Fan Fiction and Fanfiction Accessories

03/14- Fixed the chapter that was on the wrong blog, updated longtime yesterday. I am still writing when I have time but between my mental health and my current budget there hasn't been a lot of time. I'm going to try to stick to the schedule but I may miss weeks as the semester wraps up. I am super broke rn so if anyone wanted to hit up my Kofi (linked above) I would probably cry. I've been doing a lot of [music] co-writes and I have some studio sessions coming up but there's not really pay off their until the album releases, creative industries are a hellscape right now.

01/17- University AU is up, sorry it took me a week to get it cross-posted I woke up the next day sick and then class were back in and I had to do some meetings because transfer student foolishness. Schedule holds, there will be an update of something next week.

About Me:

When you come back out you’re dragging a canvas as tall as you are, one sleeve of your hoodie has fallen off your shoulder and Rafayel pretends he doesn’t see the hickey there. He wonders if he’s wrong, if this maybe is boy trouble behavior, but he doesn’t think so, the canvas you pull for bad dates are smaller.

“What?” You snap when you catch him staring. You watch him with your mouth pressed in a closed line as you pull an energy drink out of the plastic bag and pull the tab. “Is it the hickey?  I’m an adult.”

“Of course you are,” he shrugs and watches you chug the entire drink before he turns back to his sculpture.  

It’s going to be that kind of night.

You mount the canvas and get to work on prepping it.  He feels the energy in the studio shift. He adjusts the volume of his ambient nature sounds at least four times but you continue to slap gesso on canvas like it’s personally wronged you. Rafayel decides he’s a little concerned for whoever has made you angry and also; it’s time to give up.  

You’ve been at it for barely 2 hours, he has to concede.

Your shitty aura has pissed all over the studio and he doesn’t want any part of that in his sculpture anyway.  He throws up his hands and drops his tools.  He’s going to take a nap in your office, on your comfortable sofa and hope that when he comes back whatever has you tied in knots is worked out.  

Also, that there’s only the one energy drink gone from that bag.

The door is barely closed behind him when the sounds of waves and birds is replaced by rhythmic drums and pulsing bass.  

He sets an alarm on his phone for an hour because he’s not just your boss he’s your friend. Something is obviously bothering you and while he can’t work next to you in this mood, once you’ve settled in you might want to talk about it.  Not right now, right now it obvious to him you want to hit something but he knows you don’t have a key to your gym.

It’s easy to fall asleep but it’s harder to peel himself off the plush sofa in your office when the alarm goes off.  It occurs to him that he has maybe not slept or eaten much since he’d left the fundraiser.  It’s almost 4am and he decides he’ll check on you, because he’s a good friend, and then he’ll go home and maybe eat before he actually sleeps.

He keys the code into the studio lock and slips in unnoticed.  The music is still loud but it feels settled.  No more piss aura, no more bad vibes, whatever you had been struggling with has been beaten into submission.  He watches you work, oblivious to your audience of one for the moment.

Rafayel is always amazed at the speed that you work at.  You claim every piece is a race against your attention span, that you know when you stop there’s a good chance that painting will be as finished as it ever will be no matter the stage.  Your unorthodox tools include a heat gun, and a hair drier tonight but he’s seen you with box fans and industrial heaters before.

You like to tease Rafayel when he has paint on his face but Rafayel never points out how much worse you are when you are actually working and not teaching.  There is paint in your hair, he can see layers dictating every time you pushed hair out of your face.  New splotches and splatters shine on your overalls and there are layers of handprints on your arms that tell a story of contemplation, consideration, and frustration.  He won’t even mention the state of your drop cloth.

It’s only been an hour since he left you halfway through your underpainting but that now is done and dry, your lines are sketched in and the bulk of your foreground seems to be finished.  

Every medium you touch blends and blurs like wet on wet watercolor and Rafayel always wishes you would let him exhibit your art.  Markers, oils, inks, and acrylics all work into the same flowing bends of light and liquid in your hands.  

He watches you huff, trying to clean a brush and Rafayel is about to make himself known and offer to bring you fresh water, when he hears the sound of someone keying the code into the door.  You’re oblivious, focused on your work, music still loud as the door swings open revealing a ghost.

“There you are, Pipsqueak.”

You freeze.  Rafayel watches closely as you whirl.  You’re startled by a voice but not because there is a deadman standing in the studio. Your eyes, however, meet Rafayel before they land on the ghost, or maybe zombie.  Rafayel is trying to decide.

“Hey Raf?” You sigh, adding another layer of paint to the path in your hair. “You remember Caleb?”

You sound so tired.

“I remember,” Rafayel says. Something like anger burns in him thinking about how many tears he’s wiped since Caleb disappeared. “I remember you telling me he died.”

That wipes the smile of the dead man’s face at least.

You hold up your hand before either of them can speak again and look Rafayel directly in the eyes. “I am too tired for this can you pretend to be nice?”

“Yes Miss Bodyguard,” he says.

Caleb rolls his eyes.

“Caleb,” you say, not stepping any closer. There’s a hint of accusation in your voice.  “I didn’t say where I was going, you were asleep.”

“You’re location is on,” Caleb shrugs. “Did you sleep at all?”

You laugh, it’s dry, humorless and Rafayel hates it.  He busies himself at one of the studio sinks, fussing with the water and a clean cloth.

“I’m trying to figure something out.  I’ll come home when I’m done,” you say.

Caleb sets a tray on the bench as Rafayel uses the damp cloth to try to get some of the paint out of your hair.

“I brought you tea, I’ll stay while you finish,” Caleb says pulling a stool up to the bench.

“I have paperwork to catch up on,” you counter. “When I’m done here.  Something came up and I didn’t get any work done yesterday.”

“It was Sunday,” Caleb laughs.

You narrow your eyes and bat Rafayel’s hand away.  “It’s fine Raf, I’m fine.”

He ignores Caleb, putting himself between the two of you.  He’s seen you both argue before and he’d rather not again, but he has concerns.  Aside from where the hell he’s been, the year has been hard on you.  He wonders if Caleb really understands that.  Your mood when you arrived makes sense. 

“Are you sure,” he asks cupping your paint speckled face in his hands.

“You’re tired,” you say with a genuine smile. “Go sleep, Thomas has paperwork for you, and there’s a meeting with the board at 2 you can’t skip again.”

He groans. “I forgot about the meeting, are you sure I can’t ditch them?  They’re so boring.”

You laugh. “Unfortunately for you Thomas granted me some vacation days I’d banked.”  You glance at Caleb over his shoulder. “Family emergency.  I just have to finish that paper work.”

Rafayel pouts, but he nods, gives Caleb a withering look and leaves.

“This is nice,” Caleb says looking at the canvas you’ve been working on.

“Mmm,” you hum.

“You’re mad?” He asks.

“Caleb,” you say, rinsing and refilling your cup. “This is a lot.”

“And you’re mad,” he says again. “You’re allowed to be mad, Pips.”

“I don’t need you’re permission, to be mad” you snap.

He holds out a paper cup to you.

“I’m a lot of things,” you say, forcing yourself to relax. “Mad is one of them. I’m trying to work it out before I pick Kaiya up.”

He traces the rim of his own paper cup with his thumb.  “It was hard hearing her voice and not being able to talk to her,” he says, eyes distant.

“It was hard not just telling her,” you say. “It’s hard telling her everything is fine and normal and not knowing how she’ll respond.  It’s hard not getting on the next train to Skyhaven and marching into the DAA headquarters and suckerpunching as many officers as I can get my god damned hands on.  A lot of things are hard, Caleb.”

Caleb chuckles. “How were you ever going to be a hunter?”

“I don’t have a problem with authority, I have a problem with assholes,” you huff turning back to your painting.  “But I can’t fight the chain of command at the DAA, and I can’t just hand you the phone and surprise Kiaya like you got home early from a mission, and I can’t predict how she’s going to respond to the news: so I’m here.”

“Painting a tree,” Caleb says.

“It’s the shop, near Gran’s,” you huff. “Or, the yard at the shop, we spent a whole summer there in 5th grade I think.”

You hear the bench creak as Caleb leans on it. “I was in 5th grade,” he says. “You were in 4th.”

“Fine,” you concede too tired to argue.  He’s probably right anyway.

You mostly get the painting done by the time natural light starts to filter through the skylights.  Caleb gives you a one armed side hug as you clean your brushes and declares that he’s going home and he’s going to sleep in your bed since you aren’t using it.

You don’t answer, you click your wet brushes one by one into the rack over the sink to dry and scrub the paint from your face and arms.  You take a twenty minute nap on the couch in your office waking up long before your alarm.  By the time Thomas knocks on your door with a flat white in your favorite mug you’ve already finished the paperwork and reviewed the proposal from the opera house.

Thomas doesn’t comment on the overalls, or the paint in your hair as he sets the espresso drink in front of you.

“Rafayel left the studio around 5am,” you yawn. “I made sure he knew the meeting was at 2 and his attendance was mandatory.”

Thomas frowns at you. “The meeting is at 4.”

“I know,” you nod. “He’ll show up at 330 claiming he got stuck in traffic, and you can tell him not to worry because I was wrong anyway, and he’ll have to put on his big boy pants and deal with his investors.”

Thomas laughs. “That never works when I try it.”

“Because you’re too pretty and too earnest,” you nod solemnly. “But, I am a horrible little gremlin just like him so he’s cursed to believe everything I tell him because he thinks he knows when I’m lying.”

When you get home, you’re apartment is cleaner than it has any right to be and inside your fridge are clear signs of meal planning.  Caleb has his own methods of stress reduction.  You put your clothes directly in the washer and yourself directly in a hot shower to scrub the dried paint from your hair.  

You stay in the shower despite your exhaustion until your fingers are more than pruney and then shuffle into your room in a towel.  Caleb is sprawled face down on your bed, fast asleep.  You pull on shorts and the loose shirt you’d been wearing earlier and climb into bed shoving him to his own side as you do.

The blinds are closed. The room is dark and when you check the time on your phone it reads 10:47am.  You text Sylus Goodnight and an upside down smiling emoji before you plug your phone in, alarm set so that you have time for a little panic attack before you pick Kiaya up from school.

Champ [10:51am]: It’s almost 11am Champ [10:54am]: Sleep well, I guess

Once you wake up the plan is simple.  Kaiya went to school from Zayne’s, and you’ll pick her up, with Zayne’s car, and take her to the arcade to butter her up before you tell her the good news. 

Caleb insists that he come along and you’re still mad enough that you don’t warn him. 

Inside the hospital he walks confidently shoulder to shoulder with you while you nod and shrug at the raised eyebrows.  People here know you, and as you near cardiology they know you both.  They know that one of you shouldn’t be here. You wave at Yvonne as you round the corner to Zayne’s office and shrug at Greyson’s confused double take as he passes you both on his way out.

“Hey,” you say as you step out of Caleb’s way and shut the door behind him.

“Hey, Doc,” Caleb says after. 

As Zayne walks towards him you think Caleb looks like maybe he’s expecting a hug, or a handshake or some kind of greeting but you know exactly how angry Zayne is with your mutual best friend so you side-step out of his way.

“Hey?” Zayne asks a moment before he shoves Caleb against the door with enough force to rattle the shelves. “Hey? Do you know what you put them through?”

Caleb opens his mouth to respond but the intercom buzzes and Yvonne’s voice rings out with clear concern. “Is everyone alright in there?”

Zayne takes a breath and turns back to his desk. “It’s fine, someone tripped.”  He looks pointedly at Caleb, silently daring him to say otherwise.  You snort. ”Since you’re here,” Zayne says, having wiped the smile from Caleb’s face. “Unbutton your shirt and sit down, I don’t trust the DAA to have done an adequate physical.”

“I’m fine,” Caleb groans.

“Don’t be a child,” Zayne says.

“I’m fine,” he says again.

“I’ll give you a sticker if you behave,” Zayne sighs.

You watch them snipe and scold and if you see Zayne use his evol to make his stethoscope even colder you don’t say anything.  Eventually they’re both satisfied and Zayne hands you his keys.

“I’ll come by when I’m finished here and get them from you,” he says. “When I pick Caleb up.”

“Pick me up?” Caleb frowns.

“I have a spare room, Y/N does not,” Zayne says simply.

“You’re not staying another night, Caleb.” You huff. “Kaiya needs time to process it. If she’s ok you can come back tomorrow.”

“You guys changed the plan without me.” He pouts.

You shrug.  

You take him home and let him fuss about a dinner, despite the fridge full of food he’d cooked and stored sometime before he’d shown up at the studio.  It’s a relief to see the nerves finally getting to him as hours tick down.  Caleb has been a lot of things through the years and fortunately, as thoughtless as he can be, one of those things has always been a good father.  

He ransacks your cupboards and puts a menu together and is already deep into cooking when you eventually leave to pick your daughter up.

She wastes no time when she steps into Zayne’s car. “You look like shit.”

“Thanks, Kiddo.  Love you too,” you snort.

“Mom, you said nothing was wrong,” she counters, leaving no time for you to breathe.

“Nothing is wrong,” you tell her, honestly.  Nothing is wrong, it’s weird having him suddenly back when you’d barely accepted his death but, not bad, not wrong.

“You look like you haven’t slept and you’re picking me up in Uncle Zayne’s car,” she points out.

“Have you considered that I work for the single most exhausting person on the entire planet?” You try.  “It’s an actual quantifiable fact, Thomas has financed studies.”

She sets her jaw.

“I promise, it’s not bad news,” you tell her and she frowns. “I was going to butter you up at the arcade first, what would you rather?  That or food?”

“Food,” she says settling into the seat and crossing her arms.

You end up at the little cafe Zayne likes, the one he takes her too, that usually refuse. You don’t want her to fill up given what had been happening in the kitchen at home when you’d left, you want to ease her mind, but, you also don’t want to raise her suspicions any more than they are. You order a giant piece of strawberry matcha cake to share, and the newest seasonal tea on the menu for you both.

You watch her dump a concerning amount of honey into her cup while she makes direct eye contact and choose to ignore it.  Zayne was worse the last time you’d come together.  Eventually you get tired of her silence and you turn to stare out the window until she decides she’s ready to talk.

“So,” she says, and pushes the last bite of cake towards you. “You have a boyfriend?”

You frown. “No.”

She points to the fading mark behind your ear. “I’m 14 not stupid, you didn’t even try to cover it.”

You roll your eyes. “I don’t-” you start but she makes a face. “Kaiya, yes I’m seeing someone, that’s not what this is about.”

She lifts her eyebrows like she doesn’t believe you.

“You are so much like your father,” you say it without thinking.

She makes an annoyed sound. “Yeah except you know where I am.”

You can’t help it, not sure when you’ll have a better opening.  Maybe you’re just as bad as him.  “Now you have that in common with him too.” 

You say it casually.  A phone call with her therapist early in the morning had assured you that there was no good or right way to tell her, though he did suggest having Caleb jump out of a box and yell surprise was probably not great. It was the way you responded to her reaction that mattered. It was important to validate whatever feelings she did have about it.

You watch your daughter, with her father’s nose and her father’s sharp eyes.  She tilts her chin and furrows her brow and then her head twitches to one side before she finds your eyes. “Mom,” she says, her voice is as stern as a 14 year old’s voice can be. “You’re not funny.”

“I’m not trying to be,” you say earnestly, palms up and open on the table between you. “And for the record, your father isn’t funny either.”

You park Caleb’s old bike next to Sylus’ new one and make your way into the bar with your helmet still on.  You spot him when you wave to Philip.  Sitting on a stool just behind your old family friend, fiddling with an amp and a bass guitar is, Jaimie.  

The man who sold you out.

You didn’t blame him at the time.  The logical part of your mind understands why he would do it.  You were a stranger and Onychinus has a lot of power, especially here, but he did put a dollar amount on your life and you’re starting to think that it might have been insultingly low. 

Maybe Sylus is rubbing off on you. 

He glances at the movement and you seize the opportunity to take off your Helmet.

“Uncle Phillip,” you call out. “I can’t believe it’s been so long.”

“I can’t believe you’re still calling me Uncle,” The older man chuckles. “You’re a whole adult now, kiddo.”

“Only on paper,” you shrug.

The bass player coughs.

“Thought the songs you mentioned might sound better with a rhythm section. Drummer’s in the back room watchin’ the card game, that’s Jaimie on bass,” he snaps his fingers to get the other man’s attention, like it hadn’t been on you since the helmet came off. “Y/N,” he wraps and arm around your shoulder and huffs a laugh. “My niece, came all the way from Linkon to sing a few songs with me.  Sweet kid huh?”

“Yeah,” Jaimie mumbles.

You smile and reach out your hand. “You ever play in Linkon? You look really familiar.”

He shrugs. “No, don’t think so.”

“We’ll do a quick line check in ten,” Phillip tells you. “Pub’ll start to fill up in 15 or 20 and we’ll get this show on the road, audience usually only lasts long enough to eat but sometimes lady lucks forgotten soldiers will stick around.”

You nod as he fills you in on all the things he’d skimmed in his email and you keep the bassist in your peripheral the whole time. Phillip points you to the bathroom so you can fix your hair and makeup, and when you step out Sylus is waiting.  His hand skims your waist as he slips past you in the tight hallway to get to the washroom.  Like any stranger might.

You order a round of bourbon shots before you go back to Phillip’s makeshift stage.  When you offer them to the three men you make a point of picking one up and holding it out to Jaimie.

“No thank you,” the big man says, shaking his head.

“Really?” Phillip snorts, obviously surprised.

The bassist shakes his head.

You shrug and take the shot yourself.

“More for me,” the drummer snorts when two shots are left on the little tray.

It’s a simple gig. You sing some Folk, Blues, and older Rock songs to a small crowd mostly there for food and drink and you let the nostalgia build a middle ground between you and Phillip. You banter a little with him, talk about being a little girl in Gran’s kitchen begging him to play one more song while Josephine and Caleb tried to get you to go to bed. 

It’s a sweet little bonus that he hired the man who handed you over to Onychinus.

When the crowd at the bar starts to thin out and the poker game winds down, a bored Sylus slips out to watch you.  You don’t miss him standing by the bar and neither does Jaimie, his fingers clumsy for a bar or two before he recovers.

For fun you let your eyes widen and your shoulders tense while looking at Sylus, and glance nervously over your shoulder so the bass player notices.  

Sylus barely lifts an eyebrow in response.  You call a rough song from your list, something that flits between defiance and fear and you sing it directly at Sylus. 

He plays into the bit.

He doesn’t have to know the scheme to know he wants to see the scene play out.  He migrates slowly so that by the climax of the song he is standing in front of you, an arms length away.  He watches you with a challenge in his posture and you take it.  You twist your fist in the front of his shirt as you belt the climax of the song directly at him, faking something like fearful defiance.

You’re trying to give; how did you find me?

He lets you manhandle him, staggering forward and backwards with your push and pull, all the while smirking at you.

You give him a wink as the song ends shoving him with a flat palm so that he stumbles backwards brushing the wrinkles out of his shirt.

While you thank the diminished crowd and announce that this is your last song, Phillip is looking between you and Sylus, his face drawn in concentration as he tries to put the pieces together.  Sylus stays where he is.

“Do you know who that is?” Jaimie hisses. “You could get us all killed.”

You smirk as you chug some water while Jaimie tunes his bass for the fifth time. “Now that it’s a you problem you don’t seem as remorseful.” You say lowly. “Or did you run and hide before Onychinus showed up to claim me?”

Oblivious Phillip signals the drummer and the last song starts up.  A few card game losers stop for a moment to watch before they begin their walk of shame home but by the time the last chord rings out the pub is practically empty aside from the deep pockets in the back room.

Hearing your jibe to the bassist in his earpiece Sylus puts the pieces of your game together.  Before you can start to tear down the stage he hugs you around the waist like he’d watched Xavier do, and swings you in a wide circle before planting a chaste kiss to your lips and setting you back on your feet.  “Amazing, fantastic, a life changing experience,” he coos smoothing out your hair.

“Mm,” you hum. “Your review reeks of bias, I’m not sure I can accept it.”

Sylus tucks his knuckle under your chin and tilts your face towards him. “You need to learn to take a compliment, Sweetie,” he says before kissing you on the forehead. “Don’t worry I’ll offer you plenty of opportunities.”

The bassist is frozen.

“Good to see you again, Sylus,” Phillip nods as he wraps cables. “Just gonna sit there Jaime?”

“Rather die with my bass in my hands then wrapping fucking cables,” he mutters.

“You sure,” you say loud enough for anyone to hear this time. “That you sold me to the old crow?” You glance at Sylus. “Sy, it’s one thing to waste money on gifts but if you wanted to see me you could have just said.”

“Onychinus wanted the girl with the aether core,” he sputters. “Man who paid me said she was a gift for the Crow.”

“Everyday I get to see you is a gift,” Sylus shrugs

“Fuck off,” you say stifling a laugh. 

“She’s a gem,” Sylus nods his head smiling fondly before business takes over. “She’s right though.  Why would anyone purchase my wife as a gift for me?”

“The man said–”

He interrupts. “She has my black card, why would I offer a reward for a woman who holds my heart and my wallet.”

“She had an Aether core!” The bassist argues. “Wore it around her neck like she wanted to get got!”

“This?” You pull the red pendant out from under your shirt. “It’s just a fucking garnet.”

“A gift from me,” Sylus says tucking his finger under the chain. “Even if it was an Aether core, she’s still my wife, did you not consider why they would want a spoiled rich girl unconscious before they hauled her off.”  

You snort at the lore he makes up as he goes along.

“They put a call out for a name, that you lied about,” Jaimie hisses.

“Cameron,” Phillip assumes.

“I don’t know his name,” Jaimie shouts.  “He told me–”

“He lied,” you snap. “And he ripped you off.”

“He gave me 10 grand,” the bassist defends.

“Only ten?” Sylus tsks, disappointed. “He always was cheap, I told him time after time if he’d just pay a fair price he’d keep his knuckles clean.”

You intertwine your fingers with Sylus and without warning you feel the familiar energy humming just below the surface.  

A memory floods your vision, of you and Caleb as children.  A storm raging outside your open window as Caleb held you while you cried and shook.  The way your evol had simmered then as you dug your fingers into his bare arms you felt the weight of his evol and used it to slam the window shut.

Red Mist forms in the empty space in front of you and you can feel Sylus tense beside you.  It twists around the bassist and pulls him to his knees in front of you.

“My love?” Sylus questions as your grip on his hand relaxes.

You let control of Sylus’ evol slip back into his hands. You watch as he cocks his head and blinks at you before he gives the big man on his knees in front of you a little shake. “What shall we do with him.”

“Let him go,” you sigh. “I’m not a monster, not like Cameron was. I’m sure he needed the money.  Just maybe vet the next gangster you sell a person to, or maybe consider not selling people at all.”

You’ve never seen someone pack up a bass so fast.

“Friend of yours, Kiddo?” Phillip asks when the door swings shut behind Jaimie.

You step forward to help tear down only to find yourself tugged back, as Sylus huffs out a soft; “That’s enough, Kitten.”

“Shit,” you curse reigning yourself in.

Phillip whistles through his teeth. “Haven’t seen you do that in a while.”

“You knew it was me?” You ask, head snapping towards him so fast Sylus’ neck hurts.

Phillip nods. “Saw you play with Caleb’s evol, once or twice.”

“It was a first for me,” Sylus says. “She did shackle us once when she was unconscious however. 

“It went away on it’s own after a few hours,” you added with a blush.

Phillip nods.  “I’ll finish packing up and meet the two of you at the shop.”

“The shop?” You look at Sylus.

“Alright, come on, Kitten,” he says, hand finding yours. He grabs your bag from where it sits and slings it over his shoulder before hooking your helmet on his fingers and leading you out of the bar.

“You knew him already?” You snap.

“I’d been planning to take you to meet him,” he shrugs leading you towards the bikes.  “Your plan was convenient.”

“You could have said you knew him,” you stop and dig your heels in.

“It wouldn’t have changed anything,” Sylus shrugs. “I didn’t warn him I was coming.”

“Sylus,” you say his name like a warning and watch him straighten up.  “You’ve been, honest  with me up to now, why lie about this it seems so small?”

He stands in front of you, jaw clenched for a moment as he frowns down at you.  The hand with the helmet moves, like he wants to reach for you.  He makes a small frustrated noise. “I needed to see,” he starts and when you open your mouth to interrupt he tugs your hand to keep you quiet. “Your interactions had to be genuine,” he clarifies.  

“Sylus-”

“If I had told you I knew him,” he snaps. “Would you have behaved exactly as you did tonight or would you have adjusted your behavior based on the information I would have disclosed.”

“I had a plan,” you say through your own gritted teeth. “Whatever intel you gave me would have only-”

“Exactly,” Sylus sighs running a hand through his hair. “I trust that you are capable, your plan was effective and you even found the surprise at the bottom of the bag,” he says, relaxing. “But we both know you are trained to consider all the information you have.  I know you will always default to your Hunter conditioning, frankly it’s been an asset, this was not the time.”

“I don’t understand,” you complain trying to throw your hands up in frustration and then growling when he holds tight.

“Sweetie, I needed you to behave naturally,” Sylus says stepping closer.  He speaks to you like a cornered animal. “Phillip is smart, you don’t dodge Ever for this long without being smart.”

“Dodge Ev-”

“If you’d known,” he continues dropping the helmet to cup your cheek in his palm. “You’d have acted different and he’d have known.  You’d never have gotten anything out of him.  Now he knows who you are, and he knows we’re working together.  We both need the level of trust that will allow us.”

He watches all the fight bleed out of you as you rest your cheek in his palm.  He tugs you closer by the hip as he presses his lips against yours.  Sighing as you kiss him back and press yourself closer to him.

“Sylus?” You ask, barely pulling away, lips still brushing his as the curl into a smile. “Are you hard right now?”

He laughs under his breath.

“From arguing?” Now you do pull away, eyeing him with incredulous amusement.

“No, Sweetie,” he huffs. “It didn’t help, but it’s not from arguing.”

You stare for a moment, the picture forming in your mind before you gasp. “Because I used your Evol?”

He kisses you again, growling and breaking away when some passing hooligans whistle and holler. “Is there a fool who wouldn’t be affected after being used by a beautiful woman?”

You laugh but your cheeks are pink. “Sylus.”

“Hmm,” he hums leaning back in. 

“Your dumb lie was pointless, I barely asked Phillip anything,” you snort. 

He pulls away. “What?”

“I mean he did trust me,” you shrug and cross your arms. “It did work, but I as going to talk while I helped him pack up, then double back when he left,” you slip past him and snag your helmet from the ground.  “You said the card game went all night.”

“It was boring,” Sylus shrugs. 

You swing your leg over your bike. “Uh huh.”

“I was waiting for you, Kitten,” he says helping you with your helmet. ”Ensuring your safety, listening to the same boring stories, the same boring threats.”

“The same boring bullshit.” You roll your eyes and flip your visor closed as you flip the starter on Caleb’s old bike.

“Stay on this street, Sweetie,” he points. “4 blocks that way then take the left, don’t worry about going the wrong way, look for Mephisto, he’ll show you the rest of the way.”

You rev the engine once and pull away trusting him to move.  

The streets here are eerily empty, with fewer working streetlights the farther from the bar you get.  It’s late, you tell yourself even though it’s not that late, this is strange even for the N109.  There are pedestrians sometimes.  Nothing notable to link them together you wonder if perhaps this part of the N109 is, more walkable, perhaps safer?  

You give up worrying about it. If it wasn’t safe Sylus wouldn’t have let you leave on your own.

“Don’t forget left turn, you’ll think it’s the wrong way,” his voice says over the line in your ear.

You do what he says.  Looking for the crow as you turn towards the big red wrong way sign.

It looks like an abandoned barn.  Mephisto looks extremely at home perched in the spiderweb coated eves.  You can hear the groan of Sylus’ bike getting closer as you kill your own engine so you drop the kickstand and wait.

“You didn’t have to wait for me,” Sylus chuckles, flipping his visor up.

You snap it back down and pull him closer, fixing your lipstick in the reflection. “Wasn’t waiting,” you wink turning towards the barn.

Phillip is waiting when you turn, yellow light spilling out around him, an amused look on his face. “Sorry Boss, I wanna see the girl alone first.”

Sylus frowns at Phillip while you mouth the word Boss at him.  “The girl is just as much your Boss as I am,” he shrugs.

“If Josephine was still around I’d argue more,” Phillip says stepping outside to make room for you to pass.

You set your helmet on a work bench as you follow him through the shop.  He points to chair that looks like it belongs in a dentists office. 

“Sit,” he tells you. “How long have you known him?”

“A few months,” you shrug, hesitating for a moment before you do what he says.

“So after,” he nods. “You took longer than I expected to find me.”

“I don’t exactly spend much time in the N109,” you say cooly.

“I suppose a Hunter might not,” he nods. “You have been lately though.”

“Hunter,” you huff. “You didn’t come to the hospital.”

“Wasn’t safe,” Phillip shrugs, back still to you as he digs through notebooks.  

“You didn’t come to the funerals.”  

“With you in the Hunters, and anyone else who might be watching, would’ve been risky to come to Linkon.”

“What about after?” You press. 

“Risky,” he repeats. “You had the association at your back.”

“Did I?” You say with a little more bite than you meant. “No Gran, no Caleb, my Evol on the fritz, I was barely on my feet before the association cut me loose.  All I had was Zayne and Xavier and you were here. Hiding.”

“I sent my con-” he starts before spinning. “Your evol worked fine at The Snake.”

“If working fine means activating without warning after more than a year of nothing, then–”

“When did it stop?”

“When can Sylus come in?” You retort.

Phillip sighs. “He-”

“Like I said we met a few months ago, by chance.  He’s not manipulating me, he–”

“Didn’t tell you he knew me,” Phillip points out.

“Yeah he thinks he’s smart, it’s kinda my job to prove him wrong,” you snort. “Since we’ve met he’s been there every time I needed him, he’s the only person in my life who doesn’t treat me like glass because of my heart or my evol.”

“Your grandmother’s notes,” Phillip says.

“I read them, with Sylus watching,” you snap. “Can he come in?”

Phillip inhales deeply and then walks slowly towards the door to beckon him in.

“I trust she’s convinced you I’m not mistreating her?” Sylus says, setting his helmet next to yours.

“She says,” Phillip shrugs. “Might be lying.”

Sylus chuckles.

When Phillip comes back to you it starts to feel like a visit to Zayne’s office, only clumsier.  “When did your Evol stop working?” He asks again as he shines a light in your eye.

“A few months before the explosion is when I noticed it, it could have been longer but that’s the first time it happened and I couldn’t explain it,” you tell him as he checks your pulse.

Sylus stands with a hand on your shoulder watching.

“What happened?”

“I don’t know, I was on a mission with Xavier, we were cornered but there was no reason, nothing to cut the connection, it was us verses a mid-tier wanderer,” you shrug.

“You weren’t angry at your partner?”

“No?”

“Scared? Anything that might make you question your opinion of thim?”

“Nothing, it cornered us because we let it, adrenaline was pumping but even with just my pistols it went down pretty easy,” you huff.

Phillips eyes flick to Sylus for a fraction of a second. “After that?”

“I don’t know, it got steadily worse, they were putting me on stress leave calling it a vacation, and then after the explosion it was gone.  I threw myself at trial after trial, I followed Xav to the no hunt, never more than a spark until that Wanderer at the Karaoke club.”

Phillip is scanning his open notebook. “What happened?”

“Zayne gave me some journals of Gran’s,” you tell him as he starts to hook you up to electrodes.  “This wanderer appears, and Sylus grabbed my hand so we could lead it out of the club and I just,” you sigh trying to not move too much. “I wasn’t trying to but I just felt it happen.”

“The shackle?” He asks turning to a monitor.

“She was unconscious,” Sylus repeats.

“Protocore syndrome flair, I fainted” you explain. “Sylus saw, I don’t know what happened.”

“And when it ended?” Phillip presses.

“Oh my god,” you complain when you remember. 

Sylus chuckles. “I was cooking for her.”

Phillip glances between you dubiously and then back to the monitor. “Any other evol moments?”

“Just tonight,” Sylus says.

“Uh huh,” Phillip nods flipping through another notebook. “Usually, for your evol to stop working something has to be blocking it, or disconnecting you from them.  Your hunter partner were you upset at him?”

“No,” you shake your head.

He frowns. “Anything different between you?”

“No,” you repeat.

“After the explosion makes sense, I imagine you were disgusted with the state of things, maybe,” he trails off flipping through more pages.  “Caleb was always the better conduit,” he mumbles.

“What does that mean?” You snap again but Sylus tightens his hand on your shoulder.

“But you’re an untested variable,” he points at Sylus.

You glance behind you in time to see Sylus nod.  Phillip tugs the electrodes off of you and pulls a lever.  

“Let’s get this over with,” Sylus says, sounding almost bored.  Phillip tosses you a dull looking long sword as an iron curtain crashes down to separate you. “Watch your back, Kitten,” Sylus calls as you feel metaflux gathering to your left.

With more trust in your ability to access your evol the G-2BW goes down without much fuss.  You and Sylus work together with ease, anticipating each others moves like a well oiled machine.  You retrieve it’s protocore and drop it on the workbench next to Phillip.

“It’s a shame,” Phillip says, sentence drifting off.

“I don’t think it is,” Sylus says coldly. “I don’t think you’d like the reality of that thought.”

Phillip looks at Sylus as though he’s deep in thought. “I suppose you’re probably right.  We were already in over out heads.”

“What does that mean?” You demand.

“Josephine was better than the rest of us.  We should have listened to her, we–” he shakes his head. “But it is what it is.”

Sylus snorts.

“You read her journals, you’re here for a reason I suppose,” Phillip sighs.

“I thought you might be able to explain them,” you tell him.

He sighs, slumping against the workbench while Sylus wraps a protective arm around your waist. “Then you know your weren’t adopted?” He clarifies.

“Yeah,” you snort. “I figured.”

“There’s not much I can tell you,” he starts.

“You were there,” you point out.

“I’ll rephrase that,” he sighs. “I could tell you everything I know but it would sound like a lie without context.” He points to Sylus. “He probably knows more about you than I do.”

You turn. 

Sylus looks unbothered. “I might, but much the same I think there needs to be more context.”

“You were an experiment,” Phillip says. “You and Caleb. The Gaia Research group had a facility, Josephine didn’t adopt you, she didn’t smuggle you out but she was the only one of us to develop a conscience before it was too late.”

“Too late?” You try to clarify.

“If you want answers find the Gaia research facility,” Phillip says.  “Anything else I could say would sound like fiction, if you find the facility you wont need my answers.”

“That’s it?” You huff. “That’s all?”

“Come on, Sweetie,” Sylus says. 

“Don’t get me started,” you turn on him.

My car broke down Monday

I have my specialization application for my degree (with a 2 page essay) in 2 weeks

also met with my advisor and I'm basically just no break until graduation

my thesis statement is due next week

I just submitted my midterm assignment for practising music

I have to submit my topic for my music therapy song tomorrow

taxes/loan applications

end of the season skating competition for my son

He’s not the most social of the senior residents.  He works, he studies, he sleeps too little, and runs when he needs to clear his mind, could he be starting to crack? 

His roommate cajoles him into going out one night; just a pub with some friends.  

Zayne sits awkwardly at the big pub table as everyone talks and laughs, he has absolutely nothing to say.  He drinks water and he’s picking at a piece of cheesecake when he thinks he hears your laugh.  His eyes find the back of a woman’s head, the plush toy hanging off her bag looks like a character you had liked.

Still, young love can linger, it lends its self to bouts of sentimental longing, so he doesn’t dwell on it.  He goes for runs.  He does all the things he normally does, unaffected. He shadows his attending and doesn’t look for the girl with the guitar.  

“I think you’re an excellent student, and I know you'll be an excellent surgeon” his Advisor tells him. “But if the other interns are afraid of you, it’s going to be difficult to get a placement at a children's hospital, I know the kids like you but does anyone else?”

The blunt honesty would sting if he hadn’t heard it before.  His Advisor, however, is correct so, the next time he has a night off he accepts an invite out.  He doesn’t think much on it, there’s a mixer of some sort happening and he agrees to meet a classmate there.  He assumes others are going from the way she speaks.  He realizes twenty minutes in that he is on a date.

Which is fine.  Probably.  

He thinks he should at least get to know her, maybe he could like her enough to see her again but, she’s already taking liberties.  Already acting more familiar than he thinks is appropriate. Touching his arm, his hand, sitting closer than strictly necessary. She leans into him when she laughs and Zayne thinks someone else might find it endearing but it just makes him uncomfortable.

“Why did you specialize in Pediatric Surgery?" She asks as though it wasn’t his icebreaker for every survey class.

“A childhood friend,” he starts, eyes catching a familiar figure at the end of the room. “She had a genetic-”

It’s not you he sees this time, Caleb’s silhouette is hard to forget.  Almost always the tallest person in a room, tonight is no different. He’s filled out, his shoulders are broader, the childish roundness to his cheeks now sharp, he’s grown, become an adult since the last time Zayne had seen him, but the smile on his face hasn’t changed at all.  The only problem is if Caleb is here; the laugh at the pub, the woman with the guitar?

She can only be you.

“Everything ok?” His accidental date asks.

“Mm? Fine, it’s fine,” he says as his heart rate betrays him. “I think I saw someone I know.”

“Oh?  Should we go talk to them?” She asks, brightening up like they’re speedrunning the game of life.

“I haven’t seen him in a long time,” Zayne says waving her off. “I’ll wait.”

She shrugs and tucks her arm around his. “Ok, do you want a drink?”

He shakes his head.

“You don’t have to be DD, I live on campus,” she says, lowering her voice.

“I do not,” he tells her, feigning ignorance.

He can hear you laughing now. The bubbling sound of it floating toward him as he scans the room still finding only Caleb, if you’re with him you’re lost in the crowd around him as he plays a round of beer pong.  

Zayne tries to make a plan to leave gracefully, tries to put some space between him and his classmate but for every inch of room he makes she takes three more close to him.  He makes conversation on autopilot while he runs scenarios in his head.

“Oh thank god, there you are, Zayne,” he hears you say. “I thought I was at the wrong house party.”

He blinks, turning towards your voice, stumbling as he steps towards you.

“I’m so sorry I’m late, Baby,” you pout reaching for him like no time has past.  Like he’s 16 years old and this is some high school house party Caleb had dragged him to using you as bait.

“It’s fine,” he says, trying to keep his voice even as you tuck yourself under his arm, like the space still belongs to you. 

Maybe it did.

“Baby?” he hears beside him.

“Oh,” you smile sweetly reaching out a hand. “You must be Zayne’s friend, thank you for inviting him out, he’s always so busy he forgets to be a person,” you let your hand hang between you, smiling that saccharine smile that reads to Zayne as danger.  You wait until she’s forced to shake your hand.  “I’m glad he’s making friends.”

“Uh,” she says glancing between you. “You’re-”

“I’m Y/N,” you supply, like maybe she should know that. 

“His,” she pauses and glances between the two of you. “Girlfriend?”

You nod.  Across the room Zayne sees the moment Caleb finds you, then the moment he sees Zayne with you. Something that used to be familiar but now?  He watches Caleb try not to grit his teeth as the crowd begins to slowly part in front of him.

“He doesn’t talk about you,” his not date says bluntly.

“Does he talk about anything besides the superior venus cava, or capillaries, or the circulatory system or whatever?” You snort.

“You’re dating?” She says again, incredulously.

“Since highschool,” Caleb adds, helping for some reason Zayne can’t comprehend. “12 years now right, Pips?”

You laugh. “Almost 13.”

“You’re dating?” She repeats

“God I hope so, why else would I have his handwriting tattooed on me?”

Zayne notices the way Caleb observes him as he does his best not to react when you roll up your sleeve to show her a small tattoo; 7 words in his own handwriting from a note he’d put in a bouquet of flowers when you’d gone in for what should have been your last surgery.  

In spite of everything, you always survive.

He remembers watching the artist work when he couldn’t talk you out of it.

His not-date nods tightly and downs her drink.“Oh look,” she says. “I guess I need another drink, see you around.”

If it were possible Zayne thinks he would see steam coming from the woman’s ears 

“I’m sorry,” you say when she’s out of earshot. “I’ve been trying to respect, you know,” you shrug and glance at your feet. He doesn’t know.  “Whatever but, you just looked really uncomfortable.”

Caleb’s scrutiny is a physical thing.  It coils around him and squeezes like a python.

“Thank you,” Zayne says.  Lost for words. 

“I guess you still can’t tell when someone is flirting with ya huh, Doc?” Caleb says.  Fake smile plastered on his face.

“I suppose so,” he agrees.

Someone calls Caleb’s name and he shifts, putting himself between you and Zayne. “You good, Pips?”

“Caleb, I’m an adult,” you complain.

“Mmhm,” he says, turning back to Zayne. “She took the spite thing really serious.”

“I’ll spite you, if you don’t shut the fuck up,” you mutter.

He shrugs, crowd parting as he steps in the direction his name had come from.

“I’m not here,” you start. “ I mean I didn’t transfer here because of you,” you say. “I didn’t even know until–”

“How would you have known?” He frowns.

“I didn’t,” you huff. “That’s what I’m saying.  I realized a week or two ago, when I saw your nam–”

“Thank you,” he says stopping you from saying more. “I was struggling to find a polite way to remove myself.”

“Hard to Irish Goodbye when you’re being held against your will I guess,” you smile.

“You don’t have to avoid me,” Zayne says without thinking. 

“Ok,” you nod, hands clasped in front of you, looking at your feet.

“Are you free tomorrow?” he asks, without thinking.

“Zayne,” you sigh. “It’s been 10 years we can’t-”

“We can have coffee,” he says. “And talk.  Nothing more.”

“We can have coffee,” you nod. “Ok and talk.  Can I get your number?”  You hold your phone out to him.

“It hasn’t changed,” he says not reaching out.  He studies your face as a pretty blush dusts your cheeks.

You glance down at your phone and he’s distracted by the way your face has changed, there are more freckles scattered across your nose, you still do your make up the same and the hint of a tattoo peeks out behind your ear.  He startles when his phone buzzes in his pocket.

“I want to say I can’t believe you never got a local number,” you smile. “But it’s kinda nice that you haven’t changed it.”

Someone calls your name and he tries to find the words to say something profound but nothing comes.

If none of that holds your attention there’s always Sylus.  The coup attempt takes up much of his time but he is almost eager to explain his processes when you find him in his study looming over his laptop, only resisting when whatever task he’s busy with seems to involve you.  

While your marriage purposely remains a poorly kept secret you find some kind of satisfaction in slipping into Sylus’ office behind staff or one of the twins during meetings.  Haunting the dark edges of the room while Sylus interrogates suspicious gangsters with dangerously cool indifference.  

You take your cues from the way his eyes linger when he looks at you.  Sometimes waiting for Sylus’s guest to notice you on their own when they turn to leave, or slipping smoothly into view to stand dutifully at Sylus’ side.  He doesn’t acknowledge you beyond a possessive arm around your waist.

Your favorite bit is when he calls you out of the shadows. “Excuse me, seems my Kitten is bored,” he drawls in one instance reaching out his hand to beckon you forward. “Come here, Sweetie.”

The widening eyes when a man, that you recognize from the studio’s waiting room, turns to find not a cat but you, stepping forward to sit casually on the edge of Sylus’ big desk. “Have we met before?” You’d asked innocently as Sylus intertwined your fingers and pressed a kiss to your knuckles. It feels powerful.

It’s a different kind of power than you’d had as a Hunter.  It’s intimate, personal, addictive.

You start to develop a routine. 

By the end of the first week it’s easier to be away from him.  You do the work, remind yourself that out of sight is not the same as dead and buried.  

If Sylus is out you usually sleep in your own bed.  You avoid the armory so you don’t have to know how armed he is on his business and you busy yourself in the gym, in his library, playing the piano in the dinning room without an audience, or playing video games in your suite.  Usually you end up in your own bed, or asleep on your couch.

Sometimes the dread sinks in too deep and you drag yourself to his room, ignoring the way Mephisto squawks when the door opens.  You pull one of his worn work out shirts on and sink into the cool silk of his sheets.  Sylus finds you curled on your side, Mephisto perched on your hip, blue light of the solitaire game on your phone illuminating your sleeping face, as he sinks into bed behind you.

“What do I tell Zayne,” you say suddenly.

Sylus looks up at you, head pillowed on your stomach as you both lay where he’d found you on the sofa in your suite. “About what?”

“We usually get lunch on Thursdays,” you explain. “I wanted things to be normal but,” you fidget with the ring on your finger. “I mean this isn’t normal circumstances, you know? I just told him we were dating, but this is impulsive even for me.”

“Tell him as much or as little as you trust him to keep to himself,” Sylus says.

“No seriously,” you squirm.

“Seriously, Kitten,” Sylus says, letting you.

“Hey Zayne, sorry I can’t make it to lunch I’m at the Onychinus base, turns out Sylus is their leader, I got kidnapped on purpose and now we’re married,” You mime typing out a text. “Are you insane?”

Sylus shrugs. “Tell him that if you like.”

“Ugh,” you complain. “No help at all.”

“Tell your Doctor I took you to my hometown,” Sylus suggests sitting up. “And you’re not sure when you’ll be back.  Tell him we’re married if you like but I’d rather you tell him when there’s a ceremony to invite him to.”

“You’re petty Sylus Qin,” you shake your head.

As you relax into a waking routine a long forgotten sleep routine begins to seep back into your life. 

You’ve experienced trauma before, you know how your brain works. The first night your eyes fly open with the sound of a gunshot ringing in your ears you are not surprised. You lay in bed with Sylus’ arm heavy over your waist watching him sleep until your heart stops racing and you practice all the EMDR\ tricks you learned from the therapist Zayne had made you see during your time in the hospital.

Sylus is alive and breathing.  Sylus is here in front of you.  Sylus isn’t dead.

Sometimes in the dream you fire at Sylus and when your body is spun back around to face him you find Caleb lying in the chair.  That doesn’t surprise you, nor do all the ways your sleeping mind finds to twist the two events together.  

Sylus reaching for a door just before an explosion, Caleb turning to say something smart as you suddenly fire one shot into his chest.  None of it phases you once you’re awake.

“Don’t say you’re fine,” Sylus groans.

Sleep paralysis has been blessedly rare but tonight had been bad; Caleb’s bloody grin as he’d held you to the bed and forced you to watch Sylus reach for the door.  You’d woken with a strangled gasp of a scream, but you’re awake now, you are fine. 

“I’m thirsty,” you say instead.

“You’re having nightmares,” he says, and you’d been foolish to think he hadn’t noticed.

“Sylus please don’t worry about me,” you beg but you don’t look at him.  Your voice is raw and raspy from trying to scream.

He reaches out, taking your hand from where it rests on the bed and squeezes.  “I’ll worry if it want,” he says before he lets go and swings his legs out of bed. “Stay here I’ll get you a drink.” 

You watch him leave, getting up when the door shuts behind him to rinse the cold sweat off your skin in your bathroom.  You put on deodorant and breathe out the last of the tension in your body before you climb back into bed.  The intensity of the nightmare and the sleep paralysis that followed has already faded by the time Sylus slips back into the room with a thermos of magnolia tea and something hidden in his fist.

“I’ve been debating what to do with this,” he says as he sits on the edge of the bed and hands you the thermos.

“Typically you would drink tea,” you smirk as you open the lid and breath in the steam of it.

“Ha ha,” he says dryly. After a moment and holds out his hand. “This might help.” 

You set the thermos on the night stand and reach for whatever he is offering. He drops a mangled piece of copper into your palm and you instantly know what it is.

“I had Kieran pull it out of the chair,” he admits. “I know you’ve been struggling, I thought it might ground you,” he watches your face carefully. “Or I can get rid of it.”

You run your thumb over the rough edge and stare at the bullet you had fired into his chest. “I’ll keep it.”

It does help.  He has it polished and you turn it into a pendant. When you wake up in the night you squeeze it in your palm as you count the rise and fall of his chest.

It’s not the nightmares that catch you off guard, you’d expected to have them, it’s the dreams you thought you’d stopped having.  

A week of all the ways your brain could splice and remix the two deaths passes, the bullet helps, your therapy tools help.  Sometime in week two you fall asleep alone on the couch in your suite while Sylus is out.  The TV is playing some reality show and you’d been playing games on your phone waiting for the text to say he was on his way back.

Then suddenly you are a child, the room you are in is closing in around you as adults argue and alarms sound.  A disembodied voice tells you you are safe but you know you are not.  Someone shouts, She’s just a child but someone else shouts back, That is not a child.

You know they mean you.

The walls continue to close in as you cry for help, until a fist breaks through reaching out.

“I thought you were going to wait up,” Sylus chuckles as the couch dips to his knee before he scoops you up.

You wrap your arms tight around his neck and bury your face in his chest to hide the panic as you inhale deeply to steady yourself as he carries you to bed.

The nightmares about him dying stop but these dreams persist.  You don’t tell him about them and they only seem to happen when he’s been away. You know he knows but he doesn’t ask.

“We should go shopping,” he announces one afternoon.

“We,” you roll your eyes. 

“Yes we,” he says.

“On your laptop?” you joke. “You can’t call online shopping going shopping.  Where are we going?  From this room to the study?”

“To Linkon City,” he smirks tossing you your bike helmet.  “Come on.”

You follow intrigued.  “I can leave the base now?”

“Not alone, still a few roaches out there,” he admits freely. “And I need to take Ever down a peg.”

“What does Ever have to do with anything?”

Sylus stops in the doorway to the garage to look back at you.  Something in his face is unreadable. “Nothing you have to worry about right now,” he shakes his head.

“If I asked again would you tell me?” You ask following him through the garage.

“If you really want to know,” he shrugs. “I doubt I could keep it from you.  If there was anything to worry about you should know, I would tell you.”

“Okay,” you nod stopping when he does.

“Which one?” he asks gesturing to the bikes.

“Which one are we taking?” You ask.

“I’m taking the restored X-109, which one do you want?” He clarifies.

“To ride?”

“No, Kitten, to walk with down the street, on a leash, like a pet,” he chuckles.

You shove him and he sways with the force of it. “Where are we going?”

“That department store that you like, there’s an event we need to attend and I can’t have my wife seen in something she’s already worn,” he drawls.

“Sylus I have dresses, we can just-”

“That was not a joke,” he tuts. “I have a reputation, Sweetie.  Like or not you have become part of that and you will need to look the part and unfortunately sometimes that means you are susceptible to the overconsumption of silly upper society expectations. Now pick one.”

You pick the brand new one, the one he’d let you take for a spin after he’d bought you ice cream and he smiles fondly at you as he tosses you the keys. He doesn’t have to tell you that shopping is only an excuse.  You can tell by the way he keeps you on call the entire drive. The sudden detours he tells you to take and the way he leads the way only to fall back occasionally.  He’s testing the waters.

You’re not bait right now but, you’re not not bait either.

He does take you to the department store you like but he doesn’t stop on any of the floors you would have looked through yourself, instead he leads you to an elevator.

Rafayel bought you gowns for gala’s you attended with him, his aunt had bought you more than one when you were training with her but Rafayel knew you well enough to not be caught paying for something custom.  The gowns he bought you were designer, and armed with your measurements, usually fit you well enough off the rack but you’re not naive enough to think he was above tailoring a dress and lying about it.

This is something else.

Both you and Sylus are dressed casually as you step into a private dressing room.  You recognize the woman Sylus greets as a very popular designer and you blush in your jeans and a wrinkled tshirt.  She greets you warmly and gestures to the people around you but you’re so distracted by how out of place you suddenly feel to hear what she is saying before she presses a kiss to your cheek and then Sylus’ and leaves.

“Close your mouth, Sweetie, they’ll get the wrong idea,” he whispers.

“Maybe they’ll get the right one,” you shrug gathering your wits.

He laughs.

“Did you want to match,” the attendant asks. “We’ve pulled looks that are meant to show together, there also matching colors and themes, or if you would rather separate but complimentary outfits that could be accommodated.”

“What would you like, My Love?” Sylus asks.  “It is our first event as a married couple.”

You do your best not to snort. 

“Matching outfits would clearly show that we are united,” he suggests.

You shrug twisting the ring on your finger. “It could give the wrong idea, there’s a power in separate but complimentary.”

He smirks. “What are you worried about?”

You glance at the attendant, but she’s doing her best to look busy. “If we match people might assume some kind of power imbalance, it might look like we’re trying too hard.”

“They might,” he nods.

“If you dress out of character it could look like weakness, and if I dress to match it could infer control,” you saying thinking outloud. “You said we’re two heads of the same beast,” you lean into him. “This is hard.”

He chuckles. “My wife is a musician,” he says to the attendant. “She values her individuality, and she has her own reputation.”

“Yes,” the woman nods. “I considered the information you sent us when I made my picks.  Should I bring them out?”

“Lets start there.”

Sylus has you trying on outfits for hours.  It’s only two but it feels like a lifetime.

First the attendant takes you to help dress and insists the first thing you need is new undergarments, she marches out of the dressing room and scolds Sylus for not preparing you and then measures you and storms off returning with an armload of shaping and support garments mumbling about buying a good house without investing in the foundation as it takes both of you to connect all the little hooks and cinches.

Sylus buys you a gown that he says looks like the night sky.  It’s the third dress you try on but he insists you try every single one of them.  When it’s his turn you expect the same show he received but instead he inspects the trousers, and tries on the jackets he likes while you complain about reciprocity.

You watch him settle on a double breasted jacket with a peak lapel in a navy so dark it’s almost black with silver threads that shine like stars. He pairs it with a sheer shirt that he only buttons halfway.

Standing next to each other as the final pins are set for alterations your looks do match but in a way that suggest a happy accident, giving the impression that you’d taken advantage of the complimentary aesthetics and planned your accessories to support the vision as an attended fastens a pretty onyx collar around your throat while another clips a collar chain that matches to Sylus’ lapel in a slightly avant garde manner.

Sylus reaches for your hand and his thumb brushes over your knuckles. “Do you need to stop anywhere before we go home?”

When you pull up to you apartment Xavier is waiting outside the door.  He hugs you tightly and swings you around before following you inside. “What happened to your face?”

The black eye has healed to a vague greenish tint and the stitches are gone but despite your makeup Xavier notices. “It’s dealt with,” you tell him.

He glances at Sylus. 

“I dealt with it,” you say pulling his eyes back to you. “I put myself in the situation, I shot my mouth off, I reaped the consequences, and then I handled it.”

Xavier takes your face in his hands and inspects it. “What happened? When will you be home.”

Sylus busies himself making a pot of tea.

“Xavier,” you sigh pulling away. “I don’t,” you start. “We’re still,” you try. “I don’t have all the answers but I found the guy responsible for the explosion.”

Xavier’s eyes find Sylus. 

“Don’t look at me, Sunshine,” Sylus shakes his head. “I wasn’t in on it.”

“So you barreled into danger,” Xavier says. “Again. Lucky that he was there to-”

“She didn’t need me to do anything,” Sylus interrupts.  “She would have been fine without me.”

He believes it even if you don’t.

“You shouldn’t encourage–” Xavier snaps.

“She killed the bastard all on her own,” Sylus interrupts again, voice dripping with nonchalance. “I was just a distraction.”

Xavier’s eyes bore into you.

“I’m fine,” you tell him. “Great actually.  The guy responsible for the explosion bled out in front of me, Sylus and I are technically married, I’ve got another month of vacation left.  Things are pretty good.”

“Things haven’t changed,” Sylus says setting the teapot on the island with three mugs. “Things on Onychinus’ end are being handled but Ever is still a wild card.”

Xavier glances between you. “You’re married?”

You shrug and nod.  Sylus crosses his arms in front of himself.

“To him?” Xavier clarifies. “To the leader of Onychinus?  Y/N tell me you’re not married to a guy on the agencies most wanted list.”

“In the N109,” Sylus says before you can retort. “Legally it doesn’t hold much weight anywhere else but it’s insurance.”

You walk away and let them posture while they talk shop.  You grab your two backpacks and start packing things.  You pack your makeup, jewelry, and some clothing you’ve missed.  You pack Caleb’s DAA sweatshirt, the small blanket Gran had made you when you moved into residence, and you tuck the polaroids from around your mirror into the book you’d been reading with Xavier before packing it too.

“You’re going back then?” Xavier says when you step out of your room and put a pair of sneakers into one of the bags.

“For now,” you say.

“I’d invite you by for dinner,” Sylus says.

“It wouldn’t look good,” Xavier says before he can finish.  “It’s getting late, I’ll put this away and lock up.”

“Xav,” you pout but he hugs you tightly. 

“I’ll see you when you’re back,” he tells you. “Stay in touch.”

You nod as Sylus takes the heavier bag from you and slings it over his shoulder.

The drive home is more relaxed. Sylus still keeps an open call though there’s less detours and more casual chat.  He points out landmarks, and places he’d like to take you.  He hums in the little stretches of silence and lets you key your code into the gate when you turn towards the base.

As soon as the bikes are parked and your helmets are off he’s pulling you into his arms, covering your mouth in a heated kiss, hauling your up to wrap your legs around his waist as he licks into your mouth.  You have to stifle a laugh when he comes up for air.

“What,” he pouts setting you back on your feet.

“You’ve been holding that in since Xavier hugged me,” you smile up at him.

“Jealousy is a normal emotion, Kitten,” Sylus says taking your helmet. 

“Cute,” you shrug following him inside. “We love an emotionally intelligent man in this house.”

“Is that so,” he says over his shoulder. “What else do we love?”

“Nachos,” Kieran says.

“Donuts,” Luke adds.

“The claw machine,” you chime in.

Sylus groans.

You fit into the base so well that he forgets sometimes that it’s only been a few weeks.  You’d spent a morning a few days before identifying all the best places in the old house to sing.  Ordering the twins to follow you room to room as you belted out whatever lyrics had tickled you in that moment. Later he’d found you bouncing on your toes outside his office door, excited to drag him to your favorite stairwell.  

You’d sat in the middle of the steps with his guitar cradled in your lap.  You swayed in time and sang a haunting song to him.  Beaming at him when you’d finished and he remembers barely more than a month ago you’d been too shy to play that guitar with him in the room.

He has a comfortable armchair brought into his office and you often sit in it, working parallel to him on your tablet, picking out melodies on his guitar, or reading. For as much time as you’ve spent at his side you don’t cling.  You’re as likely to join him in whatever room he’s using as you are to find something to entertain yourself.  You play video games in your suite, you use the gym.  Sometimes you bake.

Sometimes you bake at 3am.

Sylus knows you have nightmares.  You insist that he shouldn’t worry, he understands trauma.  He understands the ways your subconscious must be rationalizing all the things that have happened to you, dredging up old wounds in the process.  He understands that you prefer to handle it yourself.

He pretends not to stir when you jolt awake.  Tells himself he’s doing all he can when you tuck yourself under his arm and burrow into his side to fall back asleep.  

He tells himself that if you won’t talk to him about it then he will be your safe space, he will keep the base filled to the brim with distractions. If you need to bake bread at 3am, or cookies, or muffins, then the kitchen will be stocked.  If you need wrap yourself around him with your hand placed firmly over his heart then he will let you.

He doesn’t think those are the only dreams you’re having.  

Sylus wonders if the piece of soul you share has diminishing returns.  

Sometimes when he finds you fast asleep in his bed you mumble things that sound like a language you couldn’t know.  Sometimes when your face is buried in the crook of his neck you sigh out something that sounds like a place you’ve never been.

Last night as jolted awake you called a name that this version of himself has never been called.

It makes him think about the version of the both of you that made the choice to share his soul.  He tries to count how many lives ago it’s been for each of you.  

You break a cookie in half and give him the bigger piece and he wonders if souls split even, or does one of you have the bigger piece of his.

He thinks about the lives he’s lived, knowing and not knowing about you.

He thinks about deepspace, and finding you here, somehow a child again, with no memory of him while he had all of these memories of every version of you he’s ever met.  He thinks about the researchers at the Gaia facility and the hands you held as he watched you walk away from him.

“Have you ever been to a bar–”

“I’ve been to a few,” he interrupts brushing crumbs from your lip with his thumb.

You pout and pretend to bite at his thumb. “Have you ever been to a bar,” you repeat. “Called The Snake?”

“Mm,” Sylus hums in confirmation. “Not in a while, there’s a card game in the back most nights, I’ve made an appearance on occasion.”

“Gran had a friend,” you say, suddenly very interested in your hands. “He used to visit sometimes when Caleb and I were kids, I know he plays guitar at The Snake sometimes.  It was in Gran’s journals.  He stopped coming to visit when I was in High School, but he emailed me sometimes after I joined the academy.”

“You’d like to stop by? Say, Hello?” Sylus wonders.

“Phillip and Gran seemed close when I was a kid,” you shrug. “Cameron was just a nondescript piece in a puzzle, but I think maybe Phillip knows something about what happened to us in that laboratory.”