(don't fear) the reaper.

𝐟𝐢𝐠. 𝐢   —   ofreaps…  written by kit, mdt, they/them. 

              “God,   this makes me wanna grab a drink.”   He shouldn’t—   he won’t.   Gabriel scratches his head.    “What do you even make of this kind of shit?   Are we being attacked?   Clearly this is a threat,   no?” 

               “Should I throw this into it?   Yes or no,   quick answer.”   Gabriel lifts a lighter.   If it’s like the Headmaster’s void,   it will swallow it and prove nothing,   just like Blitzbang’s bracelet.   He saw it happen and yet Gabriel can’t wrap his head around that being the case. 

               “The longer I look at it,”   Gabriel sighs,   frowning.   “The less sense it makes.   You guys are the only anomaly around here,”    Well,   besides the hanging void.   “Is this some sort of trick?” 

              “Is that not his?”   His,   Harold’s,   said with an unsteady exhale.   Gabriel grips her hand.   “What the hell is going on?” 

               “Hey,    you,”    Gabriel calls out to Warden—   who he assumes is Warden,   he hasn’t memorized them by masks—   and beckons him with a wave.   “What one’s your mutation?” 

          “Are you sure one of you isn’t doing that?”   Gabriel speaks,   eyes tired but alert as he blinks at the suspended void. 

Julieta acknowledges his thanks with a nod, not knowing what else to say after the usual funeral platitudes. She is but a stranger to this people, an interlocutor to their private grieving moment. Invited by whatever mysterious connection the Headmaster had with their parent, and made attend by their parent’s order. She would not be surprised if they resent their presence, invited as it is. They are introducing on a time of mourning, of grieving, and they cannot even share a minimal aspect of their grief, because the Enigma as a whole didn’t know Harold as the former Oculus members did. It is an unbelievably awkward thing, one that makes her anxiety flare up and makes her heart race, but she is too well used to that to show any reaction.

She shifts her weight from one feet to the other, hand reaching to the gift bags on her possession to find the one she had set aside for the man. A small bouquet of crocheted chamomiles and a pair of mittens she had ended up knitting, as she had heard he had ended somewhere cold. She is not completely sure that is correct, but she hopes they will at least be helpful.

Julieta is opening her mouth to tell him she had brought a small detail as a gift, when he hears his question and cannot stop the sigh escaping her once he does. Neither can she help the swell of bitterness that accompanies the sigh, as she closes her eyes briefly in a quick prayer for strength. If she is lucky, he will accept her moniker as is, and now prod deeper as to why she was given such a name. If she is lucky, she can go through the rest of the night without anyone questioning her words.

She has never been quite that lucky, though.

“Gorgon gave me the moniker of Fearmonger, so if you would like you can call me that,” she finally relinquishes the name, if reluctantly. Underneath her face mask, her lips are twisted in bitterness, but she smooths her expression soon after. She hopes for indifference, but really, with an alias like that? It would be foolish to actually expect anything but questions from others. Unfortunately for her, Julieta is anything but foolish, so she has an inkling of how the conversation is going to continue. “It’s a bit of a mouthful, though, so Effie also works for now.”

Then, quickly, she raises his gift bag, hoping that receiving a gift will distract him from the questions that are surely floating around his head about what she did to deserve such a name.

“I know it’s kind of odd, but I brought a small gift for each of y’all? It’s nothing much, but. Well. I didn’t want to come empty handed,” she begins saying, and then winces. “Feel free not to accept it though, I know it’s weird.”

               As always,   Gabriel observes in silence.   He maps everything available to him,   from the discomfort in her voice to the minor expressions in her eyes.   Fearmonger.   Gabriel can hide it well behind his poker face   (You could stand to rely on apathy from time to time,   the Headmaster told him once,   too reactive,   he’d called him),   but the name gives him pause.   Most hero names,   he’s learned,   are a clue to one's mutation.   He can’t imagine what the hell the moniker Fearmonger entails other than something horrible.   Still,   Gabriel continues blinking lazily like a cat that can’t be bothered to move when it's approached by something bigger.   He makes notes,   shoving bits of knowledge away,   and raises a brow when he spots the handful of gift bags in her hands.   Effie lifts one up for him to take,    presumably what she’d been planning on doing before he interrupted her.

       “You brought a gift?”   Several gifts.   A gift for each Oculus member,    it seems.   Gabriel stares at her for a good five seconds before he accepts it.   He peers inside the bag right away,   unable to imagine what she would give him beyond generic flowers,   but one glance is intriguing enough to pull both items out.   In one hand,   Gabriel holds a small bouquet of crocheted flowers.   Chamomiles,   Gabriel notes,   admittedly impressed by the handcraft.   In the other,   he’s looking at a pair of mittens.

       “Mittens.”   He says,   confused.   It’s obvious that the poker face is slipping the longer he stares at them.   Gabriel hasn’t worn mittens since he was a baby,   back when his mother still bought him new winter clothes every year before she died and Gabriel had to negotiate a new jacket from Steven or simply steal it from a rack in a second-hand store.   The mittens are a clear indicator of her lack of knowledge about him because,   for all that Effie might know about his public persona from years ago and his mutation,   she doesn’t actually know him.   Gabriel bites back a bark of laughter,    but he isn’t able to hide his grin.

Though she felt uneasy today, being back at the academy after so long to bury their father figure, one thing remained certain: the one place she could count on to feel safe and right was at Gabriel’s side. It didn’t matter if they were in their home, in one of the apartments they rented while on the road, or here, where it all started, he was her home in every sense of the word. It made it easy to be honest, to finally be able to exhale after the day that they had and have a second to breathe. 

“It’s been a long day,” Grace said plainly, staring at the cigarette now between her fingertips. “I’ll quit again later.” She hesitated before bringing it to her lips, stifling the cough that came as a result.  

The description of their kitten made her giggle as she handed the cigarette back to Gabriel. “That’s what makes him so cute. But, you’re so right. I’m going to have to bake her a three-tiered cake as a thank you for handling him when we get back. To start.” It was dramatic, of course. There was plenty the two of them had done for the family over the years: plumbing issues Gabriel had helped Mr. Kim with, babysitting and cleaning Grace had done. Their neighbors were sure to insist on no payment, and they’d have to insist on thanking them somehow back. That was the pace of their chosen life now, and it was something she couldn’t wait to get back to. 

Grace smiled at his compliment and leaned into the kiss he gave to her forehead, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear. “I s’pose so.” Other than Sunday Church, there weren’t many places in their small town to get dressed up. for The two of them worked so much that they’d never get to them even if they did exist. “Scrubs and work clothes are more our speed, I think. We’d be a little too much of the talk of the town if we showed up to Rob’s Diner in suits and ties.” 

Her smile started to falter at his next question, at the very the idea of reflecting on the day and how she was doing. As the weight of the day came crashing down, she just started to speak, knowing talking to him would make all of it make more sense.  

“It’s just…. it’s so weird. Being back here. Nothing feels right.” Most of the time, Gabriel was the only person in the world she could pour her heart out to and know she was leaving it in trusting hands. No matter what she had to say, he always understood. “It isn’t just Harold being dead, too. It’s everything. Being back here and everything being dusty and empty. Talking to Mr. Moe about our life at home. The Enigmas, too. They’re… I don’t even know what to say. I guess I just don’t get what they’re even doing here.” She took a deep breath, leaning further into his shoulder. 

“One of them gave me a scarf, though.” Grace buried her head in her hands, rubbing her eyes that were starting to tear up. From exhaustion or sadness or something in between, she couldn’t really tell.  “It was actually really nice. And you?”

.

               Gabriel sits still,   intently watching Grace as she moves between shaky smiles and thoughtful frowns,   until she finally hides her head in her hands.   Gabriel puts the cigarette out on the window sill before he snaps the panels shut,   trapping the warmth inside and adding comfort to Grace as she presses against him.   Comfort and warmth,   he can offer these things physically,   but their emotional concepts are still beyond Gabriel.   While Grace stops in the middle of being about to cry to ask about him and how he’s feeling,   Gabriel can only freeze and look blankly ahead.   He couldn’t explain it even if he tried.   Grace was there when they received the news of Harold’s passing.   She saw his frozen,   wide eyes and withstood his shocked silence for hours.   He could only move to hold her,   to be something firm she could hold on to.   It wasn’t until hours later when they’d been lying in bed that he finally spoke,   and all it was was a shaky   “How?”   whispered into their dark bedroom.   

       The thing that has always amazed him about Grace is that she already knows how he feels because Gabriel will only ever show her through his actions   ( through his silence )   and she has the keen ability to pick up on it,   and yet she asks because she’s kind;   she wants to give Gabriel the opportunity to voice himself even though he’s never given her reason to believe that he will. 

       Or perhaps he has,   in those explosive outbursts of his that only ever occur when he’s angry.   Maybe Grace hopes that one day that’ll happen with a more positive emotion.   

       He feels guilty as he omits telling her about the mug he dropped in the kitchen,  whose mug it was,   about flicking a cigarette at an Enigma member earlier.   Gabriel has been messing up all day in ways that only Grace could accurately categorize as something that goes beyond being distracted,   angry,   or even Gabriel being a plain idiot.   She’d know that it was his grief,   but Gabriel feels too stupid to tell her about gripping Jac’s wrist too tightly because he was angry at the reporters,   about crashing into Quinn.   He knows she would understand,   but he can’t look on as she hides her exhausted eyes to the brim with tears,   and make this about him.   Too many people have forgotten about her pain while she healed and withstood theirs.   Gabriel swore to himself that he would never make that mistake.

       “I got mittens.”   He responds instead,   as if that’s what she’s asking about,   what gift he received from the Enigma who called herself Fearmonger   ( Fearmonger,   and she’d given Gabriel mittens ).    Gabriel focuses back on Grace.   “C’mere,”   He says,   shifting to wrap his arms around her.   “If there’s one constant in our lives,   it’ll be this,”   He squeezes her.   “And this.”   He places a kiss on the crown of her head.   The Headmaster’s death undoubtedly shook them all,   but Gabriel is selfishly glad that even in these dark times,   he has Grace by his side.   That he can be by hers. 

       After a long moment of silence,   Gabriel speaks up again.   “I should warn you,   though,”   He keeps his voice low,   “that Mrs. Kim would make us eat that cake with her.”  

STATUS  :  open to all  !  PREMISE  :  the wake at the oculus residence !

The   inner   courtyard   is   deserted.   It   feels   hostile,   and   hollow   in   a   way   that   has   nothing   to   do   with   death.   It’s   not   a   ghost—nor   the   setting   stage   to   one.   Rather,   a   door   left   half   open.   The   emptiness   that   sleeps   here   isn’t   owed   to   a   sudden   departure,   but   to   each   absence   gathered   over   the   years.   Children   leaving,   children   never   looking   back.   Lance   knows   these   smaller   hauntings,   he   knows   them   both   too   well.   He   wouldn’t   be   surprised   if   the   Enigma   house   had   a   part   that   showed   it   all   the   same.   The   wrecked   aftermath   of   departure.

He   cuts   across   the   wind-swept   path.   On   either   side   of   him,   the   larchwood   bower   parts   and   gives   into   an   opening.   The   square   is   hidden   by   the   greensward,   rising   on   a   slight   incline.   Inside,   two   benches   face   each   other   under   a   red   brick   wall.   Lance   doesn’t   need   his   training   to   tell   someone   is   already   here.   Of   course.   They   would   be,   wouldn’t   they?   This   is   the   best   hidden   spot   on   the   estate.   It’s   also   where   the   past   is   at   its   most   inescapable.  

When   he   squares   his   shoulders   and   puts   his   mask   back   on,   it   isn’t   some   sixth   sense   that   makes   him   do   it.   It   isn’t   battle   instinct,   either.   It’s   just   avoidance:   he   has   a   deep   awareness   of   it,   one   that   precedes   his   Enigma   years.   He   learned   to   hide   before   he   learned   to   fight.   He   clears   his   throat,   once   over.   Then   again.   He   lets   his   steps   tread   louder   on   the   foliage.   He   makes   himself   sure   to   be   seen,   just   as   intently   as   he’d   do   the   opposite.  

He   doesn’t   have   patience   for   a   lot   of   things   these   days,   and   he   has   even   less   reverence—especially   in   the   enemy’s   goddamn   den.   But   this,   this   safekept   loneliness,   this   licking   of   wounds?   This   is   something   he   knows.   He   respects   it   more   than   the   living,   more   than   the   dead.

“So,”   he   begins,   the   low   drawl.   “Should   we   roll   a   dice   on   it?   Who   gets   this   hideaway   for   the   next   half   hour?”   His   head   peers   out   from   behind   the   bower.   He   emerges   on   the   next   step,   arms   crossed,   mask   slightly   loose,   and   faces   the   other   in   full.   “Rock,   mutant,   scissors?”

               It’s been raining incessantly all day,  and not that normal,   steady downpour that lasts a few hours and then stops.   The rain’s been drizzly,   hanging in the air like a fine mist,   almost too gentle for him to hear,   the overcast sky divulging no hint that it’ll cease soon.   Gabriel missed a lot of things from home–   the pubs,   the humor of its people   (Gabriel is considered too brash,   too callous among Americans,   even when he thinks he’s being nice),   and he even misses the fucking sidewalks,   you can’t survive without a car in the US–    but he sure as hell didn’t miss the weather.  

       The courtyard benches are damp,   but not enough to deter Gabriel from sitting on them while he’s smoking a cigarette.   For every forty or so minutes that he’s around people,   he’s giving himself a smoking break.   He’s a third into the pack he opened this morning,   but it’s the only way he’s managing to remain sane throughout the day.   Which is why when he’s interrupted,   his already shitty mood spikes like a solar flare.   Carelessly,   Gabriel flicks the still-lit cigarette toward the stranger,   staring straight into his face,   into where he assumes his eyes are behind the mask he dons.   

       After a second,   he closes his eyes and sighs.   What the fuck is wrong with me?   He thinks,   and then,   Seriously,   what the fuck is wrong with me?    Gabriel stands,   feeling foolish as he retrieves the cigarette from the ground,   where it thankfully landed a foot-width apart from the Enigma’s dark shoes,   muttering to himself.   “That was stupid.”   The Headmaster would’ve killed Gabriel if he saw cigaratte butts littered in the courtyard,   but now that there’s no need to worry about that,   Gabriel turns his concern towards Mr. Moe.   Perhaps this would be what makes him snap and finally tear Gabriel limb from limb.   After a pause as he considers what to do with it,   he shoves it into his pocket.   He’ll deal with it later.   For now…   “On your mark.”   Gabriel levels his hands in front of him.   His left palm is stretched out,   while his right is curled into a fist,   resting on top of it. 

CLOSED STARTER for @ofreaps, at the wake, in the kitchen.

When her father had died, the house had filled with people too— but it had been a less extravagant house, with less extravagant people and yet all of the tension. Mila does not consider herself a nostalgic person and yet she feels herself pulled back to those pre-Oculus memories, of being twenty and grinding her teeth. Here she is again, then. Reunited with family, pulling open the kitchen cabinets to see if they kept her favourite mug.

Mila does not consider herself nostalgic, but here she is all the same.

Head whips at the sound of footsteps on the tiled floor, cabinet closing. The mug is still there. (Mr Moe’s doing, she assumes. He does seem the nostalgic type.) Her gaze falls on Gabriel. Reap, if you will. A hand rises, fingers scratching the sky in a wave. “Midnight snack?” As if they were kids again, as if Mila had shared a portion of teenagehood with him when they both knew she hadn’t. As if it was midnight, which it wasn’t.

“You came with Grace, right?” Their mutual ground. She moves forward, places a kiss on each of his cheeks and then a third for good measure. Left-right-left. She isn’t nostalgic, but this too is a remnant of her past, old traditions from a country long left behind. “Hi, anyway. Absolutely mental, trying to catch up with everyone, hm? You alright?” 

               Gabriel hides his sigh of relief when it’s Mila he finds in the kitchen.   She’s rummaging through the cupboards and he watches her move and talk and kiss his cheeks in silence.   Over the past few years,   he’s learned that he has to be quiet around her.   Not because she’s quiet herself,   or because of his tendency to speak callously that he spares others of his lacking social graces,   but simply to let her be.   He learned that Mila does a lot to fill a moment of silence,   whether subconsciously or not,   she cracks jokes and asks questions and doesn’t wait for answers before she’s on to the next thing.   Gabriel doesn’t want to interrupt her.   Hell,   he couldn’t if he tried–   he has to wait around for Mila to release her restless spirit into the world until she’s satisfied enough to let the other person catch up.    He’s surprised that he doesn’t mind it anymore.   Perhaps it’s thanks to Grace for dragging him along to Mila’s concerts throughout the years,   for putting on her shows during their lazy evenings in front of the TV,   for rightfully never letting them lose contact with her.   

       “I’m having one of the worst days of my life.”   Gabriel responds neatly.   He walks past her to the cupboards she’d been looking through,   nodding to her question before that.   “Grace is…   somewhere.”   He’s distracted,   looking at what Mila had been observing before he interrupted her.   The cupboards are still filled with their mugs.   “I came to look for coffee.   Do you think I’ll be fortunate enough that Mr. Moe switched from tea to caffeine in these past few years?”   As he’s doubting his luck,   he drags his mug forward,   not noticing that the handle is pushing another cup with it until it’s shattering beside his feet.   

       There is a moment of dead silence,    and then,   “Huh.” 

Had she even looked at him before now? She didn’t know. Eyes fixed on grass and mud and the sight of the mahogany box were all she could recall. Glimpses of a day she’d will herself to forget but never would. Perhaps if she were a better leader, or a leader at all, she would be there for the team. They were probably looking for guidance: a strong shoulder to cry on. But she couldn’t even look them in the eyes. What do you say tot he people who were your family and then weren’t? ‘I’m sorry that I don’t regret leaving you.’ or ‘I meant to call you but I never truly felt like it’. None of that would fly. Honesty was disgusting and the alternative was even worse. No, Jac didn’t think she’d seen Gabriel yet. She’d looked, registered his presence, but not seen. 

Then in the middle of that frozen  moment she felt pain shoot through her arm and it snapped her back to the tangible realm. And then they were through and Jac felt the air slide back into her lungs. The panic attack wasn’t over, but it was subsiding. And at least she no longer faced the crowd. They were supposed to never see her vulnerable, let alone frozen in fear. She glanced back at Gabriel, meeting his eyes. Their darkness was comforting, the same way one’s room feels the moment they turn the lights off to go to sleep. It was a familiar and comfortable dark - a welcome one. “No, no, thanks,” she choked, “I needed that.”

“Let’s just get to the car. I need a tinted window right now,” she sighed, wiping her nose on her hand with a dejected sniffle, “Fuck I’m pathetic.” 

.

               His fingers curl into his palm,   stretched and bent,   clawing at the empty air.   It’s his small secret as he listens to Jac,   half-distracted,   ridding himself of that old and familiar sensation;   familiar like rain,   uncomfortable to stand under,   shelter sought from it.   He should be used to touch,   but his brain makes unpleasant observations,   small glimpses and assessments that leave him feeling powerful and ashamed.   Gabriel has always wondered if Jac ever feels that way when she’s staring into someone’s eyes,   thinking about how easy it would be to hypnotize them,   how quickly they would fall under her influence.   As she’s meeting his eyes,   he wonders if it scares her the way it scares him to touch her.   

       “They’re pathetic. You…”   Gabriel pauses.   What was he going to say?   With furrowed brows,   there’s a miniscule shake of his head as he lowers his gaze.   “This isn’t the time for that.”   That being the media frenzy a few feet away,   but perhaps he also means the conversation.   Arcade had always been the pinnacle of control and strength of character in the team.   She was great with the cameras,   in the interviews,   steadfast in both appearances and attitude.   Gabriel used to hide behind that,   he used to hide behind her and Starbright and Mila,   and even that sonofabitch Quinn,   who was better at handling the media in a way that Gabriel never told him he was grateful for.   

       He has no idea who Jac is now,   though.   He can tell that she’s not used to it anymore.   Maybe they share more in common now than they ever did a decade ago.   

       Grace rode ahead with Mila,   so Gabriel nods and heads toward one of the awaiting cars.   He doesn’t know why,  but he holds a door open for Jac before he goes around the black Sedan and climbs into the seat beside her.   He doesn’t bother to buckle himself in,   only crosses his arms across his chest,    staring out his window,   giving her a moment to compose herself.   Halfway to the estate,   he speaks again.   “You meet any of the Enigmas yet?” 

𝚛𝚒𝚟𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚑𝚚,          +         open     starter.

with:  anyone  ! location:  foyer  /  heading  towards  the  bar.

reality     aches     towards     precarious.   a   balance   quinn   tried   desperately   to   maintain   began   to   reveal   cracks;   dreaded   vertiginous   sense   that   came   with   his   stomach   dropping   at   the   sight   of   his   childhood   home.   [   no   headmaster   waiting   for   a   report,   budding   teammates   alongside.   it’s   low   hanging   lightning   +   a   congregation   of   flashing   bulbs.   ]   fight   for   a   steady   composure   against   the   current,   feeling   greedy   hands   grasp   at   the   seams,   searching   for   a   loose   thread   to   tug.   it’s   an   event   quinn   had,   admittedly   with   misplaced   faith,   hoped   would   never   happen.   figured   knox’s   ingenuity   would   absolve   him   from   the   inevitable   -—   be   there   to   guide   quinn   through   the   murk   of   it   all.   but   fate   +   heart   complications   refuted,   otherwise.   front   door   slammed   with   outer   layer   shrugged   off,   feel   immediate   guilt   weigh   down   the   armour   that   comes   in   the   form   of   a   black   suit.   edges   worn   like   it’s   owner,   altered   to   safely   hide   holsters,   throwing   knives   at   the   ready.   old   habits   died   miserably   hard.

attempt   to   avoid   nostalgia   like   some   old   friend.   the   afternoon   was   meant   to   comfort   others,   balance   trepidations   with   steadfast.   [   grievances   were   already   dealt   with   a   cheap   bottle   +   a   late   night   in   the   office.   brushed   off   under   the   label   of   minor   feelings,   someone   had   to   keep   pieces   together.   ]   grey   hues   caught   sight   of   the   bar   across   the   opening   of   the   dining   room.   one   drink   to   bring   himself   steady.   movement   breaks   into   callous   actions,   an   accidental   collision   of   shoulders.   ❛   christ   -—   ❜   it’s   instinctive,   spit   out   the   name   to   fill   missing   gaps.   heels   turned,   features   contort   into   a   sheepish   apology,   ❛   sorry,   my   bad.   i   just   .   .   .   haven’t   seen   the   place   filled   with   so   many   bodies   in   a   while.   ❜

.

               When he was fifteen,   Gabriel carried a handful of trash across Elisabethville Cemetery.   He had picked it up from his mother’s gravesite–   a glass bottle of melted wax,   a bouquet of wilted tulips,   two stray pages of newspaper from three years prior,   and a brown paper bag,    the kind that convenience stores sell bottles of alcohol in.   That was the day he realized that mourning was not for him.   A month later he was sitting in the Headmaster’s office,   the two in some sort of staring contest while Knox tried to coax information out of Gabriel while he fought and obstructed him,   unwilling to give details about the circumstance that brought him to the academy.   Neither of them imagined today.   Whether Harold knew that his students were eventually headed into a future of maintained distance from each other was unknown;   after all,   the only reason they’re all back together is because he’s dead,   which was a completely unintentional way to plan a reunion on his part.   At least,   Gabriel assumes–   how can he not?   Harold made no attempts to reach out.   Gabriel thought he was letting him live in peace by moving so far away.   Hell,   it never crossed his mind that the Headmaster had it in him to die so early.   He’d never seen Knox struggling with health issues,   rather,   he’d seemed above them all.   Now that he thinks about it,   it only goes to show how little the Headmaster shared with them.   

       As he turns a corner,   lost in his observances,   he walks right into a shoulder.   Gabriel feels the collision of bones,   the pecularity of them shifting and quickly moving away from him.   When he loses contact,    he blinks and turns his eyes to Quinn.   He stares,   shaking like a wounded animal,   trying to recognize this man in front of him.   It’s been years since the last time he saw him–   he doesn’t remember ever saying goodbye to him.   The two of them must’ve been leaving a room in a hurry,   with no idea that it would be years before they spoke again.   If Gabriel knew it back then,   he doubts that he would’ve made an attempt to have that conversation with Quinn.   As it is,   he simply stands,   not even knowing where to place his feet,   mouth hanging open with what would’ve been an apology and an agreement.   He closes it.   A frown forms.   He steadies himself and catches on to where Quinn was moving.   

        “Might as well.”   Gabriel deadpans,   shifting his direction towards the bar,   cursing himself for his unruly bearings.   Two glasses are placed atop the bar and a glance is thrown behind him to see if the man would join him.  

who? open

where? the wake, the oculus academy manor

note: oculus starter! it’s mutant christmas and santa fearmonger is bring you presents

The atmosphere is neighboring unbearable as soon as she enters the manor, the feeling of questioning eyes upon her as she strides inside with her back straight and nine understated gift bags on hand. The nerves are there, ever present, but she refuses to shrink into herself on her first appearance after years living without the mask. Julieta might not be prideful, might have too many self-esteem issues for that, but she is working on it. Slowly building up her confidence from the bare scraps, so that she doesn’t cower in moments just like this.

She feels the gazes of her siblings upon her, and she knows she will have to talk to them at some point during the night. She will have to find Zephyr and have the conversation she has been pushing back for years, meet Homura and apologize for the pain she put him through. Julieta has an endless list of grievances to apologize for, but she can’t start the evening with them, not after the funeral, not after witnessing her parent cry for what seems to be the second time on her life. She wants to ask Hollis what Harold meant to them, wants to ask if they would grief for her the same way they grief the Headmaster and grieved Homura. Wants to know why was she invited, when she was always barely treated as family.

Likely so that the world learns that all of Enigma has survived and respects the Headmaster, nothing more or less.

It’s all she has come to expect of Hollis, but the thought still hurts.

The sound of steps breaks her from her reverie, and she looks up, covered eyes meeting the maskless face of a former Oculus member. Julieta inclines her head in greeting, the desire to give them a smile and thus ruing the fact she has a face mask struggling against her fear of her identity being discovered. Still, she has worked with masks in the past, worked with those incapable of distinguishing facial expressions, so she knows how to make her body language open, welcoming.

“I know it sounds like an empty platitude,” she begins to say, voice soft and low, a contrast to her naturally loud volume in a further attempt to disguise who she is. “But I am sorry for your loss.”

             The incongruity of the Headmaster’s funeral hasn’t escaped him,   grief and reunions not withstanding.   That he expected;   to once again share a space with his former teammates and navigate the fragile state of their relationships to one another.   He prepared for it after the news of the Headmaster’s passing had settled upon him even as a murky shroud that he failed to actually grasp.   But he knows his former teammates,   however unsure he is as to who they are now,   he knows them well enough that he could anticipate what was to come when he arrived back in England.   On the other hand,   with one sweeping glance he spots the odd assortment of guests abound the academy halls,   some already familiar with its grounds,   others treading through it with trepidation and curiosity–   or perhaps morbidity.   Gabriel feels like an exposed bone.   Was it the Headmaster’s wish to have the fabled Enigmas in attendance to his funeral?   What did their presence mean other than a diplomatic display to the public?   Gabriel’s of half the mind not to care,   to chalk it up to the everchanging nature of life and how the past and the present always seem to contradict one another.    The other part of him tries to look beyond the veil and beyond those masks they wear.   He can’t tell if they’re smiling as they move from room to room,   observing the remnants of his past as if they’re at the grand opening of a museum.   All of it unnerves him. 

        Perhaps to them they are.   God knows they weren’t taught to see each other with any sort of kinship.   Even Gabriel has been curious about the opposition over the years,   more so because the Enigmas showed nothing of themselves beyond the dark clothes they clad themselves in–   now that he’s looking at them,   it’s hard to call them uniforms–   and making loud statements without ever actually giving themselves a platform to speak on.   He always wondered what it would be like if their roles were reversed,   if they’d been raised how the other was,   if they were at their caretaker’s funeral instead of Harold’s.   He has always considered them lucky,   even if he told the cameras a different story.   Today is no different.

      When Gabriel was a younger man he would’ve scoffed and sneered at her words,   well hidden behind the feelings of competition and otherness nurtured between them.   He knows that if one of them steps out of line he might revert back to that place in his life,   that he might finally pick the fight he was always looking for back then,   but it’s been nothing but a solemn day,   too tired to do anything but sit and stare and wonder why he wasn’t here the year before,   regretting his lack of contact with the man who is six feet under the earth.

closed: for @ofreaps·

The affair was winding down by the time Grace made it up the stairs, creeping through the old house like a stranger, on the hunt for the companion she’d lost at some point in the afternoon. Down the hall, another left turn, and there he was in front of her, in the first spot she’d thought to look: a window bench not far from their childhood rooms, where they’d spent so many hours chatting, dreaming, learning each other like the back of their hands. The rain sound was clearer up here, and she realized the window was ajar, probably because of the cigarette in his hands. 

“Figured I’d find you here,” Grace slipped her loafers off and settled into the bench beside him, leaning her head on his shoulder. Usually, her spot would be across from him, the two of them on opposite ends of the window, their feet tangled in the middle. She reached a hand out for him to hand her the cigarette. She’d mostly kicked the habit she in part got from him over the years–if she came into work smelling like smoke, the old ladies at the retirement home wouldn’t stop begging her for one. Today, though, was different. 

“I miss the babies,” she said wistfully, staring out the window where the rain was still gently coming down. Their babies being the two foster kittens Gabriel had brought home a couple weeks ago whom Grace was nursing back to health. Their neighbors had been happy to take them in while the two were abroad, but she couldn’t help but think on them. “And we’re missing Jeopardy. It’s the Tournament of Champions, too.” 

“You look nice, by the way. If I haven’t said it already.” 

.

               Gabriel,    theoretically,   knows why he smokes.   It’s nicotine,   of course.   Science does a simple job of explaining addiction,   but the psychology of it requires an entirely different field,   a social science,   the one that everyone is too ashamed to admit they seek the most help from.   Mr. Knox explained it to him once,   the first time he caught Gabriel smoking.   His torso was leaned so far over the window that he looked like he was trying to jump down instead of attempting to keep the smoke outside when a hand dragged him in by the collar and he stared wide-eyed at the Headmaster.   His mouth fought between swallowing or spitting the stick out,   but in the end,   Mr. Knox snatched it from his lips and promptly put it out on the bottom of his shoe.   Gabriel remembers staring as he did,   somehow more surprised that Mr. Knox was soiling the soles of his nice shoes over anything else.   He’d given him one of his long,   tedious lectures then.   Self-righteous but educational,   and more understanding than Gabriel would’ve expected.   From then on he never smoked inside the academy.   Until now. 

       “You’d quit,”   He says as he hands over the cigarette,   the weight of Grace’s warm body bringing him back from his idle,   grief-stricken thoughts.   Nevertheless,   he lets her take it and forgets ownership of it.   There is nothing one of them owns that the other doesn’t.   Absentmindedly,   he shifts his shoulder to allow her more comfort.   

       For Gabriel,   this is the spot where it all started.   Not the training rooms,   not even their first time meeting,   but this small window seat that looks out to the surrounding expanse of forest.   He used to sit here on his own,   pulsating with anger,   resentful of his circumstances while the team was away on a mission and he’d just finished another training session that yielded no results.   Then Grace arrived at the academy and he was never alone again.   He even remembers being angry with her about it,   like somehow it was her fault for arriving that now he had to do terrible things to her.   His rage was directed in every direction it could possibly reach.   Gabriel made it hard to get along in the beginning,   but eventually,   he all but melted around her.   He turned into a different person–   less guarded,   less upset,   smiling with ease he’d never felt before.  

       “They’re probably too busy tearing up Mrs. Kim’s curtains to realize they’re not even home.   I caught Boots wrestling his own hind leg the day before we left,   that one especially has nothing in his brain.”   He sounds disappointed,   yet the gentle smile on Gabriel’s face is anything but.   “We’ll catch up.”   The wake is only meant to be a momentary trip away from home,   after all.   While the effects of it will certainly last longer,   they’ll at least be back to their lives while they contend with the rest of their grief.   

       “I guess I haven’t been this cleaned up in ages.”   He responds,   half-hearted in his attempt to palliate his mood.   “You as well.”   Gabriel leans close and places his lips on the crown of her head,   whispering.   “How are you holding up?”