Immortal Muses

Shane doesn't answer his question, but he looks over at Hayden, practically imploring him to say anything, before he just grabs Ilya and drags them both out of there. Why did Ilya agree to this? Shane is starting to wish he'd talked him out of it, or refused to come. Hayden doesn't get the hint, and JJ is avoiding his gaze and Shane is really fucking sure he's going to panic if someone doesn't say anything. And he's managed 11 seasons not panicking in front of his teammates - this would be the worst time to start. He wants to suggest they leave, but Ilya did come here, and is trying, but if no one else, not even his two best friends, will? What's the fucking point? It's going to make returning to the ice awkward for him, but he's spent the last three seasons with a distance between him and his teammates since coming out.

ㅤㅤㅤAs  soon  as  Drapeau  speaks,  Ilya  goes  preternaturally  still  where  he  leans  against  Hollander's  side.  Even  the  light  tapping  of  his  fingers  against  his  lover's  thigh,  hidden  as  they  were  beneath  the  table,  ceases  movement.  Slowly,  the  Russian  turns  his  face  away  from  Shane  and  towards  the  Montreal  goalie,  eyes  gleaming  in  a  way  that  suggests  he  smells  blood  on  the  ice… 

ㅤㅤㅤ“Sure.”  Ilya  says  with  deceptive  calm,  his  head  bobbing  to  one  side,  “…we  can  agree.  If  by  ‘fucked  up,’  you  mean  how  we  are  benched  right  now.  Or  how  Shane  and  I  had  to  hide  in  the  first  place.  Or  maybe  how  this  entire  team…”  Roz  gestures  dismissively,  using  the  free  hand  not  currently  gripping  Shane's  knee  (a  little  too  tight,  as  if  the  other  man  might  be  taken  away  from  him),  “…  is  very  shitty  at  showing  their  support  to  their  captain.” 

ㅤㅤㅤIlya  knows  that  last  comment  might  earn  him  a  murmur  of  censure  from  Shane,  but  he  cannot  (will  not)  help  it.  Not  anymore,  not  now  that  there's  nothing  left  to  hide.  He  will  not  be  shamed  for  this  love  he  has  fought  so  long  and  so  hard  to  keep,  He  Will  Not.

ㅤㅤㅤ“Fuck  you,  connard.”  Drapeau  responds  immediately,  hackles  up  eventhough  he  clearly  got  the  combative  response  he  was  looking  for.  If  the  goalie  wants  to  pretend  Ilya  is  the  asshole  at  this  table,  that  is  fine  with  him.  “…you  know  this  shit  is  perverse,  maybe  even  treason.  Fucking  a  ma-….  a  rival  team's  captain,  what  are  we  supposed  to  think,  huh?”

Junicorn x Witch Hat Atelier

Prompt 11: blood bay (ft. Easthies)

His eyes had closed again as his arms crossed behind his head; the unperturbed performance only dropped as the cigarette was taking from his lips the moment he wanted to take a long drag from it.

“I’ve told you, I’m already a dead man.” He countered as he lowered his arms again and sat up; his eyes now focused back on the man who had dropped onto the sofa beside him and who seemed to have too much time on his hands, which he could spend worrying about others. What was the point?

“ – An’ it’s not like I shot him first. He attacked me an’ that after they clearly said his ship was unarmed. YOU were the one who repeated it to me before we started persecutin’ him! Some harmless vehicle he stole from the ISSP.” A huff, but no smoke – his temper only matching the man’s he was facing now. His conscience. Didn’t he know the weight he would have to carry?

A hand wandered to his pocket, feeling for the package of cigarettes he kept on himself at all times – only to realize the last cigarette out of said package was currently placed between Jet’s lips, slowly ceasing to exist. Exasperated, he exhaled and let himself fall back against the sofa.

ㅤㅤㅤ"hnn,"  Jet  mumbles  around  the  half-gone  cigarette,  the  nicotine  in  his  system  mollifying  him  better  than  any  apology,  "…for  a  dead  man,  you  sure  do  eat  alot."  The  captain  hooks  his  elbow  over  the  back  of  the  couch,  half-turned  to  consider  Spike.  He  doesn't  contradict  the  other  man,  mostly  because  (for  once)  Spiegel  is  right.  The  intel  on  the  bounty  had  been  bad..  or,  at  least,  out  of  date?  And  that  meant  the  Bebop  had  flown  into  a  situation  with  blind  spots.  Jet  hates  having  blind  spots  on  a  job… 

ㅤㅤㅤ(  A  Man  can  lose  his  arm  making  mistakes  like  that…  )

ㅤㅤㅤ"We  aren't  equipped  to  fry  bigger  fish,  Spike."  Black  replies,  his  words  like  a  well-trod  path.  How  many  times  have  they  had  this  argument?  “…We  need  upgrades  for  the  Bebop  first.  And  we  can't  afford  upgrades  because  the  money  we  make  on  smaller  bounties  has  to  go  right  back  into  repairs.”

" – I know what'ya gonna say." Silence was broken the moment Jet stepped into the room – and it wasn't too easy to tell whether Spike meant it or if the words were just a lazy excuse made in an attempt not to hear the usual speech. What would come first this time? A complaint about the state the Swordfish was in and the repair cost? Or would it just be the Woolongs subtracted from their reward, because he hadn't played this game the safe way Jet had suggested? In the last three years, he must have heard it all before.

Lips part at his own thought; the hint of a smile lingering as mismatched eyes open to meet Jet's gaze.

ㅤㅤㅤJet  scowls  down  at  Spike,  taking  in  his  indolent  sprawl  on  the  Bebop's  worn  couch  and  the  cigarette  dangling  precariously  from  his  lip.  The  damn  bounty  hunter  looks  far  too  proud  of  himself  considering  he  cost  them  half  their  reward  in  both  personal  and  public  damages.  What's  left  is  barely  enough  to  refuel,  let  alone  buy  some  actual  beef  for  once.  Harrumphing,  Jet  kicks  the  other  man's  feet  off  his  coffee  table  before  dropping  down  next  to  him.  He's  not  gonna  dignify  Spike's  question  with  a  proper  (pointless)  response.

ㅤㅤㅤ“Maybe  you  should  be  thinkin'  about  what  I'm  gonna  say  when  you're  out  there  getting  the  Swordfish  shot  full'o  holes,  huh?"  The  captain  grouses,  his  mechanical  arm  reaching  over  to  pluck  the  cig  right  out  of  Spike's  mouth,  a  penalty  fee  for  his  stupid  bravado.  Jet  takes  a  long  drag  on  the  stick  and  exhales  sharply  though  his  nose,  smoke  pluming  around  his  jaw.  He  glowers,  but  it  comes  across  as  mostly  sullen,  “…Pretend  I'm  your  conscience,  Spike.  One  you  actually  listen  to.  I'm  tryin'  to  keep  you  outta  an  early  grave." 

@bebopcrew; relationship week