'Til There Are No Words Left to Speak

“Shoo.” That hadn’t worked the first time six hours ago, and honestly what was she thinking, that it was going to work now. It was bad enough her damned horse needed a new shoe while passing through this small village. It was bad enough the smith had gone one village over to see his sister’s new babe. It was bad enough that she’d been surrounded and gawked at. If she had just kept the damned helmet on maybe it wouldn’t have been so bad.

She stood heads and shoulders above most women, and some of the men, and while she was just a hedge knight, seeking a Lord or Lady to hire her into their service, she was quite skilled with the long sword that rested on her saddle, and the shield on her back. She stood out in this quaint little village, and when she removed her helmet it was doubly so. From what Alexandra gathered, this part of the country rarely saw women Knights, and were twice as fascinated, especially later at the tavern when she’d let her hair down from its severe braid, and flowed freely to nearly the floor when sitting.

“And Reveared Mother Elfinia could have stepped in at any time yet she remained “neutral”. At any point she could have asked Divine Justinia to send a new Knight Commander. At any point she could have put her foot down. But she was too busy tending to the rich in Kirkwall. Why else was the Chantry in the middle of High Town? Why else did the Sisters only occasionally come to Low Town or the Docks. Why did they never actually try to help the poor, the refugees? The Templars, the Circle, the whole Maker Blighted Chantry strayed from its path! 

“She was not innocent of the abuses in Kirkwall. /You/ are not either, by your own admission. You stood with us at the end, when you realized how wrong it was. But what about all those you killed before? Those Tranquil who passed their Harrowing, who by Chantry Law should never have been made Tranquil? How many of those who only fought to save themselves, who struck back only because they were tired of being struck down, stepped on, treated as things, rather than humans. 

“You said it yourself  “Mages cannot be treated like people. They are not like you and me. They are weapons. They have the power to light a city on fire in a fit of pique.“ You claim to have changed, yet you cannot see that Anders was right. Not in his final actions, but in all those that led up to them. He was a desperate man, Cullen. A desperate man at the end of his rope.

“Anders was dear to many people, and next time you insult him, I won’t stop Varric. And consider yourself lucky Varric will get to you first. After all, we mages have the power to light a city on fire in a fit of pique. Imagine what I could do to you.”

There were somethings one resigned oneself to when one lived their life as their Keeper’s First. Personal romantic relationships, family, children. The Clan must come first, the Clan must always come first. But that did not mean it was an easy thing to resign oneself to. When one’s peers started to pair off, so much in love, and one was left on the way side to lead their people, and help guide the Second, it was hard. He’d wished them all well every time, had said the blessings over them, and was excited for those who were expecting.

McCoy rolled his eyes as Jim passed around another round of drinks, and he paused briefly to scrutinize their young Russian pilot. When the hell was the kid’s birthday? Was he allowed to be drinking? Downing another mint julep, he shook his head. It didn’t matter now, he and Scotty were downing their respective drinks like they were water. Or maybe the kid was drinking water? Ah who knew..

"So," Jim started, turning to their youngest member. "I have a question for you, Chekov." "Please, call me Pavel when we are not on duty, Keptain." "Then by all means, call me Jim!" "Okay, Jim. What is your question?" "How in the hell did you end up with your middle name? What is it? Andrevich?" "Andreivich," He corrected and sipped his drink. "It is a Russian tradition that the middle name of the child be relating to their father. Andreivich means "Son of Andre", or something like that. Were I born a girl, I would be Polina Andreyevna Chekov. ‘Daughter of Andre’. It tells you to which Chekov  I am related. But if you want to hear an odd middle name, ask Mister Scott his!”

"Laddie," he warned, but the curly haired navigator merely beamed at him, and he had to resign himself to the fact that no matter what he said, he would be asked.

"Well?" Jim prompted, refilling his glass for him. "My full name is Montgomery Christopher Jorgensen Scott, Jr. Christopher was my father’s da, and Jorgensen was my Mam’s maiden name." He explained, downing his scotch once more. He and the kid had a contest going on to see who could hold their respective drinks better.

Jim gave a nod, rather satisfied by that answer and grinned. “I’m named after my grandfathers. James Tiberius Kirk.” he sighed softly and smiled, sipping his. “Hey, Bones! Didn’t you say yours was “Horatio”? What is that about?”

"It’s a respectable name," he gruffed, shaking his head. "And no weirder than "Tiberius"!" He sipped his drink again and glared at his best friend, shaking his head. "My mother thought it’d be romantic. Okay?" He huffed, ears turning a little red as he took a large gulp of his drink. "Read too many damned old books. Rest her soul.."

Jim gave another nod and stroked his chin, turning to Uhura and grinned. “And what about you, my dear linguist?” "What about me?" "What’s your middle name?" "Does it matter?" "We’re all sharing, c’mon!" "Will you leave me alone the rest of the night?" "Maaaybe." "Fine."

Bouncing a little, Jim was the picture of utter attention and focus, and McCoy coughed to hide his laughter. he’d seen that look too many times when the blonde had tried to get him to ditch his assignments and go out with him.

"My full name is Nyota Upenda Uhura. In Swahili ‘Nyota’ means  ’freedom, ‘Upenda’ means ‘love’, and ‘Uhura’ means ‘Star’." "No, really what is it?" Tossing her hands up, she stormed off to sit next to Sulu and away from Jim, hoping that by watching the pilot and Spock play 3d chess, she’d somehow avoid further questions.

"Sulu! What’s your middle name?" "Sato."

Chekov giggled a little and smiled. “Sulu, Hikaru Sato!” He grinned and the pilot rolled his eyes fondly. He wasn’t sure why the Russian prefered to say his name that way, but whatever made him happy. "Yup."

Jim perked up again and tilted his head. “Any particular meaning to it?” "Nope." "Well that’s lame." "I know." "What about you, Spock? You’re the only one left!" "I see no point to this, Captain. If you wished to know, it is in my file." "That’s not the point! I could look any of this up, but the fun part is you telling us.” "That is highly illogical. Checkmate, Mister Sulu."

"I know what it is!" McCoy offered, grinning widely. "I stare your medical file enough." "Oh what is it?" God he was like a kid at Christmas, wasn’t he? Looking expectantly at him, he pointed to his, now, empty glass and waited for Jim to make him another one. Settling back once it was firmly in hand, he gave a lazy smile.

"S’chn T’gai Spock. His father’s name is S’chn T’gai Sarek. I’m going to assume it’s a family name?" "Yes."

Oh the eyebrow quirked slightly and he smiled wider. 

"Betcha thought I couldn’t say it, ya green-blooded hobgoblin." "I am surprised, I must admit." "Good." The Vulcan turned back to start another game with Nyota, and Jim seemed satisfied, though the night wasn’t quite working out like he thought. Maybe he could bribe the kid into distracting the blonde so he could make his escape. Or he could just threaten Jim with a check up. Or..maybe he should stay, given that Jim was now trying to drink Scotty and Chekov under the table via Romulan ale. If he had to place money on it, he’d say none of them would last very long. 

He’d have to remember to get the recording of tonight later, because it would be great to show certain persons video evidence of their captain getting drunk under the table by an almost forty year old, and a nineteen year old.

Brand. Casteless. Dirty. Disgusting.

The Frostback Mountains grew larger the closer they drew, and Natia felt sick. She was nothing there, and the guards would most likely take her into custody and execute her, Warden or not. Should she tell Alistair about that? Ah why bother, that could just be another thing on the list of things Alistair didn’t know.

“Have you looked at the treaties?” "…Of course."

He didn’t know he was probably too naive to realize, but the mark on her face meant something. It was more than body art, it was a brand, sunk so deep into her skin that she was sure it was on her bones. It meant she didn’t exist in Orzammar, that she had no Caste, nor clan. The Ancestors turned their backs on her, that she knew nothing in life, but hunger, scorn, and violence.

Once upon a time, there was an Angel. His name was Castiel. And every day for a year, he asked his very good friends Sam, Dean and Bobby for a red rider BB gun. Bobby shook his head and told him continually he’d shoot his eye out. Sam would follow with a “Can Angels Grow eyes back? Wait, are they even allowed to hold a gun?”

Dean just smiled and shook his head. He was not going to stop asking, Dean knew that and he might as well go and buy him one. It was just a matter of hiding it. And hide it he did!

When Christmas finally came around, Castiel’s face lit up, and he skipped out to the shed, the Winchester boys following, Bobby a little after holding both a mug of coffee and a pan lid, just in case. Sam had already taken the first aid kit, and Dean was just grinning.

The angel opened the shed door, and smirked, pulling out the King of Hell who was tied up inside with a few charms. Aiming carefully, he laughed as he shot out Lucifer’s eye. Turning around he smiled at Dean and kissed him, Bobby and Sam staring in mild horror.

"I did not shoot my eye out," he stated calmly, with a mild hint of "haha, you were wrong" in his voice and Dean smirked.

"You knew," Sam accused and his older brother nodded. 

"Yes, yes I did. And don’t tell me that you didn't enjoy watching that." He looked obscenely pleased with himself and wrapped his arm around the angel. "And Cas, you look very—"

"NO! NO! Just NO, DEAN! NO!" Sam yelled, storming back into the cabin, even as Bobby shook his head and followed, muttering about his horny idjits.

Dean frowned a little and sighed, “I was going to say adorable…”

It was a nice Spanish spring day, far too nice to sit inside and spend time doing inside things. No, Antonio had decided that he was going to go out for a walk, and maybe pick some flowers. It was so nice out he ditched his shoes and started out. Humming a cherry tuneless song, he was pleasantly surprised to see Irunya out walking, apparently on vacation and didn’t tell him, or maybe it was a surprise.

Grinning he bounded up to her for an enthusiastic greeting, before proclaiming there were flowers to be picked. He led her by the hand, showing her the best places to pick not carnations, but sunflowers as well, and soon they had a rather large bouquet of both.

They started to both blush a little when they realized they had been holding hands the whole time.

————

It was rough, working and raising children by yourself, but it was rougher when those children were your siblings and one, if not both of them, you feared had an undiagnosed mental illness.

Walking up the stairs towards her apartment, Iryuna went, juggling both groceries and a few other bags. It was slow going, considering the six flights of stairs she had climbed, and the three more to go.

Work was terrible, more so than usual and even Felicia hadn’t been much help.

Finally reaching her apartment, she was surprised to see her neighbor, Antonio, was over, helping her siblings with their homework.

"Oh, Hello, Antonio," she smiled, setting the bags on the small counter.

"Hola, Señorita Iryuna," he beamed, getting up to give her a hand. It was quick work, putting the groceries away with help, and once they were away, he made her sit and rest a bit, while Ivan went to get her a snack.

Coming up behind her, Antonio slowly started to give her a massage, speaking of pleasant things like how well his flower shop was doing and what  a nice day it had been outside.

Slowly she started to relax, smiling at her siblings when they presented her with a veggie tray that had been arranged into a smiling face.

Closing her eyes she thanked them, feeling warm fuzzies settling around her, especially when Antonio hugged her.

Dedicated to: baronvonriktenstein, and the-dads!

[Untitled]

Humming as he walked, he blinked when his phone started to vibrate unexpectedly. There was a simple “Did you get my message?”

Frowning he looked at the unknown number and shrugged as he continued to walk home, hands filled with groceries he had previously set down.

He was met by a grumpy Lovino, who pointed to the front room, that was filled with blood red carnations— his country’s official flower— and yellow sunflowers.

Antonio smiled and added the number to his phone as “Katya” and replied with a smiley face and a heart.

**************

[Birthday Twirl]

It was his birthday and as such his BFF Francis had thrown him a glorious party. Even Roderick had come, which pleased him to no end to be honest, but not as much as when she walked in wearing, not her usual blouse and overalls, but a very well fitted dress, one that flattered her figure nicely.

It billowed beautifully when they danced.

**************

[Because I want to]

He had spoken to her, of things taking their own pace, and not trying to rush into anything they weren’t ready for, anything she wasn’t ready for. But how could she make him understand she was ready and she knew what she wanted?

But Antonio was nothing but a gentleman to her though whether it was fear of her brother or just his nature she never reflected upon too long.

Sighing she decided to take matters into her own hands and kissed him, in front of everyone.

…

Dwarven arguments went nothing like Legolas had actually expected. There was not a single weapon raised. In fact, the yelling even stopped when the woman he assumed was Gimli’s mother stormed in and said a few curt words to them. Standing rather awkwardly near the ale stained wall he wondered if he could slip out of the mountain before the rest of the company — if any others lived — came storming in.

It took what felt like an eternity, but finally Gloin turned to him, and looked him over, and Legolas got the strange feeling of deja vu. Oh right, his own father gave him the same look when inspecting his troops. Valar, he was not enjoying this. But he was called over to sit and have a drink, which he politely declined. He allowed Gimli to claim that he could not hold his liquor, and that he had bested his lover at a drinking game several times. Legolas, was content to let him think that.

Dwarven arguments went nothing like Legolas had actually expected. There was not a single weapon raised. In fact, the yelling even stopped when the woman he assumed was Gimli’s mother stormed in and said a few curt words to them. Standing rather awkwardly near the ale stained wall he wondered if he could slip out of the mountain before the rest of the company — if any others lived — came storming in.

It took what felt like an eternity, but finally Gloin turned to him, and looked him over, and Legolas got the strange feeling of deja vu. Oh right, his own father gave him the same look when inspecting his troops. Valar, he was not enjoying this. But he was called over to sit and have a drink, which he politely declined. He allowed Gimli to claim that he could not hold his liquor, and that he had bested his lover at a drinking game several times. Legolas, was content to let him think that.

Leading him over, Gimli made sure he was between his father and his lover, and listened to the whole story over again, and was glad his lover had the decency to look ashamed. Though he was just following orders. Still, he was glad he had come around and decided that not all dwarves were bad.

They were fed a meal, and all too soon, the others arrived. Gimli warmly greeted all of them, Bifor, Bofur, Bombur, Dori, Nori, and Dwalin. He passed on the sad news that Oin, Ori and Balin were dead, and that Moria was lost. Then the questioning started, along with the threatening, and Gimli soon felt it wise to retire for the evening when the heavy spirits broke out. Normally he would stay, but Legolas was looking a bit paler than normal.

Relaxing in bed, he soon found his lap full of golden hair, and he gently undid the braids at his lover’s temples, running his fingers through the strands and smiled. “You really thought I was a Goblin?”

"Well, yes. I’d never seen a dwarf child before. I was young and stupid then." Letting it drop, Gimli continued to stroke his lover’s hair til he was more relaxed, eyes half lidded as he started to drift off. Stripping him of his travel clothes, he tucked him in and slid in with him, closing his eyes hoping that eventually they would quiet down out there.

The next morning dawned, and the usual early risers merely slept on, finally catching up on all the lost sleep. Truthfully if they had had a little less passion, and a little more rest, they would have been awake and dressed by the time Aithne had entered. However, they were not, and her startled cry was enough to roust them. "Màthair,” he grumbled, pushing a bit of his hair out of his face. Surely she wasn’t startled by the fact that he and his lover were in bed. “It’s too early for this.” "His eyes were open!" "Aye, elves sleep like that. Tis odd, but I love him anyway." "Well put on some pants and come eat, it’s nearly mid day." Gurmbling, he rolled back over once she had left, and wrapped his arms around his lover, knowing they’d have to head to Mirkwood soon. That meant leaving bed, and letting go. No, he would stay there til Legolas decided to say something. Which was about two minutes later. 

They had survived the hordes of Orcs and Uruk-hai, the Paths of the Dead, and even Aragorn’s cooking! Yet still Gimli found himself pausing, now that their Quest was done. Somewhere along the way, he and that formerly insufferable elf had become friends. And a bit farther than that as well.

It was well known that Dwarves only loved once, and they loved deeply. Yes, Galadriel had caught his eye, how could she not? She was a rare beauty, much like Red Emeralds, but very much like Red Emeralds, Gimli found no desire in pursuing it. Yes, he had asked for a lock of hair, truly it was the only thing he could think of. Yet, there was another blonde elf that had caught his eye, one more accessible, after some cunning talks with their Ranger. If, in the course of these talks, he had found out said elf was married, betrothed or otherwise in love, the dwarf would have left well enough alone. But he was single. Good.

It was odd, trying to talk around him, to see if there was interest in anyone, and finally, one night Legolas had approached him, after their fellowship had fractured, and Aragorn was well and truly asleep. It was then they discussed what they had discussed what they had been dancing around, each other, their feelings, and what to do about them. They could do no more, as they found themselves swept up in the whirlwind that was Rohan, Helms Deep, and finally the Paths of the Dead.

But they could deny themselves no longer, when on the eve of battle, for Gondor and all of Middle Earth, the eve of Aragorn’s hairbrained scheme to draw Sauron’s Eye, to give the little ones a chance, that had as he put it, “Certainty of death, small chance of success… What are we waiting for?”, that they had finally succumbed to their desires. There was a chance neither would survive the battle, and to die with an untasted love? No, they could not chance passing with that.

It had been frenzied, a bit awkward, but over all passionate and pleasant night, and in the morning their tempers were greatly improved. Even the guards seemed to notice, though none commented, til Aragorn joined them to break their fast. There had been a simple “Finally”, before he went back to his bread. It had been enough to redden even Legolas’ ears, and Gandalf had politely coughed to hide his laughter.

The day had been won, and the hobbits were soon returned to them, a little worse for wear. But they had been victorious! And with that Victory, came Aragorn’s coronation, then his wedding, and much work to be done. Gimli had promised to fetch some dwarven masons to help rebuild the White City, and Legolas some elves to repair the land, and the White Tree.

Now, a few years into Aragorn’s reign, they found themselves faced with a daunting quest. Well, it was to Gimli at least. They had to tell their families, as both were finding pressure to marry. For Gimli, with the shortage of dwarven women, his father cared not if it was a dwarvish man or woman, so long as he married. Legolas was curiously finding himself more frequently in the company of elleth, and unable to find a graceful way to disappear.

Finally, with Aragorn’s assurance they could always feel back to Gondor and he would hide them some place, they decided that they would tell their fathers that they were already spoken for. Together. After all, if it got too awkward with one, they could pack, leave, and be headed to the other before anyone could sneeze. Well, if the dwarf was going to be honest with himself, they wouldn’t even unpack before telling them.

It was rather literally the roll of a die to see who would be told first, the frightening the King of Mirkwood Thranduil, or the equally frightening Gloin, son of Groin. Even numbers were decided to be Mirkwood, and odds Gloin. Odds, it was, and off they traveled to Erebor, which was mercifully close to Mirkwood.

To restock and fortify themselves for what was to come, they briefly stopped in Dale, where King Brand joyfully welcomed the sons of both of his trading partners. He asked what brought the stricken looks when they glanced in either direction, and upon their explanation, he merely laughed and offered to hide them in barrels, much to Legolas’ embarrassment.

"Why not?" he asked, "We had a company of dwarves through here in barrels once! Gimli’s own father, Lord Gloin, son of Groin was among them."

That gave the elf some pause, a slight look of horror filling his eyes before it was gone, and he cleared his throat. “Perhaps we should go to Mirkwood first, Mellon-nin, it may be a smoother course of action.”

"Nay, we decided, and I have prepared myself to face my father. We’re going to Erebor."

"Then I should tell you something."

"Nay, it can wait. We need to leave now to reach the gates before nightfall. I don’t want to spend the night outside my family’s home because I missed the guards."

Conceding, Legolas was starting to dread this even more.

The Valar seemed to have an odd sense of humour, as they managed to reach Erebor well before night fall, and they were admitted, and soon were headed towards Gimli’s home. Legoals did not know how many of the original Company to reclaim the mountain remained, but he knew if any saw him, there was likely to be a fight. One he didn’t want to have to explain.

In truth, seven of the thirteen dwarves remained there, each with their own houses, including Gloin. The closer they drew, the more apprehensive the elf seemed to get, which confused his lover. Setting an hand upon his arm as they entered, he let his lover hang back briefly as he joyously called out in dwarvish to announce his presence, though it had probably reached his father when he was still in the Great Hall.

It was a boisterous homecoming, loud calls and much back thumping. Which great even louder when Gimli admitted he had brought his beloved with him. Coughing at the stony glare, Legolas cleared his throat and sighed. “I was mistaken when I called your son a goblin. I apologize.”

"All Lives End, All Hearts Are Broken."

Mycroft had learned a great many things with His Doctor, the man with an umbrella and funny jumpers. To be compassionate, to help, to break the rules sometimes. And that caring, despite everything, would lead to pain. 

Caring. Is. Not. An. Advantage.

Years had passed since his Doctor had left him. He’d gotten a job with the Government, a minor position, he’d been schooled to say. After Canary Warf, the disappearance of the Glasgow branch, and the fall of Three in Cardiff, what was left but them? They who should never have been the one to lead, to protect? UNIT had proposed a merger, and a merger they had done, after clearing out the louts that had blown up their last sister group, scattered them to the winds. 

It was one of the many things he had been read in on, the alien, the man, The On Coming Storm, The Doctor. His face changed, he saw that in their files. He pretended to not feel his heart flutter when he saw his face, His Doctor. But he had changed, he was not the same man anymore. This face, this once he was meeting now so many years later, was not his, and yet, it was.

He smiled, so much younger than before, in a suit, trainers, and a trench coat, unable to believe that young, sweet Mycroft was the same man before him. He pointed to the umbrella, and laughed, and when he offered a hug, he couldn’t help but accept. 

Mycroft wanted to go with him, on one more adventure, but he was afraid if he went, he would never leave. Thanks were given, and another hug was accepted, before he watched him leave, a proper good bye this time.

It was the one constant, the one object that could always help her place where she was, where she needed to go, how far away she was; the bell tower. It was so dark, so ominous, but it was comforting at the same time. It was something she had always seen, always known and when she went away to university, it was always the first to greet her, welcome her home, like a dear friend, and a hated enemy.

  Whoever thought that making the bell tower look like it did, needed help, serious help. It was rumored that the creator was influenced by Gothic, but this was ridiculous! They had surpassed Gothic and went straight to terrifying, the thin tower always precariously leaning, looking too small to support the grand clock and its face, bell hidden inside. It’s spirals swirled, higher and higher the further you looked, one on top of another, each expanding from a previous one, like a fractal, to form what appeared like a horrendously cancerous set of horns a top an anorexic monster.

  No one knew how long it had been there, nor how long it would remain there, with each rise of a mid summer storm, or a great gust of the winter blizzard they expected its fall, and yet, through it all it stood there, watching them, judging them, daring them to do something about its presence.

  And then the planet started to change. The climate evened out and the inhabitants found themselves rejoicing under its stern gaze, until the the evening became a drying, drying, drying further and further into a desert that could not support the people who lived under it.

  And she watched, as it did, as the planet slowly started to starve, and the governor proclaimed that in order to survive, half the population had to die.

  And die they did, horrendous deaths, starvation, bludgeoning, shootings, mass graves open and stinking wherever you went, unable to escape the oppression, the fear, the judgment.

  The square, once kind and warm, colorful and pleasant had dried out to be a dull, tan husk of its former self, and in that square, were stains, stains of red, stains of brown and even stains of black on the stones. And it watched them, it judged them, as if watching the sacrificial offerings and determining that none were good enough for it, that the loss of life in all capacities was not good enough for it. Or perhaps it was scorning it, the death. It was frowning down upon them, at their foolishness, at their cruelty.

  But it was not until that day, the day where rescue and refuge finally arrived, did the bell tower make its scorn, or was it distaste?, known to those living below it in squalor, in fear, in feces and blood. On the day of their rescue, it fell. The tower that had withstood so many storms, so many winds, even the occasionally hacking away at its base, fell, as if in defeat, or perhaps relief.

  The towns people were shocked, and no more than she, who had always viewed the large monstrosity with both love and hatred. Had it fallen due to disrepair? Or was it ashamed? People talked, oh they talked as they always did, but with a different tone as they boarded the jeeps and Humvee, the caravans and the occasional plane and helicopter.

  And as they drove away, for what was the last time, she looked upon where the bell tower had stood, so proud and humble, looking all the world both vile and beautiful, and she knew. It had watched them for years, centuries, perhaps even millennial, and it was time to rest, finally.

  Sighing as she sat back, she mused darkly to herself, the old saying of there was no rest for the wicked. Perhaps then, this clock tower, was not so wicked or ugly, but worn for years of standing guard, protecting its people and its land, and after its final failure— though it was also its first— it gave up. But no, no, the bell tower would not give up, it was strong, it was suppose to be forever.

  Resting, then, she decided, it was just resting after all the hard work it had done.

  Closing her eyes as she laid back, the medics finally coxing the sedative into her, she could see the bell tower, still clear as day in her mind’s eye, standing tall, proudly now, nothing sinister or vile to it. Just a brave figure, disfigured by its years of service and humanity’s cruelty.

  No one ever went back to that town, now mostly stained land and desert, nothing ever grew there, they said, for all the innocent blood split, and the bodies fouling up the land. But she returned once, just once, for her own piece of mind, and felt pained, somewhere deep in her chest, behind her breast and just before her heart, at the gaping hole that stood now, where her friend and enemy had been.

  Walking through town, she found it, decaying, dying slowly, but surely over the years, worn by wind, and sand, and time. Her hand pressed against it softly and she smiled a little, feeling the familiar comfort.

However, not once had the older hunter ever considered his baby ever being turned into something like this. A man, a woman, something frightening looking yes, but a little girl -- "Ten years old," she had proclaimed excitedly -- holding his leg, looking up at him with black hair and brown eyes that were just so happy to be able to hug him, and just to be with him. 

The flash of magic, or angel power, or whatever you wanted it to call it had been pretty blinding, and Gabriel's laughing should have clued him in something was about to happen to his baby, but to see his baby turned into an actual baby -- "Child," Sam had corrected several times -- which ran and hugged his leg, proclaiming he was her "Daddy" over, and over again, while snuggling into him when he finally picked her up. 

She was cute, he gave her that, in her little jeans and boots, a small leather jacket and her hair was even held back practically. Thankfully, the trickster angel had had the decency to let the poor child be clothed. She kept hugging him, and kissing his cheek, just seemed so damned happy. Dean hadn't had the heart to do or say anything that would disappoint her.

Sam had looked amused as they walked to the nearest burger place when she said she was hungry, and really what else was he suppose to do? Let her starve? Please, she might be the Impala, but she was still a kid! She thankfully walked most of the way, holding Dean's hand and asking "Uncle Sammy" questions about Army Men toys and legos and everything. 

Their lunch had been peacefully easy, and Dean brushed off Sam's comments about him being a "good dad", and made sure she was happy and content as they went back to the motel, to figure out their next move. 

momopeachchild

When he was shown the video, he couldn’t believe his eyes. The drunk giggles in the back ground was his only clue that no one who took part in this video —save whoever edited it— was sober. That was little comfort as he saw one Tony Stark bouncing around his mansion, playing the Ukulele, well, trying to, and singing at the top of his lungs. If it wasn’t for the poster behind the billionaire, he would never had known the name of the song. 

"I’m Yours," Tony belted out, tripping a little, but still drunkenly playing the small instrument, as the card in the back changed. 

No, no, no, he had misread that, he had to have, why else would it have his name in a giant heart with Tony’s? Pressing one hand against his face, Rhodey wondered why that was the only thing about this whole video that bothered him; not even Tony’s color codded undies and not much else on bothered him!

Groaning a little as the camera angle changed, he wondered how long it was before Clint and Bruce noticed they were in a viral video? Tilting his head at the crash and the yelling, the military man figured it had just been shown to Clint, who was tearing around the building screaming for Tony.

Speaking of, as he turned to face the door to his office, he tilted his head as it slammed shut, said Billionaire laughing. “Oh you should see Clint’s face right now.”

He stood slowly and walked towards the slightly shorter man, arms folded, wearing his “don’t even think about it” face and loomed over him.

"…You saw the video?"

A single nod was given and Tony chuckled a little nervously. Before he could get the chance, the playboy found himself shoved against the shut and now locked door, having his mouth pillaged by a man who was probably only marginally stronger than he was.

When he was released, Tony moved to say something smart, but Rhodey was ahead of him. Pulling him into a fireman’s carry, he walked out of his office and as Clint ran up to him, he nudged him out of the way.

"He’s mine, Barton."