by the morning,

SAGE: Feel like dancing under the light of the full moon?

SAGE: By dancing I mean sitting and sulking, obviously.

NERINA: Cute.

NERINA: Annoying, but cute.

NERINA: I've been heading out to the lake every evening around 6pm. You should join me one day.

SABINE: That's basically my entire personality :)

NERINA: Why do I have seven missed calls from you?

SABINE: Because I missed you :(

“Yes.” What, is she expected to act as if that would be  beneath her? Many things are beneath her, but Xiaotong knows a manipulation tactic when she sees one  —  she was bred on them, taught to both identify and implement them as easily as she’d been taught how to tell time. The little earth girl may think herself clever for teasing Xiaotong, but she certainly won’t  win. Blind, deaf, mute, geriatrics, destitute Victorian street urchin. Xiaotong doesn’t discriminate. Anyone who dares to cross her will find themselves in the same category: poised for the fight of their lives. Of course, there is the matter of the sheer annoyance that is nagging in the forefront of her mind. Like an earth worm, she thinks. Xiaotong folds her hands behind her back and strides over, leaving her front door wide open to make it that much easier for Chao to leave. “That, or I can have you taken in for trespassing on private property. If you were smart, I’d suggest you just leave, but I won’t give you that much credit.”

Chao expected that answer, but she still laughs when she hears it. The Zhengs really are siblings. “Ooh, that’s a good idea. Not giving me too much credit, I mean. Sure would hate to get on your bad side, Princess Sparky.” She lets her gaze travel over to Xiaotong, as if that’ll help her see her any clearer. It won’t, but Chao still likes to imagine what she looks like. Someone who tries that hard to be intimidating has to be short and skinny. “You’ll have me taken in? First of all, ACAB, so rethink that shit. Second, I might as well be MC Hammer, because the Polaris police definitely can’t touch me. I did come here for a reason, though.” One foot still scraping the floor in her nonchalance, she points at Xiaotong. Approximately, anyway. “You aced that Conjuring exam, didn’t you? How the fuck did you manage that? Tell me your secret and I’ll leave.”

There are several things important to know about Atticus Boo Radley. The first is that he thrives in the company of other people, constantly seeking attention and surrounding himself with whoever, whether they want it or not. The second is that, because he’s the kind of person that has one of those personalities helps him just gets away with shit, coupled with the fact that he’s an absolute idiot, Boo does not exhibit the most… decorum. He’s not really rude, nor is he completely ignorant of social cues, but he’s not great, either. The third is that he’s been living by himself for over a thousand years, so the aforementioned things on this list have been kind of exasperated since he’s been thrust in the current timeline.

And so, as he spots a girl sitting on her own, Boo plops his ass right on down across from her and just— goes. “I’ve done some soul searching and I decided that the Black Eyed Peas are my favorite band. But, like, only with Fergie. Have you ever met Fergie? I haven’t, but I’m fucking about to.” Yeah, yeah, he’s getting to the point. “What I need is someone with, uh… time magic. And, like, maybe…” Boo snaps his fingers as he tries to think of the word. “Transportation magic. Two in one would be rad, but I’ll take two separate people if I gotta.” He points to the girl. “What’s your thing? Can you help? I don’t need you to like, do anything, just stand next to me, and also not be a buzzkill concert buddy. Fuck, if you’re a buzzkill, you gotta let me know ahead of time. You also gotta hang out the whole time because I am not getting stuck in 2009, although…” A long, agonizing pause. “What are our thoughts on saving Brittany Murphy and the implications that would have on 2020? It’s gotta be good, right?” (@amstcrdms​)

Marinette decidedly does not jump when the random guy sits down and front of her and starts blabbing about Fergie. But only because she refuses to show fear in the face of someone who still finds the Black Eyed Peas relevant in 2020.

She opens her mouth to answer his first –– second? third? –– question, but he keeps going until she’s lost sight of where this all started. It’s not until he reaches the whole Brittany Murphy thing that she holds up a hand. “Okay, shut up. Just... five seconds, shut up and let me think.” Her eyes shift upwards and trace the ceiling as she thinks back on his rather... creative ramble and tries to trace his line of thought. Once she’s fairly certain she’s gotten everything lined up, she nods decisively and looks back to him before answering his questions, ticking off a finger with every one. “No, I have not met Fergie, though I think my gay ass would die a pitiful death if it ever happened. My thing is Trifid Nebula, I can basically do anything I’ve seen someone else do, but it costs me, so yes, I can help you. I’m not sure how we would save someone from pneumonia, but I do think Brittany Murphy was an icon and her loss greatly impacted every Clueless fan, though we do, eventually, have to talk about the problematic plot line of that movie, so yeah, it probably would have an impact on 2020. And you didn’t ask this...” She drops her hand, folding her arms one over the other as she considers him. “But I have never been a buzzkill in my life, so you take that back right now, bitch.”

Boom, instant friendship.

Putting her goodwill and piety on hold whenever she wished is now as natural to Molly as breathing. It’s stepping out of her current home and taking a walk around the perimeter  of her old  — close enough to see cobwebs  on the windows but never stepping inside to locate the spider who made them. For a while, she’d been nervous to tap in to this side of her: the side that hasn’t forgotten  which joints of the human body were weakest, and that can still easily cut a man open from throat to groin if need be. 

But as simple as it is to slide into the skin of her former self, it’s also simple to come back to herself as she is now. Her reflexes never dull, the knowledge of how to quietly end a life never leaves her. It’s the desires that differ, and Molly thinks that may be both her biggest strength and the hardest lesson to learn: the acceptance who she was in tandem with who she wants to be.

Her sparring lessons with Duyen are a testament to that, and some days Molly thinks  she should thank the other for them. But giving Duyen a thank you for something so personal would be a waste of both of their times. Instead, Molly gives the appreciation how she thinks it would best be received. That is, paired with a very real desire to make sure Duyen is taken care of after they’ve both thoroughly beat the devil out of one another.

As soon as their current session is officially over, Molly conjures a reusable water bottle and presses it into Duyen’s hands. Molly can already see splotchy bruises forming on her own knuckles, feel the grim of sweat on her forehead. Business as usual. “I’ve added an elixir this time that will boost your electrolytes as well. It should make the water taste like cotton candy, but if the flavor isn’t quite there, please let me know. I can tweak it for next time.” // @amstcrdms​

Duyen has an ache at the side of her jaw that she knows will bruise in the morning. 

She prods at the ache with careless fingers, feeling around the sensitive spot to see how much care she needs to put into healing it. It’s not broken, so not bad enough to go to Nurse Godfrey, but she will have to deal with Tien’s annoying ass making snide remarks about it for the next week until it heals up.

Her thumb presses against the corner of her mouth to smother a smile before it can form. She doesn’t have a reason to smile, so much as an urge to spread the ache, make it last, make it a lesson. And there’s certainly a thread of insanity in that, but she doesn’t pursue it, no more than she’s ever pursued the question of what traumas and ailments she lives with.

She pinches the hem of her sports bra, trying to give a bit of relief to her sweat-soaked skin, and releases it with a light pop. Her eyes drop to the proffered water bottle and she takes it without a thank you. She wonders, sometimes, about what Molly would do if she did thank her; if the other with would even believe it’s actually her.

Uncapping the water bottle, she downs a good half of it as she heads over to her things. The water is a much needed relief as it slides down her throat, and she feels a little less like death when she pries her mouth away. Pity. “Mm, cotton candy. You’re so sweet.” It’s a shitty joke, paired with a grin that’s too wide to be believable, but Duyen has always been comprised of those things: shitty jokes and unbelievable grins.

She drops down onto the ground beneath her bag and sets the bottle down, then gets to work on finding a fucking shirt. Her knuckles are a mess of blood and soon-to-be bruises, but it’s nothing she doesn’t deal with on a regular basis. Those same bloody fingers tie her hair up into a neater pony tail –– she really should consider just chopping it –– and her eyes refocus on Molly.

After less than two seconds, she looks away. She’s not counting on Molly noticing either way, but a little caution never hurts.

Although they’ve never so much as exchanged a hello, her brother Kellan is her best friend in the entire world.

Sadie knows him. She’s sat in her favorite corner of his dorm room and watched as he and Eloise schemed over their teachers, trying to imagine if they’d like her ideas, if she dared to share them. She’s watched him fall for Sage, and wondered what it might be like to have a sister-in-law who could actually talk to her. Sadie’s been by his side in the aftermath of fights, during the quiet moments in Professor Chenery’s office, in the chaos that is the Polaris’ day to day life. She felt the guilty swell of hope the day he died and the honest, unexpected relief when he was brought back to life. Kellan’s her best friend. Her only friend. 

Today, after almost three decades, Sadie is going to let him meet her. 

She’s spent a lot of time thinking about how to do it, and realistically, she knows that sitting on the floor in his dorm room waiting for him to get back from class is not the way to go, but that’s what Sadie decides to do, anyway. In the end, there’s not really a good way to do it. Knowing that doesn’t put her anymore at ease. Thumbnail worried between her teeth, her eyes watch the door, anxiety mounting in her chest; even as she hears the approaching footsteps, Sadie has to stifle a startled yelp as the door cracks open, because there’s no backing down now. 

There’s a moment where she’s wide eyed and silent. Finally, she sniffles. “How, uhm. How was— how was class?” 

“––Pretty good, all things considered. Professor Nix chewed me out for doing a spell wrong, but I know she’s just pissed that I made fun of her candy corn stash this morning.”

There is a moment where Kellan wonders if he should be engaging in conversation with the random girl in his room, but he has manners.

Still, he’s lived in a world cold enough that he doesn’t take his eyes off of her, even as he kicks the door closed, shrugging off his jacket and setting his bag down. He considers the usual possibilities: she’s new to the dorm, she’s lost, she’s here to kill him, she’s a stalker. She looks a little too nervous to fit into the latter two categories, but that’s not why he discards them. He does so mostly because he hasn’t pissed anyone off lately, so no one has any reason to kill him. And he doesn’t recall giving anyone a signal that he’s interested in them, so the stalking thing is a little far-fetched.

( And, yes, okay, he can hear Micah’s voice telling him that that’s not how either of those things works, but he really doesn’t want to have to fight a girl half his size in his dorm room, okay? )

"Any particular reason you’re in my room?” He asks conversationally, tossing his jacket onto his bed. The girl looks vaguely familiar, maybe a face he’s seen around campus once or twice, but he doesn’t have a name to attach to that face, so again: no idea why she’s here.

“I need you to slip this potion into Jillian Doe’s pumpkin juice at dinner. Think you can swing it?”

The job is almost so easy, it’s offensive. She slips the vial from Mel’s fingers without making contact and tucks it into her pocket. “Anything else? Your boss should know I charge extra for murder. And that’s not me asking for an explanation,” she clarifies, before Mel can start in on one. “Just a reminder.”

Norma matches Triss’ smile with a broad, false one of her own, and she muses that they must look like two suburban mothers in a standoff over who most deserves to be PTA president. “Beatrice! You look well. I was just passing through, mostly, but wanted to stop and say hello. Make sure you haven’t ruined anyone’s lives recently.” Her eyebrows raise, provoking. “Speaking of which— How’s Bowie?” 

Triss just knows killing Norma would provide so much sensual release and serotonin, which is really the only reason the stars won’t let her do it. She tips her head to the side, smiling so prettily for someone who’s considering retconning her own ideals. “Bowie’s as lovely as she’s ever been. And while I, of course, realize you’ve never been anything remotely close to that, I’m glad to see that you’re also doing well –– just as vexing as the last time I saw you.”

As Zoë rests her head on his thigh, Callum immediately feels a sense of protectiveness wash over him. She’s his pack mate, and by law and blood he’d do anything for her. If she needs to rest, he’ll keep her safe. He’ll watch her back and give her the shady spot on a blistering day. Blood of my blood echoes through his mind, and he wrinkles his nose as she pokes his cheek. “No moving,” He insists, as he waves his hand clumsily and transfigures his bottle of water into a cup of coffee. He summons it, but it spills a little on the way. “Whoops. Uh– my day was okay! Got through my classes. You know, the usual. Still working on this whole spellcasting thing. I’m getting better, I think. How was your day?”

She scoffs at the spilled coffee-turned-water. “Jesus wants what you have,” she jokes and she can only imagine that her conservative Christian parents are rolling in their graves and damning her entire existence. Worth it. “Yeah? How’s that going for you?” Zoë’s own spell-casting is typically hit-and-miss, depending on how much she’s actually trying. If it’s Professor Alberti’s class, she’ll give blood, sweat, and tears. If it’s Professor Chenery’s class, she’s fairly certain she can get away with not trying and pretending that Divination just isn’t her skillset. She shrugs at the mention of her own day. “Not too bad. I couldn’t find Sadie today, so that fucking sucked. But I did see Nerina Storm, so I count that as a win.” She’d like to say that Sadie is her girlfriend, but considering she can only find the girl three out of ten times, she’s not jumping to put a label on it. Nerina Storm is always a fucking treat, though.

There are many adjectives that Robin would use to describe herself. Self-centered isn’t one of them, but it’s perhaps the best way to refer to her personality as. She’s only half-listening as Wren describes the incredibly riveting process of making desks, but if Wren is happy, she supposes she’s happy, too. “Oh?” Robin asks, finding it in her to start to care. “Are they in her classroom, now? Or the greenhouse?”

“C–– her classroom.” She realizes, obviously, that this isn’t the most exciting stuff out there, but it means a lot to her to have Professor Jones display her work; it means even more to her that Robin is listening, despite definitely not caring. Wren lightly nudges her sister’s knee with her own, a silent thank you and a pass of the torch. “What e-else has been going on in your life? Aside from teachers who want to s... to screw you,” she teases.

It’s a good thing Zeus’ mind isn’t working a little faster; his natural inclination is to apologize and shuffle to a different aisle, the antithesis of the bold New Yorker he tries to be, but before that thought can turn into action, she starts to respond. By some miracle, she’s really nice; there’s another moment where he’s tempted to tell her that she shouldn’t entertain dumb questions by strange men who stare at her in the grocery store, but then Zeus remembers that she’s pretty and decides to pocket that lecture. Shouldn’t shoot himself in the foot, being the strange man in question.

“Did they? I think— I hadn’t heard about that. Makes me want to trust Almond Breeze more, but I’m not sure if that’s too on the nose. Like, ‘hey! buy me! our whole shtick is almonds!’ but, like, it could easily be a ruse. Find out in a decade it was walnuts all along.” Shut up, Zeus. 

He’s at a crossroads, now. Of course he’s had almond milk before. But he’s made himself sound like he hasn’t, and this is a pivotal moment in which Zeus needs to decide if he continues his charade or spins the situation. He decides to stall. “Do you think Nestlé has made almond milk Nesquik? They should.” He’s not helping his case. Zeus raises a hand to scratch his beard absentmindedly. “I guess I’m not too worried about it going bad fast. I eat a lot of cereal.” Man of the year.

“Okay, so it’s not just me who has an inherent distrust, then.” She really shouldn’t entertain the conversation, but she’s too nice not to and she doesn’t see the harm in talking to the guy. Plus he’s cute and funny and, honestly? Those are her only standards. “I’ve been vegan for years, but everything that calls itself ‘plant-based’ earns my immediate distrust, but not to the degree that everything with ‘vegan’ in the name does.”

Her brothers always tell her she’s ridiculous for her lack of trust in the vegan world. And you know what? They’re right, but that doesn’t mean she has to listen.

“I think Nesquik has something –– right! They called it GoodNes.” She rolled her eyes the first time she heard her name, and she’s tempted to roll them now. “I haven’t tried it, but if that’s where your interests lie, it probably wouldn’t hurt.”

She stops for a moment, baffled that this is really the conversation these two are having right now.

That is also the moment she decides she’s going to marry this man. ( Dream big, kids. )

“If you eat that much cereal, buy a few cartons, just to be on the safe side,” she advises, almost more amused than she is serious. “Otherwise, you’ll be back here before the week is up.”

Jack probably wouldn’t have opened the door if he wasn’t waiting on a pizza, so. Ainsley lucked out on that one.

There’s a girl on his couch whose name he thinks starts with an E, or maybe an R, and he doesn’t feel bad about not knowing the rest of the letters considering she only cares that his last name is Fitzgerald, and that suits him well enough for the time being. He’s not a bad guy in the way that this might suggest, but he’s certainly not the golden child, either, and that also suits him perfectly well. He likes living in the grey area. In the spotlight but not responsible for the spotlight. 

So, he opens the door and is taken aback to find a girl standing on his doorstep, looking like she’d been dragged through every layer of hell and back again. Jack is not necessarily a bleeding heart, but it’s bad enough that he would’ve probably helped her even if she hadn’t opened her mouth (called the police, at the very least, and perhaps Madam Godfrey up at the school), but then she has to go and complicate it with… the introduction.

Ainsley Fitzgerald. … I’m your sister.

He has sisters. He has a lot of sisters. And Ainsley? Is— ah, it’s complicated, but in a way where he feels like it’s highly implausible that Ainsley is anything more than a name that falls from his mother’s disoriented tongue when she has too much wine at Christmas. (That alone should raise alarms, should have years ago, but that’s the thing about memory loss, isn’t it?) Jack cocks an eyebrow and studies her, eyes a little harsh (not on purpose, but just— like, he has a reason to be cautious, here) as he tries to assess the situation. If she’s acting, she’s really good at it, but Jack supposes anyone trying to get something out of the Fitzgeralds wouldn’t be an amateur about it.

Even as she finishes, he doesn’t respond yet. First thing he does is raises his hand and murmurs a quiet detect magic spell, directing it at her— at her wounds— to make sure they aren’t some kind of illusion. They aren’t, which means whoever this girl is actually is hurt, so… he can’t very well just slam the door in her face. “Come on,” he offers, stepping off to the side, and then he cranes his neck to address the girl in his living room.

“You gotta go.” A beat. “Sorry.” Another few moments, and then Jack realizes he has to be a dick, just this once. “And just, ah— sorry, but remember, you signed the NDA.” It’s an always precaution, but helpful now when he’s got a battered girl claiming to be his sibling standing on his doorstep, for sure. 

Jack turns back to this girl — “Ainsley” — once the apartment is empty save for the two of them. There are questions, a lot of fucking questions, but… honestly, the injuries are probably the first thing he needs to address, followed by finding some kind of assurance that she’s not about to, like, rob him blind. That’s a risk, here. He’s not a bleeding heart, he’s not a bad guy, and he’s definitely not naive. 

Ainsley is like an out of tune piano key as Beethoven plays; a name, a note in the right place, but off, all the same.

“Should probably start with getting you a healer,” he says, finally, rubbing the scruff on his chin. “Can get someone over here pretty fast.” Jack hums. “Then I think we’re gonna have to have a little chat, if you’re going to go around throwing around those kinds of claims.”

Ainsley ducks her head when the girl’s eyes pass over her, curious and understandably offended at the abrupt dismissal. Her uninjured hand picks at the lint clinging to the bandage she haphazardly wrapped around her wrist, after she’d stolen it from a pharmacy some five or six blocks from here. Unsure feet shuffle closer behind Jack; he doesn’t necessarily promise safety, but she’s already shown up at his doorstep begging for help, so it’s not like she can do much worse in his eyes.

His, ah, guest is still up in the air.

Ainsley doesn’t move until she’s gone. She backpedals, maybe a little too much, nearly running into her wall in her hurry to give him space. It’s not a great look, considering the whole ‘begging for help’ thing, but even she can track the PTSD involved in this.

The thing is –– her plan didn’t even involve coming here, let alone what she would do when he opened then door; if he opened the door.

“Thank you,” she said, flat palm tipping down from her lips, before she stops the signing. Her voice is damaged, sure, but it can survive a few more minutes of talking. ––It’ll survive however many minutes she needs it to, anyway. She starts to emphasize the fact that she’s not lying, but stops with the realization that those words don’t mean shit. Still, the mention of proving her truths –– and the mention of a doctor –– makes her a little anxious.

On one hand, she has more than enough blood to spare.

On the other, people have connections. Doctors, cops, all of them. And she doesn’t know how many of those connections link back to D––

No, no, enough of that.

She evens out her breathing before she can hyperventilate, thumb tapping against the cheap bandaging. It’s far from dependable, but it’s hard to be picky when you’re a thief who’s already getting weird looks because you look like a battered wife. ( It’s almost accurate. )

“...Can they sign an NDA, too?” She asks after a beat. “The doctor, I mean. I... I assume you’re going to make me sign one, whether you believe me or not. Can the doctor sign one? I –– I’m hiding from someone.” She doesn’t know if she’s supposed to say that; she doesn’t know how this whole thing is supposed to go, but she’s trying, she’s trying, she’s––

Her hand wraps around her injured wrist, applying a slight pressure, just enough to refocus her. She releases her grip in the next second, and meets Jack’s gaze. If she hasn’t lied about anything, then she has no reason to falter. And Ainsley is a lot of things, but she’s never been a liar.

ELOISE: thank u

ELOISE: she'll be invited to future dinners after a formal vetting process which includes her being nice to me

ELOISE: kellan!!! and prof c!!! you're allowed to invite them

ELOISE: or we can have a romantic candlelit dinner, just the two of us ☺️

NESTA: We remember this origin story in two very different ways. I swear to God, as soon as I figure out how to banish you...

NESTA: What joy do you get out of eating people? The men are understandable, but I don't get the sensation as a whole.

NESTA: Try it and I'll trap you in Danny DeVito's body instead. I may not yet know how to banish you, but I have full confidence in being able to pull off that transfer.

TABITHA: Sounds sexy. Can't wait.

TABITHA: It really is a power trip. I don't need to eat them, but it really, as the kids say, butters my croissants.