding and patient look. "Tell me what you think is happening. This fear will go away soon, I promise."
"He killed Mom. I went to go hide my little sisters, but I guess he killed me too." She started to cry in earnest. "They're probably so scared. I don't know what to do! There's nothing I can do! I'm dead!"
She sobbed and screamed her dismay while Ms. Steam set up the easel near a beach setting.
"Angels are supposed to help the innocent!" The girl accused from her seat. She smacked her bare feet against the ground and stomped over to Ms. Steam. "You're supposed to protect us and God's supposed to deliver us from evil!"
"Deliver you where?" Ms. Steam turned to the girl, eyebrow slightly raised. She felt it wouldn't be the best option to tell the girl she wasn't an angel.
The girl's righteous fury was snuffed out by the calm of the question. She looked lost and on the verge of more tears.
"I-I don't know. If you're good, evil isn't supposed to happen to you." She sniffled, "And you're supposed to get rewarded for being good."
Ms. Steam sat on a stool to look the girl in the eye and wipe her tears with her skirt.
"I'm sorry, little one. The universe doesn't do good or evil. That's a human thing. Kind or cruel are choices people make."
Ms. Steam offered a hug to the child, who was falling apart again in tears. She accepted the hug, was wrapped in strong arms, and felt light as a cloud.
"The nightmare is over. I know it's scary to not know what comes next. But even your choices mattered so much at the end."
The girl was hiccupping through her sobs, clinging tightly to Ms. Steam. "They're so-s-so little and he's gonna hurt them!"
Ms. Steam rocked her lightly and pet her hair. "I know...what if I brought them here? Would you feel better knowing where they are? They would probably like to know where you are too."
Fear stabbed through the girl and she looked at Ms. Steam. "He killed them too?!"
"Long ago already. They're in my queue."
"What's going to happen?"
"I'm going to paint your picture of what you want to be remembered forever as. You're a good older sister. Brave, just, and with so much love in your heart that your last moments were thinking of nothing but protecting others. Rewards aren't in my job description, but I think that I could work one up for you."
"Holly!" Called two little voices from the fainting couch.
The girl turned and let go of Ms. Steam, running to the two blonde children running towards her in their pajamas.
"Katie! Kathy!" She called to the twins, hugging them tight to her and hurrying her face in their disheveled blonde curls. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry!"
"Sorry for what?" asked Kathy.
"Why are you sad?" asked Katie.
Before Holly could answer, they both noticed the beach and dragged Holly towards it.
Holly noticed that they were all in their bathing suits, and the studio had faded away entirely-there was only the beach then. She saw Ms. Steam still standing there, starting to work on the canvas in front of her. She gave Holly a wink before going back to her work.
Holly looked at her sisters who were already splashing in the water and got to playing with them. They built sand castles and played in the water together. The sun didn't bother any of them much, and they felt full and content.
Ms. Steam stepped back from her work, looking at the picture of Holly pulling her sisters through the water as the little ones kicked up a spray behind them.
The twins looked caught in a moment of trust and fun as Holly tried to teach them to swim.
The studio had phased back to its normal state, the girls now residing as the artwork. Ms.Steam added a single small cloud in the distance as her signature and bowed low at the piece.
"Thank you for the opportunity," she said.
When she stood back up, the canvas had a frame of glittering gold. She took it and wrapped it in plain brown paper before placing it in an adjacent room for delivery.
Ms. Steam dealt more with children and those that didn't have a command over their language. She found that younger children were more accepting of their fates than older ones. Responsibility and shame hadn't really had a chance to stick in yet and make them second guess everything.
She went about putting away her supplies and let out a sigh. She placed the last brush behind her ear and exited her studio. So long as her things weren’t all in place, the next soul wouldn’t show up.
The door she approached was labeled “Mr. Slow: Security” on a gold plaque. She knocked and entered, finding the large form of her colleague sitting at his desk, shining his shoes. He looked up boredly, eyes crinkling at the side once he recognized his visitor.
“Ms. Steam. What an unexpected and fun surprise. What brings you to my office?” His voice was deep and had an edge of threat to it. Unfortunately for Mr. Slow, she had taken the centuries to become immune to his specific charm.
“Mischief brings me here, Bacchus. Do you intend on participating or trying to subdue?” She leaned on the doorway, pushing her hair behind an ear. “I do so hate to lose out on the fun because someone had to distract you.”
Mr. Slow sat up and put his hands on his desk. “So long as the mischief isn’t brought to these halls, there’s no reason for us to tussle. I do have a feeling that I will be having to teach Mr. Pale a lesson later today, but that won’t likely interfere.”
This was met with an amused hum. She covered her mouth to feign hiding a smile, “I am starting to think Bartleby likes your teaching method. You boys and your roughhousing.”
Mr. Slow went back to shining his shoes, “I’ve been informed, Ms. Steam. Go back to your room. The day isn’t out yet, no matter how many clients you put in a single frame. Only the frame counts.”
“Pushy,” she teased, straightening herself out. “I’ll see you at the diner afterwards, Mr. Slow.”
The door closed, leaving Mr. Slow alone. He leaned back in his chair and thought about the conversation he had overheard on the balcony during his rounds. Redirecting fear could be a fun way to spend an afternoon.
Summary: A sixteen year old Warlock stumbles upon Aziraphale’s bookshop and meets Crowley again after five years. But Crowley looks rather different from last time Warlock saw him. The boy connects all the dots, just poorly.
- - - - -
Warlock was loitering about the high street, doing basically nothing. His father had brought him into the city for some ‘father son bonding time’ and had promptly dumped him as soon as there was a minor political emergency. He had promised that he would pick Warlock up by three o’clock but Warlock was not holding his breath. His father had a habit of breaking promises.
Warlock suddenly missed Miss Ashtoreth. She would never dump him like this. Then again, she did abandon him too. He still remembered the day clearly. It had happened exactly one week before his eleventh birthday.
She had woken him up for school and made him breakfast like normal, but something was clearly wrong. Right as she was about to take him to school, she pulled him close.
“I love you kid,” she had said. “And I don’t want to leave, but I have no choice. If you only remember one thing I’ve told you, remember this. Don’t let anyone tell you who you can and can’t be.”
Then she had rustled her hair and driven him to school. He never saw her again after that. When he asked his father about it, he had received no answer.
He shoved his hands in his pockets as he walked down the bustling street. Why was he thinking of Nanny Ashtoreth again? It had been five years; he assumed he was over all that stuff.
At least people in London were nice, he thought. Most of them were smiling and nodding at him as he walked by. He was also pleased at how anonymous he was here. Back in his hometown, everyone knew him as the son of the ambassador. They were never mean – his father was too important and influential for that – but very few people let themselves get too friendly. School sucked because of it.
He didn’t really know where he was going – he was just wandering really – but when he found himself outside a small bookshop street corner he had the strangest feeling that there was something special about it.
So he went inside.
The place was remarkably clean. It looked like someone had gone through the whole place with a duster moments ago. However, there was no owner to be seen. The shelves were stuffed full of neat leather-bound volumes, that looked far to expensive for a sixteen-year-old’s bookshelf. Then again, it wasn’t like he didn’t have the money. One of the few perks of having a rich father he smirked. Whilst he was here, he decided to pick up a couple.
While he was browsing, he was startled by the sound of a man’s voice coming from upstairs. “Are you sure it’s not downstairs Angel?” they said. Was it the owner?
“Because I think I saw it in the back room,” said the voice. There was a muffled response before the voice spoke again. “I’ll go check.”
Warlock turned around so he could see the kind of person who would own such a shop. The man did not look how he expected.
He was younger for one. He had bright red hair that was cropped short at the sides and slightly longer on the top. There was something slightly punk about his fashion sense.
And then Warlock recognised him. “Nanny Ashtoreth ?” he stammered.
“Warlock…”
Both stood still, trapped in place by their own shock. The voice from upstairs called again – louder this time and slightly annoyed. “Crowley, have you found it or not?”
Warlock was a little startled, but tried to keep it from showing on his face. Crowley... It was new. He didn’t hate it, but it was new.
But why would Nanny Ashtoreth – Crowley – change their name?
Then it all clicked.
Crowley was trans.
It all made sense now! Even his strange speech the day he left. Don’t let anyone tell you who you can and can’t be.
Then Warlock realised something else. His father had fired Crowley over it. It didn’t come as a surprise to him really. His father was a bigot of almost every form. Thinking he would fire someone for being trans wasn’t a stretch of the imagination.
Warlock rushed up and threw his arms around Crowley’s shoulders. Crowley returned the gesture and squeezed Warlock so tightly it was like he believed the kid. would disappear if he let go.
“You’re all grown up now. I can’t believe it,” mumbled Crowley, stroking Warlock’s hair just how he did when the boy was younger.
Warlock felt as if he was going to cry. He hadn’t felt this loved in years. “I haven’t seen you in so long Nanny!” he said. “I missed you so much.”
“I missed you too kid. I’m sorry I had to leave but it was out of my control.” Crowley’s voice cracked on the last word, like he was going to cry too.
“It’s okay. I understand why you left. But I’m so glad I came here today and got to see you again.” There was a comfortable silence between them. Warlock felt so safe wrapped up in Crowley’s arms.
A moment later, a white-haired man stomped down the stairs, wearing a dressing gown and fluffy pink slippers. Warlock had the strange feeling that he knew him. Wait a minute…
“Is that you Brother Francis?”
Brother Francis turned bright red, caught in the act.
Warlock quickly glanced between the two, then pointed an accusing finger at Crowley. “I knew you two were fucking!” he exclaimed.
Summary: When Crowley is thrown from his boat during a storm, he is resigned to his own death, but instead he is rescued by an alluring merman.
Note: This was written for a fic challenge on a discord server I’m on. It was so much fun!
- - - - -
Crowley’s lungs burned with the lack of oxygen. All around him was water, dark and deep, whipped into a frenzy by the storm, as he sank further into it’s depths, his ship growing further and further out of reach with every passing moment.
He knew with absolute certainty that he was going to die in the waves.
The realization didn’t fill him with the dread that he expected it to. As Crowley had learned from his father, sometimes the braver thing to do is to accept your fate, when you know nothing can be done. Sometimes, it was easier to take in that breath of the water, rather than fight it.
He closed his eyes, going to draw in that fatal breath, when he felt a hand grip his shoulder. He opened his eyes, only to be faced with the most beautiful man he had ever seen.
He was fair, with eyes as dark and deep as the water around him, and brilliant white hair. He was still, but his wide tail continued to billow behind him, in a perfectly inhuman way, as pale as the moon and just as far away and untouchable.
He was a merman. Crowley had always thought they were the stuff of legends, and yet he was now floating alongside one in that very moment.
Before Crowley had time to feel shocked or surprised, he was reminded of the lack of oxygen in his lungs as he slipped into unconsciousness. The last thing he felt were fingertips digging into his arms, pulling him upwards. Then he blacked out.
Crowley came to on a beach that he had never seen before, with bright yellow sand and tall palm trees. The sea, previously violent and cruel, had calmed, and the only sounds he could here were the rippling waves and the rusting of the trees. His clothes dripped water as he staggered to his feet, desperately searching for the merman who had rescued him from the storm.
He saw a flash of white hair behind a outcrop of rock and two dark eyes staring at him. “Thank you for saving me,” shouted Crowley. “I was so sure I was going to die.”
The merman continued to stare.
“I’m Crowley,” he continued. “What’s your name?”
“Aziraphale,” replied the merman, though Crowley couldn’t help but notice the word seemed strained coming from the creature’s mouth, as if he hadn’t spoken in quite some time. His eyes flickered between Crowley and the ocean, conflicted.
“Do you have to go?” asked Crowley. Aziraphale nodded slowly. “You can go,” continued Crowley. “I’ll be okay now. You don’t have to worry about me.”
Aziraphale swam out of the shade of the rocks, allowing Crowley full view of him for just a moment, again reminding him of his exquisite beauty. Crowley felt his heartbeat quicken.
“When will I see you again?” blurted Crowley.
The merman regarded him for a moment, smiled like a secret and dived back into the waves, leaving Crowley’s question unanswered.
Summary: Crowley and Aziraphale accidentally end up at a pride parade after a rather nice dinner date, and meet a cheerful boy named Jordan. A week later, something terrible happens, and they step in to help out their new acquaintance.
- - - - -
Crowley and Aziraphale had chanced upon the parade quite by accident, taking a wrong turn on the way back to Aziraphale’s bookshop after spending the morning at a nearby café. Aziraphale would have assumed it was a mere coincidence, but his more fanciful belief in fate and the divine plan belayed this assumption. The way Aziraphale saw it, nothing happened without reason. Them arriving there when they did was fate, nothing more and nothing less.
There were rainbows everywhere. That was the first thing Aziraphale noticed. There were so many rainbows: hung from trees, worn on t-shirts, draped over shoulders like capes, waved from flagpoles, and even fashioned from balloons. He noticed that there were other flags too mixed in with all the rainbows, like flowers growing in a garden, all bright and beautiful and unique.
He wasn’t quite sure what was going on, but he assumed it was good as everyone seemed delightfully happy. And there were so many people, more than he could possibly count. He had never seen such an impossibly huge crowd before.
Glancing toward Crowley, he saw a content smile playing across his partner’s lips. “What is this?” asked Aziraphale, gesturing towards the raucous procession.
“It’s a pride parade. Have you never seen one before?”
“No, I haven’t.”
Crowley chuckled. “Wow. You don’t get out much, do you?”
Aziraphale huffed - secretly a little grumpy – mostly because he knew it was true. His significant aversion to socializing meant that he spent most of his time alone when he wasn’t with Crowley. Some might call that lifestyle sad, but Aziraphale preferred his quiet life to the alternative.
“Basically,” continued Crowley. “A pride parade is a celebration of the many differences of humanity – from sexual orientation to gender – as well as a way to protest inequality.”
“Well, that’s rather nifty, isn’t it?” said Aziraphale, adjusting his bowtie.
Crowley stifled a laugh. “I suppose it is.”
“Rather a lot of rainbows, don’t you think?” quirked Aziraphale. “I always liked rainbows. They’re a symbol of hope, and it never hurts to have a little hope these days.”
“I agree.”
It was at that moment that a boy pattered up to them. He was young – perhaps sixteen by Aziraphale’s best estimate, though he had never been good at guessing ages – and was tall for his age. He reminded Aziraphale rather a lot of a golden retriever, with his long, floppy blond hair and cheerful smile, which he leveled at them both, joy painted clearly on his features.
“Are you too here for the parade?” he beamed, cocking his head.
Crowley smiled back at him. “We are. Why do you ask?”
“That’s so cool!” exclaimed the boy. “I saw you and your boyfriend—”
“Husband,” interjected Crowley.
“Sorry, husband. And I just got super excited. You guys seem so happy together, and its nice, you know? Knowing its possible. That there’s a future for me, I guess. You know, you see all the sad stuff in the news, and it gets to you. It feels like there’s no hope left, but there’s always hope. I’m probably rambling. I’m sorry for bothering you two.” The boy turned to leave, but Crowley stopped him.
“Wait. Are you here with your parents?” he asked. “We could help you find them.”
“My Dad doesn’t know I’m here,” mumbled the boy. “He isn’t exactly cool with all this stuff, and I’m too scared to tell him. And my Mum… Well, she’s in heaven now.”
Crowley frowned rather instinctually, and the kid immediately backtracked. “It’s fine though. He’s not so bad. It could be worse.”
In a spur of the moment decision, Aziraphale pulled a newly miracled business card that hadn’t existed seconds ago from his jacket pocket and pushed it into the boy’s hands.
“What your name?” asked Aziraphale.
The boy gave him a quizzical look. “Jordan. Jordan Stewart.”
“It’s been nice to meet you Jordan,” beamed Aziraphale. “If you ever need help, call the number on this card.”
“Okay.”
“Good lad,” said Crowley. “Now go have fun. You’re at a pride parade after all.”
Jordan smiled, tucking the business card into his jacket pocket before sprinting away, throwing his arms around a boy with dark, curly hair. The boy stumbled back, only just catching his balance before he tumbled over.
“Ash! You made it,” exclaimed Jordan.
Ash laughed. “You thought I was going to miss your first pride? I’m not that bad of a friend,” he smirked. “Seriously though, how did you get away? I thought your dad was giving you trouble.”
Jordan shrugged. “I told him I was hanging out with some friends at the park.”
“And he bought that?”
“Yeah. I’m surprised too, to be honest. If he asks, tell him we were hanging out at the park with the others.”
“Yeah, yeah. I’ve got it.”
Crowley and Aziraphale watched the boy leave with his friend, firmly believing that would be their last encounter. They were both equally surprised when they received a phone call from Jordan just one week later.
Aziraphale was doing a little late-night reading before bed, and Crowley had wrapped himself around his husband, rather like he was trying to constrict him. Neither of them expected the phone to ring.
Crowley had whined and grumbled but Aziraphale insisted on fetching the phone just in case it was something important – a call from a supplier or customer, perhaps.
Aziraphale answered the call and Crowley buried his face in his pillow, still grumpy that Aziraphale had pushed him off. He immediately shot up when he heard Jordan’s voice on the other end.
“I didn’t think you’d pick up,” mumbled the boy. His voice was cracking and coarse, and Crowley knew that he had been crying. “I’m really sorry to bother you so late. I just didn’t know who else to call.”
“My father found out about everything, and he kicked me out. He said that he’d rather have no son than… than me. I can’t believe this happened,” choked out Jordan. “I never did anything wrong.”
Aziraphale cast a helpless look at Crowley who hastily took the phone from him. “Jordan, can you tell me where you are?” asked Crowley.
“The McDonald’s on Main Street. I didn’t know where else to go.”
“That’s okay,” said Crowley, scrambling out of bed and throwing on the first pair of trousers he could find, an effort that was made difficult by the fact that he only had one free hand to do it. “Stay right there. We’ll pick you up.”
“Thank you.”
Crowley’s trusty Bentley got them there quickly, and Aziraphale suspected that Crowley used some of his demonic influence to turn all the traffic lights on the way there green. He wasn’t complaining though. Anything that got them there faster was worth it, regardless of the possible consequences.
Jordan slipped silently into the car, eyes still puffy and red from crying. There was a short silence, before Jordan spoke. “Why doesn’t he love me?” he asked. “What did I do wrong?”
“This wasn’t your fault kid,” said Crowley. “It was never your fault. Some people are just trapped in the past. I understand how you feel. I do. Being disowned by the people who are meant to love you is shitty. It was shitty when it happened to me, and it’s still shitty now. There will always be shitty people in the world, but they’re becoming less common these days.”
“I agree,” said Aziraphale. “Barring the excessive swearing. Let’s try and limit the swear words in front of the young one, shall we dear?”
There was just the barest hint of a smile showing on Jordan’s face, and Aziraphale smiled a little to himself in turn.
“Do you have somewhere to stay?” asked Aziraphale.
Jordan shuffled in his seat. “Not really. Ash always said I could stay with him if something happened, but his parents are super strict, so I dunno if they’d be too pleased about that. I wouldn’t want to make things hard for him.”
“You can crash with us if you’d like,” said Crowley. “We have a spare room, don’t we Angel?” Crowley cast Aziraphale an expectant look, almost asking – begging – for permission.
Aziraphale hastily conjured an extra room in his bookshop, complete with fresh sheets and a newly vacuumed carpet, before nodding in agreement. They did now.
“Are you sure I won’t be an imposition?” asked Jordan.
“We’re certain,” said Aziraphale.
“Thank you, it means a lot.”
“It’s really no bother at all.”
They arrived at Aziraphale’s bookshop a little while later and Crowley and Aziraphale lead Jordan to the spare room. The moment he walked into the room, Jordan crumpled, tears streaming down his face.
“Are you alright?” asked Aziraphale. “Do you not like it?”
“No. Its perfect,” whispered Jordan, blinking through tears as he looked around his surroundings. The room was small but neat, with a single bed on one corner, adorned with bright blue sheets. There was a wardrobe in the other corner and a small bedside table as well.
But the thing that Jordan couldn’t stop staring at was the rainbow flag hung up on the wall.
He was safe here. For the first time in years, he knew he was safe.
Pairing: Merlin & Arthur (platonic), Merlin & various knights (also platonic).
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort.
Word count: 1.8k
Warnings: This fic includes a character struggling with food related trauma and includes mentions of death (specifically death by starvation), though it is not graphic and more passingly mentioned.
Summary: Merlin is used to having his food stolen from him. When Arthur takes some food from him, in a misguided attempt at kinship, he accidentally brings back some bad memories for his servant.
- - - - -
There were seven bad harvests in a row when Merlin was young, one after the other. Food was scarce and Merlin’s parents could barely scrape together enough to feed themselves, let alone their son.
Merlin was one of the lucky ones. Even when people were dropping dead from hunger on the streets outside, he lived a relatively cushy lifestyle and was accustomed to eating somewhat regularly. It was hardly ever a complete meal, but who ate a complete meal in such trying times? Certainly not him. Certainly not his family.
It was enough. Not much, but enough.
He had it better that the children who were dying of hunger, his stepfather would remind him. Better than the homeless and the orphans and the runaways.
Merlin’s stepfather was a shrewd man, the kind inclined to speak his mind without thought of the consequences of his words, nor indeed any feeling it might bring another person; if he had strong feelings about something, you’d be sure to know about it. He wasn’t one for sugar-coated words and euphemisms, so when he told Merlin he was lucky because he wasn’t starving to death, Merlin believed him.
Sometimes, when he misbehaved, his stepfather would take away his plate and scold him, saying “You can have this back when you learn to your lesson.”
Invariably, the food would disappear, leaving Merlin with nothing but a growling feeling in his stomach.
He learnt quickly – he always was a perceptive boy – that doing something wrong meant you would lose the privilege of food. It meant that you would go hungry. Even when he left Ealdor for Camelot, that fearful belief lingered in his mind and refused to be shaken.
This fear reminded him that he had to be careful what he said or did around Gaius and Arthur because – at the end of the day – they were the ones who decided if he ate. As his masters, they had the power over him that his stepfather had.
Still, they never exercised that power, as Merlin never gave them the opportunity. He stayed on his best behaviour (or as close to that as he could) and in return, he had never lost those precious privileges.
There were times when he thought he would, times when he pissed off Gaius with his reckless behaviour or irritated Arthur with his snarky attitude, but neither of them had ever done anything about it, which was strange. Even so, he remained hypervigilant. He couldn’t let those things happen to him again.
He had just settled down for lunch with Gaius when Arthur barged into the room. “Come with me Merlin. You will be eating with me and my knights today,” he announced.
“But I don’t want to,” said Merlin.
“You don’t get a choice,” countered Arthur, beckoning Merlin towards the door. “You are my servant, and I’m ordering you to eat with us today. Now come with me.”
Merlin cast a desperate look to Gaius, who shrugged. There was nothing he could do about it. Sighing, Merlin rose to his feet and followed Arthur down the corridor.
This whole ordeal had unsettled Merlin. He was meant to eat with Gaius today. He always ate with Gaius.
Meals with his mentor were quiet, somewhat formal events. Gaius wasn’t much for conversation, especially not a meal times, so Merlin refrained from talking too much, not wanting to bother him. Despite all that, Merlin liked eating dinner with Gaius, because he was predictable.
Gaius was as regular as the sun’s rising and setting - he went through the exact same motions every day, at precisely the same time. Having such a routine comforted Merlin, and having it disrupted by Arthur pissed him off beyond measure. Who was Arthur to barge into their chambers and demand that Merlin ate with him and his knights?
‘He’s the heir to the throne, that’s who. Of course he gets to boss you around, the privileged asshole.’
Arthur guided Merlin into the mess hall. In the centre of the room was a rickety old table, which currently housed five rowdy knights. Arthur grabbed Merlin by the shoulders and deposited him on the bench, right between Gwaine and Percival.
Hot food was slammed down in front of him – some bread and meat of some kind – along with a pitcher of ale.
“You’re giving me ale?” said Merlin. Back in Ealdor, this stuff was a luxury; it was not the kind of thing people like him drank.
“Why not?” shrugged Leon. “Heaven knows we drink enough of the stuff. You might as well get in on the action.”
“We don’t drink that much booze,” grumbled Gwaine, crossing his arms like a petulant child.
“Says the man who gets black out drunk at the tavern every chance he gets,” smirked Merlin. “You don’t exactly hide it well, the way you stumble home every night.” The group erupted into a chorus of rowdy laughter, and Percival clapped Merlin on the shoulder, making Merlin jump a little.
“That was a good one Merlin,” laughed Arthur. There was something hidden underneath his cheery expression, though Merlin didn’t know what it was.
The conversation shifted to another topic - some play the knights were thinking of seeing - when Arthur, still nodding along with the conversation, reached over and swiped a piece of bread from Merlin’s plate. Arthur didn’t even look at him as he did it.
Merlin’s anxiety spiked. He glanced around the table, looking to see if any of the other knights had noticed, but none of them seemed to care.
Had he done something wrong? Was it something he said? Why was Arthur doing this to him?
Swallowing his worry, he did his best to pay attention to the conversation that was going on around him. Even so, he found himself getting distracted. Arthur kept eyeing him out the corner of his eye, and even though he probably thought he was being subtle, he really wasn’t. It all made Merlin feel even more anxious. He hoped it was all just a fluke and Arthur wouldn’t do it again.
“What do you think Merlin?” asked Lancelot.
“Huh?”
“Head in the clouds again?” jested Percival. “You’re such a daydreamer.”
“Oh, piss off,” said Merlin, taking a sip of his ale. It tasted bitter and he resisted the urge to scrunch up his face in disgust. How did people stomach this vile crap? “What were you saying?” he asked.
“Are you free later this week,” repeated Lancelot. “We could all go to see that play together. Make a day out of it.”
“I don’t know,” replied Merlin. “I’m pretty busy. I have my job and everything.”
“Eh, I’m sure Arthur will give you the day off.”
The group expectantly looked at Arthur, who shrugged. “I don’t see why not,” he said, taking a swig of his beer, and chewing on chicken bone, rather like a dog. The conversation drifted again, and much to Merlin’s dismay, a hand reached over once more, swiping a piece of meat from his plate.
It was Arthur. At least now Merlin knew the first time wasn’t a fluke. This was deliberate. Arthur was trying to punish him, but for what? All he had done was talk.
Talk.
Was that it? Did Arthur want him to be quiet?
But he had invited Merlin here to eat with his friends. He had practically dragged him here, kicking and screaming, and now he was trying to force him into silence? Why? What purpose could that serve?
He could feel Arthur’s eyes on him, staring. Merlin opened his mouth to respond to something Gwaine said, and saw that same hand reaching into his peripheral vision, this time taking another roll of bread.
Fine.
Arthur wanted him to be silent.
He’d be silent.
He’d behave and this would all stop.
Right?
Thankfully, after that, Arthur didn’t make any move to steal from him again, and Merlin was able to scoff down the meagre remains of his meal in peace.
The rest of the meal had a sour tone to it, and both Merlin and Arthur were in dour moods. The other knights, noticing the tension between the two, excused themselves and left the room. Soon, only Merlin and Arthur were left.
There was a silence. A long, empty, depressing silence.
“What did I do wrong,” blurted Merlin, at the exact moment the same words left Arthur’s lips.
Both stared at each other in bewilderment. “What are you talking about Merlin?” asked Arthur.
“You kept taking my food from me, and I don’t know why. What am I doing wrong? Do you not want me to speak at all? I will if that’s what you want. I just want all this to stop.”
“I wasn’t… I don’t understand. I was just trying to make you feel welcome,” said Arthur.
“By stealing from me?” snapped Merlin, anger finally bursting out of him.
“By sharing a meal with you!” exclaimed Arthur. “Do you not share meals in Ealdor?”
“Not like this.”
“Look, Merlin, I don’t know what it’s like in your hometown, but in Camelot sharing a meal is normal. The other knights and me always eat off each other’s plates. It’s just a kinship thing. What’s mine is yours, you know?”
“Then why were you staring at me the whole time like I’d done something wrong?”
“I was looking to see if you would do the same thing in return. I’m sorry Merlin. I truly didn’t know that this was a trigger for you.”
“It’s not a trigger,” barked Merlin. “It just brings back bad memories.”
“That’s the definition of a trigger dumbass.”
“Shut up.”
Arthur rolled his eyes, collecting up the plates from the table. Then, he disappeared into the kitchen and reappeared moments later, having exchanged them for a plate of food. There was enough on there to make up for what Arthur taken, and then some. Grabbing Merlin by the shoulders, he sat him down at the table and set the dish in front of him.
“Here,” he said. “This is all yours. I promise I won’t take any of it.”
Merlin stared at Arthur, still worried that he might take it all away. Noticing his apprehension, Arthur pushed the plate closer to him. “It’s yours Merlin. I’m not having my servant go hungry.”
Merlin barely stopped to breathe as he wolfed it all down.
The next time Arthur demanded Merlin come to dinner (or invited him, as Arthur would so eloquently put it), Merlin couldn’t help but notice that Arthur and the knights kept their hands to themselves. He was secretly pleased, but said nothing, not wanting to give Arthur the satisfaction of knowing he had done something right for once in his life.
Inspired by: The fic Lasting Impressions by @codenamegeek. I lowkey stole the idea of Yusuke and Futaba watching anime together and angst happening but took it in a slightly different direction.
Word count: 1.6k
Warnings: Flashbacks, references to child abuse and disordered eating habits/unspecified eating disorders.
Summary: Futaba and Yusuke spend the night watching anime together, but Futaba makes a horrible mistake that effects Yusuke more than either of them expected and has to deal with the consequences.
Notes: This fic includes my hc about the Autism Squad (TM), which consists of Ren, Futaba, Yusuke and Makoto.
- - -
If you were to ask Futaba and Yusuke what they liked about each other, they wouldn’t be able to give you a real answer. On first appearances, they were as different as two people could be, but they shared a sense of kinship regardless.
The cumulation of their friendship was their weekly hang out sessions, where Futaba binged anime and ate snacks full of empty calories and Yusuke sketched quietly. They were both doing their own things, but at least they were doing it together.
“What do you wanna watch Inari?” asked Futaba, fetching another bag of snacks from the cupboard. Sojiro always kept little stashes of food around Le Blanc and their home. It made Futaba feel secure, knowing that the food kept there would always be available. She wouldn’t go hungry here.
“Can we watch Neo Featherman?” said Yusuke, pencil still in motion. “I find the actions scenes quite inspiring for anatomy practice.”
“Sure.” Futaba switched on the television and loaded the show. The familiar jingle burst from the speaker and Yusuke absentmindedly hummed along with the music. The title card flashed on screen: Death of a Condor.
“Wait, what’s going on?” he asked, looking up from his drawing. “Is Black Condor dead? I thought the feather of destiny made him invincible?”
“It does, but it was stolen by Purple Squirrel in episode eight,” explained Futaba. “Weren’t you paying attention?”
“Not really. I just watch it for the fight scenes.”
“And the cute boys.”
Yusuke blushed bright red. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
Futaba giggled, throwing a bag of crisps at Yusuke, which smacked him square in the forehead. “Here,” she said. “Don’t forget to eat. You know what you’re like.”
“I was going to eat eventually,” he grumbled.
“Sure you were,” said Futaba, rolling her eyes. “Just remember to, okay? Sojiro will kill me if you collapse on the way home again.”
Yusuke nodded, his tongue still stuck out in concentration, as the pencil in his hand danced over the page. Futaba span back around in her chair. She was secretly pleased when she heard the sound of the bag being torn open, followed by a crunch.
What an achievement! She had gotten the starving artist to eat. The only other people who had succeeded at that herculean task were Sojiro and Ren.
She didn’t say anything though. Making a big deal about it would only upset him and he had a hard enough relationship with food as it was. Futaba was content to let him eat at his own pace and return to her show.
***
Futaba was furious. They couldn’t just wave away Black Condor’s death by bringing him back to life with Green Parakeet’s powers. Not only did it ruin the climax of the season, but it also made no sense lore wise. If Green Parakeet could bring people back to life, why didn’t she do that to save her lover in episode three? Futaba was going to write a deeply passionate blog post about it later that night.
“So… next episode?” she asked, spinning around in her chair.
Yusuke paused his sketching and nodded. “Just give me a moment,” he said. “I need to use the bathroom.” He stood up, leaving his sketchbook on Ren’s bed.
Once Yusuke’s footsteps had faded and she knew that he was gone, Futaba took a peek at Yusuke’s sketchbook. She couldn’t quell her curiosity, and who knew when she’d have this opportunity again. Yusuke was notoriously protective of his sketchbook – practically growling at anyone who so much as touched it.
The book was open at a sketch of a woman, done in careful, painstaking detail. Even with all the work Yusuke had put into it that evening, the piece still wasn’t quite finished. The woman was beautiful, with long dark hair and slender features. She looked like Yusuke; Futaba realised.
She turned the page, only to see another sketch of the same woman. Upon first glance, it looked identical to the previous sketch, but upon closer inspection she noticed a few slight differences. The nose and eyes were a different shape, and her hair seemed a deeper black.
There was another sketch on the next page. And the next. And the next. And the one after that. Each one was slightly different but still recognisable as the same person.
The door slammed open, and Futaba involuntarily jumped, tearing the fragile page in half.
“Futaba!” snapped Yusuke. “What the hell are you doing? You know you’re not supposed to touch that.”
His eyes fell upon the torn page and his mouth twitched halfway into a frown. Futaba dropped the sketchbook, which landed on the bed, with a thud.
“Inari I—"
Yusuke stared down at the ground, not wanting Futaba to see his expression. “Get out,” he said.
He couldn’t lose his temper with her. Not with Futaba, the girl who cried if people raised their voice at her, who jumped at every slam of the door, who was terrified of strangers, all because she had been hurt by someone who was supposed to love her, just like Yusuke had.
They were birds of a feather in that respect. They were two helpless fledglings who had been beaten and thrown from their nest before they were ready, doomed to suffer at the hand of fate.
He refused to do that to another person.
He refused to repeat history.
“I’m sorry,” mumbled Futaba.
“Please go. I need... I need you to go.” His voice broke, as he was barely holding back his angry tears. “I can’t… I don’t want to let myself be mad at you. Please, just give me some time alone.”
“Yusuke…”
“Please Futaba,” implored Yusuke. “Don’t force yourself to be around me while I’m like this.”
Futaba gave him one final worried look before slinking out the room, shutting the door behind her.
***
Futaba knocked on the door again fifteen minutes later, holding a plate of curry in her hands. After she had explained the situation, Sojiro served up a portion and told her to give it to Yusuke as a peace offering.
“Inari!” she called. “I come bearing gifts of curry.”
She received no response, and for a moment considered leaving the plate at the door for Yusuke to collect later. Then, the door slowly creaked open revealing the artist. He had been crying, she could tell. His eyes were bloodshot, and streaks of tears were left on his cheeks. He rubbed at his face with the sleeve of his shirt.
“Do you want it?” asked Futaba, offering out the curry. “You can say no.”
Yusuke looked a little apprehensive but nodded.
“Can I come in?” she added. Another nod.
They sat down on Ren’s bed, and Yusuke held the plate carefully in his hands, as if he were carrying a gift from a god.
“Are you okay?” asked Futaba. Yusuke set the plate down on his lap.
“I’m sorry,” he signed, hands trembling. “I can’t speak right now.”
Futaba had been teaching Yusuke and the rest of the Phantom Thieves sign language for a little while now. It was useful for giving commands in the metaverse and for when one of the party members went nonverbal, which wasn’t an uncommon occurrence, especially with four autistic party members.
Still, she knew that Yusuke wasn’t very fluent, and it would be difficult to carry a full conversation with him in sign. They would have to find another way to communicate. Then, she had an idea.
“Do you want to text?” she offered. Yusuke nodded, setting the curry on the desk and pulling out his phone. Futaba did the same.
Yusuke: I apologise.
Yusuke: It was wrong of me to snap at you like that.
Futaba glanced up at him, quickly typing in her response.
Futaba: I understand. You were upset.
Three dots hovered in place for a moment, as Yusuke typed.
Yusuke: Being upset is no excuse for how I acted. It was completely out of order.
Yusuke: It’s just hard.
Futaba: Do you want to talk about it?
Yusuke paused for a second.
Yusuke: Yes.
Yusuke: The painting downstairs is my mother. She died when I was young. I can’t quite remember her, no matter how hard I try. Her self-portrait, while beautiful, isn’t objective. No self portrait is.
Yusuke: I’ve been trying to piece her face together from the few bits I can remember but I can never get it right.
Yusuke: When I was younger, I tried to do the same thing, but I was caught.
There was a pause in the conversation and Futaba looked up. Yusuke’s eyes were watering. He looked like he was going to burst into tears all over again.
Yusuke: Madarame tore up every single sketch and burned them all in the fireplace. I cried for hours but he didn’t apologise. He wasn’t even sorry.
Futaba: That’s horrible! You did nothing wrong.
Yusuke: I’m sorry I yelled at you Futaba. I don’t know what came over me. It’s just when I saw that torn page, it was like I was back there again, having all my hard work destroyed.
Futaba: You were scared Yusuke. I understand.
She turned off her phone and fetched the curry from the table. “Here,” she said, passing it to Yusuke. “Crying takes it out of you.”
Yusuke accepted the offering, taking a bite of the curry. Futaba wasn’t sure what to do with herself. She eventually settled on sitting next to Yusuke and placing her hand on top of of his. He gave her a sceptical look, but made no move to pull away, taking another bite.
They were as different as two people could be, but they understood each other and that was enough.
