idk what it is about writing future caleb that brings out these raw lines but holy shit yâall this thing from yesterday is actually pretty good
âAnd if he ever returns to the city,â Caleb says quietly to the pensive elven mage before him, two cups of tea set between them and the teleportation circle upstairs still murmuring with warmth, âkill him.â
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Welcome to the linked universe fandom friend! I originally followed you for taz and I think this is the first fandom since then youâve gotten into that I actually know, so Iâm very excited! I loved your writing so much itâs just so beautiful and emotional and I canât wait to see what you do with LU.
But prompts, hmmmâŚ..take your favourite two or three of the boys and write them bonding? Optional starter/premise: âdonât tell Timeâ
:D!!! Hey, anon! Thank you, that means a lot!! I'm glad we're matching up again. And oh boy, do I have more of that writing coming. The LU boys have absolutely overtaken my brain, and none of them have enough rupees to pay rent.
Hope you enjoy!
--
A muffled clatter and half-bitten curse tugs Hyrule from sleep.
He blinks awake, and the timbers of the old manâs ranch stretch across his view. Small motes of dust alight with soft pinks and golds, drifting through the air like fairies, and Hyrule pulls himself upright. The sun is little more than a sliver atop the trees.
âItâs too early for this,â he mutters to himself, and leaps out of his skin when another voice responds, âYeah, it is.â
He whips around to meet the grinning face of the Captain. For someone whose thigh is currently being used as a sailor's pillow, who is running their hands through an eternally salt-crusted head of hair, he looks awfully smug. âGot you.â
Hyrule ignores him and instead asks, âWhat was that? What happened?â
âChampion and the rancher happened. Theyâre making something for the old man.â
Beside him, Legend rolls over in sleep. Further back on the beds, which theyâd all shoved together late last night, Fourâs arm is wholly bound by Skyâs vicelike grip. Their first Chosen has his head pillowed on Fourâs shoulder, and Hyrule bites back a grin at the view. Heâs pretty sure Fourâs fingers are turning purple.
âPoor smithy,â the Captain murmurs, dripping with false sympathy, and Hyrule stuffs his hand against his mouth to keep from laughing.
He yawns and rolls out of bed and picks his way over the sleeping bodies of his brothers, making it through the doorframe without disaster. The corners of the walls are rose, this early in the morning, as he treads softly through the halls. He's blinking away sleep as he rounds the corner of the kitchen.
âWhat,â Hyrule whispers, âthe fuck.â
Wild and Twilight both freeze, whipping around with fear in their eyes. When they see itâs him, they both deflate. Then Wild swells right back up again, leveling one flour-covered finger at him. âYou!â he hisses. âGet out!â
Timeâs kitchen, Timeâs spotless, well-loved kitchen, is covered in flour. It looks as though a small snowstorm has flurried directly over all of his counters. Wild and Twilight's clothes are the epicenter of the storm. Was Wild's tunic once blue? Hyrule sure can't tell.
Hyrule takes an awed step closer, and Wild hisses, literally hisses at him, brandishing a wooden mixing spoon. âGet out! Traveler!â
âMake me,â Hyrule says, peering curiously into Twilightâs bowl. Heâs punching some weird, tan glob. The imprint of his knuckles rises on the surface. âWhat are you making?â
âTwi, the last time he tried to cook, the stew animated. It tried to kill us, Twi.â
It had. Hyruleâs still not entirely clear on how that happened, but heyâthatâs their cookâs problem, not his.
âI donât think our cinnamon rolls are going to develop homicidal tendencies if Hyrule watches us make them, Wild.â
âDo you really want to risk it?â Wild whispers, brandishing his spoon now in Twilightâs direction. âReally?â
Twilight hesitates. Hyrule holds up his hands in the universal gesture of peace. âIâm not gonna touch anything!â he promises, as convincingly as he can.Â
Wild squints at him. Twilight sighs, and goes back to sparring his weird inflatable punching bag. Hyrule emphatically does not understand the point of challenging an opponent who cannot hit back and is probably also going to turn into food. âBut really, what are you doing?â
âFor the old man,â Twilight explains, pulling off a piece of the dough and handing it to Wild, who promptly turns to the window and stretches it and holds it up like heâs making an offering to Hylia. Hyrule stares at him, perplexed. âTheyâre his favorites.â
Hyruleâs seen these before, he thinks. âHuh. Are those the ones that swirl around?â
Wildâs hands drop from where he was spreading the dough and he whips around on his heel. âHave you never had a cinnamon roll before?â
âUh,â Hyrule says, âno?â
Both of them stare at him, oddly aghast. Hyrule feels his shoulders rise to his ears, uncomfortable. âSorry?â
âSorry?â Wild hisses. He slaps the piece of dough into Twilightâs bowl. âA few more minutes. And Hyruleâs getting the first one.â
âNo arguments from me, Champion.â
âSoâŚwhat are they?â
âHeaven in your mouth,â Wild says, at the same time Twilight says, âCinnamon-flavored baked good.â
âWith icing,â Wild adds.
âI see,â says Hyrule, who does not see at all. âWhatâs icing?â
Wild stares at him. He then, very slowly, puts his face in his hands.
Twilight pats his shoulder consolingly. âRemember when Wild made that cake?â
Hyrule brightens. âThe fruitcake! Yeah!â It was one of the best things he can ever remember eating. To be fair, he says that about all of what Wild makes, but that fruitcake was good even for Wild, which is saying something. There were these fruits Wild called wildberries, which had made everyone within earshot laugh when he announced them, for the perfect suitability of the nameâyou even got berries named after you, Champion?âand sliced apples and a soft fluffy white spread on top that had reminded Hyrule of clouds, and Skyâs sailcloth when the Chosen hero folds it up for one of their injured to use as a pillow.
âThe white stuff on top? That was icing.â
âI loved that stuff!â Hyrule pauses. âI mean, I loved the whole cake. But that was really good too!â
Wild snorts. âFine. He can stay,â he mutters, and waves Hyrule to a chair, a grin breaking across his face. Hyrule laughs. Heâll happily hand out more compliments if he gets to stay and watch this strange process of baking happen.
Eventually Twilight finishes punching the dough into submission. Wild rolls it out, spreads something along the inside, rolls it back up, and sticks it in the brick oven. Twilight wipes sweat off his face and then after a momentâs contemplation wipes his sweat on Wildâs forearm and then dances away, laughing, as Wild tries to retaliate with an armful of cinnamon rolls and nearly drops them all.
âCareful, Champion,â Twilight chides, in a deep, resonant imitation of Timeâs voice, and Wild rolls his eyes as Twilight grins and pulls up a chair next to Hyrule.
âWhat now?â Hyrule asks, peering at the oven. Nothing seems to be happeningâthere are no flames rolling out from the inside, or any fire magic at all, as far as he can senseâbut neither Wild nor Twilight seem concerned by this lack of movement, so itâs probably fine.
âNow, we wait.â
The old man is an early riser. Not as early as their Champion or Captain, but heâs normally up before the sun makes a full circle in the sky. At Lon Lon Ranch, though, he tends to sleep even later than their birdbrained Chosen. So slowly, the rest of their merry little band trickles into the kitchen, wiping sleep from their eyes and sniffing at the air.
And every single time, both Wild and Twilight tense, and every time they relax, seeing a face that isnât Timeâs.
After watching this same process happen for the third time, as a sleepy Wind stumbles into the room and goes wide-eyed at the smell, Legend leans over to Hyrule and whispers, âIâm gonna tell Time.â
Hyrule glares at him. âDonât you dare.â
Legend holds up his hands in easy surrender, but Hyrule keeps glaring, just in case. He has no idea if the veteran knows how to make cinnamon rolls, but Hyrule kind of does now, so he knows how much care went into this surprise. âVeteran, donât.â
âFine,â Legend grumbles, settling back with a steaming mug of tea in hand. âSpoilsport.â
If he werenât holding tea, Hyrule would shove him off his chair. From the smirk on Legendâs lips, he knows. Hyrule bares his teeth and Legendâs grin only widens, raising his mug in mock-salute.
Finally, Sky staggers into the kitchen, nosing at the air through half-lidded eyes. Wild pours him a wordless cup of coffee, which Sky accepts with a half-nod and a truly impressive chug, then opens the oven. He leans back as a wave of heat licks into the kitchen, then reaches in.
Twilight grabs his elbow and hands him an oven mitt. With a longsuffering sigh, Wild takes it.
From the oven he pulls a tray of glistening, golden-brown spirals. Theyâve grown significantly since Hyrule saw them last, and he watches curiously as Wild taps his fingernail against one. After nodding, satisfied, he reaches for another bowl and sets to stirring something. Behind him, Twilight starts dusting off the countertop, and after more than a couple pointed glares and muttered threats about watch rotations, the rest of the boys groan and gripe to their feet to help.
The sound of footsteps down the hall has all of them freezing in place, heads sticking up from behind the countertops like panicked gophers. Six of them scatter. Twilight tries to readjust the tray of rolls and bites back a curse, shaking out his burned hand. Wild grabs his bowl and upends the white concoctionâthat must be icingâon the cinnamon rolls in an impressive display of speed and precision. Heâs just set the bowl rattling on the countertops when Time walks in, already frowning at the strange smell.
Time looks at the cinnamon rolls. He looks at Twilight and Wild, stood behind a clean countertop, surrounded by freshly-cleaned bowls, clothes absolutely covered in flour. He looks at the rest of the boys, who are seated on the various furniture in a truly terrible imitation of casualness. Legend is holding his book upside-down.
âAh,â Time says. âMalon told you?â
âWild asked,â Twilight says immediately, and Wild gapes at the betrayal.
âTwilight! You liar, you literally asked last night!â
Time starts laughing, and both of them stare at him, before breaking out into huge grins of their own. âIt smells heavenly,â he says, pulling the chair out. His grin only widens as the six of them, Hyrule leading the pack, hurry around the table. âYou made these for me?â
âFor welcoming us,â Wild says; quieter, Hyrule thinks, than he means to. âInto your home. You didnât have to.â
Timeâs expression softens. Wild picks up one of the cinnamon rolls and pushes it across the table, shoulders riding up to his ears as his cheeks flush, and Time says, âItâs my pleasure, Champion. You are always welcome here. Donât forget that.â
âAnd for, yâknow, always saving our lives,â Twilight says dryly, and the weight of the quiet moment shatters, drawing chuckles from the whole group. âTraveler! Youâre next!â
Hyrule bounds forward, not bothering to disguise his eagerness. âEat it while itâs warm,â Wild says. âAnd if it starts trying to kill you, then that is your fault and you are not getting another one.â
âHey!â Hyrule yelps, as laughter spills out of him. The rest of the heroes descend eagerly on the warm creations. It doesnât take long before the first of the buns are devoured, and within moments, Wind is hauling himself bodily over the table, grabbing for seconds.
A few minutes later, the heroes burst out into welcoming cheers as Malon wanders into the kitchen, a knowing glint in her eyes. She gasps with ill-feigned shock at the cinnamon rolls, a glint of mischief in her eyes that perfectly matches the one the old man sometimes wears, and Time wraps an arm around her waist and pulls her close. Her eyes close contentedly as he kisses her cheek.
âYou have to make these more often,â Hyrule tells Wild, as heâs polished off his second and claimed a third. Across the table, a scuffle erupts as Four steals Warriorsâs second cinnamon bun, protesting how hard it is to reach the middle of the table with his short arms, and ducks away from their Captain's retaliatory shove, shaking with silent laughter.
âSure,â Wild says, then nudges Hyruleâs shoulder with his own. âHey, traveler. You got a favorite dessert? For no reason in particular,â he adds hastily. âJustâŚcurious.â
Hyrule grins. âI havenât had many,â he confesses, and Wildâs expression turns considering. âGive me a few more samples and then Iâll pick.âÂ
Wild nods, satisfied. "I will."
Across the table, Time sets a hand on Twilightâs shoulder. There are matching smiles curled up their lips. Between them, Malon sets one hand on her hips, and messes up Twilightâs hair with the other, leaving the rancher to try to smooth it back out in dismay. He rears back, indignant, and Time and Malon laugh, and laugh, and laugh.
The first of the sunâs rays brush the top of the kitchen table, setting the corners of the wood ablaze with embers of light, as outside, dawn spins soft and golden into morning.
An FYI masterpost of the in-jokes, side-notes and fun-facts of At The Tenth Hour, the Penumbra longfic I'm working on! Will be updated as more of the story comes out. There won't be any spoilers for the rest of the fic until I've posted the whole story.
Want to read the fic? You can find it here!
The Prologue
[To be added when fic is finished; there's a lot for this section, but almost all of it is spoilers!]
Chapter One
The Chet (Ricochet) and the Scope: basically, this duo can take information at any wavelength and send it anywhere. The signal is then passed through galaxies, oftentimes using the reflective atmospheres of other planets to make tight turns. The albedos mentioned in Chapter Two are essentially measures of a planet's reflectivity, and therefore a quantitative estimate of how much information would be lost if that planet was used as a mirror. But you wanna know what it really was? A fetch quest! Love a good fetch quest for the Carte Blanche.
The Solar Councils are split into three sections. The Inner Council governs the inner planets, which are split from the outer planets by the asteroid belt. Basically that means the Inner Council is Mercury, Venus, Earth, and Mars; the Outer Council is Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus, and Neptune. The Council of the Belts is the asteroid belt, the Kuiper Belt (which involves Pluto), and also the hand-wavey misc. category.
The "fiddly screw in the bottom-left-hand corner" is 100% a screw that Nureyev has messed with while making a ruckus in the CB's vent systems. He knows they're all pointed directly vertical because he always leaves them that way when he uses the vents. Oh, Nureyev.
The location Tonlap is based on the Cambodian lake Tonle Sap, which has a number of floating villages from which I drew pretty direct inspiration. Touk is the Khmer word for - you guessed it - boat. The customs, like tipping and eyeless fish and such, were from the mind of yours truly.
The name Eris comes from the Greek goddess of discord. She's the one who threw the Apple of Menelaus into the council of the gods and said "that's for the fairest" and then basically kickstarted a war because Athena, Hera, and Aphrodite are just the sorest losers you'll ever meet.
The environment of Susano'o is based on the Nether in Minecraft. Yep, that video game about blocks and weird-looking sheep. Good thing there aren't any Ghasts on Susano'o.
Jet's "near-infinite battery" is made from technology he salvaged from M'tendere's inventions. It's his way of honoring an old friend, and continuing their work. He doesn't quite have the trick of a truly bottomless battery, but he's getting there.
Sure is weird how Eris died, huh?
Chapter Two
The names Cirilla, Regis, and Jaskier are all taken from the Witcher franchise. Is there a reason for this? Not really! I just love the franchise and the names are cool. (Hot take: Regis is a criminally underrated character, though that's probably because he only shows up in the expansion pack for Wild Hunt.)
Pancakes! Guess who used to make the pancakes the family doesn't eat anymore! Yep, it's Juno. Sad.
Sun of the Cerberus - yep, a title I made up for Buddy! Vespa's complement is the Moon of Ranga, because I love titles like that.
The bit about Saturnian Redwings was entirely to highlight how badly Nureyev's always wanted a parental figure. Just...kid Nureyev, hearing about creatures whose parents are with them until they die. I think he'd really like that.
Bicak is Turkish for "knife", and mesec an anglicization of "moon" in Croatian. Ilanga is an anglicization of "sun" in Xhosa. Jade is the same color as the Ruby.
Nureyev's bit about sub-Jovian points is accurate (as far as my limited astronomical knowledge goes)! There's a sub-Jovian point on Callisto's surface, from which Jupiter is always visible overhead. Flashy, isn't it?
The whole bit about the Ionian pet trade was a direct pull from one of Nureyev's lines from, gosh, one of the episodes (Mega Ultrabots, maybe?). Juno's like "have you ever smuggled an elephant from a crowded building" and Nureyev was like "yes" and so I decided I was gonna riff on that. So that's where he smuggled the elephant out. Good for him.
The name Pelias comes from Greek mythology. He's the one who issued Jason's challenges, the ones Jason had to complete to regain the throne he stole. There were three challenges, and one of them was to plant dragon teeth in a field. He was tipped off that the teeth would turn into warriors, so he threw a stone between them to cause them to fight amongst themselves. Inspiration for the brawls at the gala came directly from that.
Selene Emera's name sure was weird, wasn't it? Wonder where those names came from.
Yasha catches him before she leaves. "Wait," she asks, so he does. "I wanted to give you this."
She holds out the Holy Avenger.
Caleb looks at it, then looks up at her. She looks as earnest as ever, and affection pangs through him just as strongly as his bafflement. "Yasha," he says, pointing to his pathetic biceps, "I am a stick."
"What? No. No, I don't want you to use this. I would be more worried about you cutting yourself open than someone else."
"Ja, as would I," Caleb says. Behind her, Beau buries her laughter into her fist, and Caleb rolls his eyes at her. "I assume there is another reason you are giving me this?"
"Oh! Yes, well, you had mentioned that you were going to see the Lady Allura, and her wife was very clear that if I did not return the sword, she would kill me." Yasha cocks her head. "Actually, I think it was something more along the lines of if you die and lose the sword, then I will kill you, but I think she was mostly worried about the sword and not me."
"I would not be so sure, she liked you well enough to offer you the sword in the first place," Caleb says. "Though perhaps that was simply because she enjoyed the world not being razed to the ground by a flying city of flesh. Also you should know that if I take that sword from you, I will drop it, and then I will have no right foot."
"Oh come on, Caleb, it's not that heavy."
Caleb pats her biceps. "You are very strong, my friend."
"He's right," Beau calls from behind Yasha. "You're super strong, babe. Caleb's kinda really weak though."
"Thank you as always, Beauregard."
She shoots him a thumbs-up. He flicks her off and says, "If you put it down, I will add it to my vault. There I am not in danger of losing my toes."
"Okay, okay, okay," Yasha says, and sets it down. "Do send the Lady Kima my regards, would you?"
Caleb pulls out his vault of amber and begins to cast. "Of course, of course."
--
He offers to take the rest of the Nein with him, but they decline. Jester, Fjord and Kingsley are preparing for their voyage, Veth happy with her family and Caduceus already departed for the Blooming Grove. So it is with Essek alone that he makes the journey.
They arrive to the estate in Tal'dorei at midmorning by Caleb's estimation, which was just past sunset in Nicodranas. At their knock, they are admitted--the estate does not even blink at the presence of a drow holding a lace-embroidered parasol as a shield against the sun--and gestured to wait for the presence of the Lady Allura Vysoren.
After five minutes or so Essek leans over and whispers, "Now this is somewhere I would love to study."
Caleb smiles. "I as well. However that possibility is contingent on us making a good impression, I believe, and to do so we will need to return these." He nods at the sword, which had taken his and Essek's combined strength to haul up the stairs.
Essek looks longingly at the staff held loosely in Caleb's left hand. "Even that focus, Caleb, the power it holds. I would very much like to create one for myself."
"It is not a simple task, to be sure," says another voice, and the Lady Allura Vysoren glides down the staircase, smiling at Caleb and nodding to Essek. "I thank you for your considerate notification of your arrival. If I am to understand my colleague correctly, such foresight is not so common in your group."
"Contrary to popular belief, we are indeed capable of learning," Caleb jests back dryly. "I am also under the impression that if we were to forget to return these items to you two, the life of our barbarian would be in mortal danger, so we would like to do so now."
Allura looks at the Holy Avenger and runs her fingertips across it. She closes her eyes, and from behind them, a pale blue colors the insides of her eyelids. She nods, appeased at the sword's truth, then takes the proffered Staff of Power. She was not tense at her first appearance, but her stance relaxes as the white staff is returned to her grasp. She holds it up and runs an assessing gaze of the oak, and nods again when she finds it maintained to her satisfaction.
"Thank you for taking such good care of these," she says. "In the hands of other adventuring parties, and I am not sure I would have faith that they would return in one piece."
"It is the favor of fortune itself that returned these items to you from our hands," Caleb says dryly, "I am not sure we deserve all of the credit. Still, we owe you a debt for your generosity, Lady Allura, you and your wife. As does the world, though it may not ever know."
Allura smiles wryly, settling the staff back at her side. "I find that the world knows me well enough already. Your group, on the other hand. I learned of what you have done from Yussa, and the Council is aware, but apart from that, I am afraid that it is not likely that renown will ever be yours."
Caleb nods. At his side Essek says, "We are well aware. That is also not why we did what we did."
Allura looks at him and tilts her head. "I don't believe we've met."
"Forgive my manners. I am Essek Thelyss, of Rosohna."
Caleb looks at him sidelong as he proffers his hand for a shake. It is rare that Essek introduces himself with his true name, much less with the name of his home. But there is respect and perhaps awe in his eyes as he shakes the Lady Allura's hand, and Caleb finds himself muffling a smile of his own. Compassion, Caleb thinks, has changed Essek more than even the drow himself knows.
"Lady Allura Vysoren of Tal'dorei," Allura says in return. "And a number of rather excessive titles that I would normally include, but don't seem quite as relevant here." Allura grins at Caleb. "I will return this blade to my wife, and your barbarian will be safe from her wrath."
"Ah, that is all we can ask," he says, grinning in return. "Please also pass along our friend's sincerest regards. Thanks in part to this blade, we are all alive. That is all we could wish for at the end of our venture."
"Yes," Allura says slowly. "About that."
She hesitates for a moment. Then she snaps her fingers, and a fire springs into the hearth beside her. She sits. After a moment of confusion, Essek and Caleb follow suit.
"What you've done here will not be recognized by the world," Allura says, her voice more grounded now than it was before. "And that is a shame, but also a necessity. It does little good to alarm the public of a threat already passed."
Embers sprout from the fire like a dragon's wings. Allura's gaze drifts to the flame, and Caleb finds himself following suit. He clears his throat and says, "We know. I did not lie when I said that we have made our peace with this."
Allura looks at him. Her gaze is quick and sharp, and on the receiving end of such a keen-minded gaze Caleb feels as though he is being dissected himself. He does not know how to arrange himself under such scrutiny, and before he can think of what to do she nods to herself another time and places the staff over her lap.
"We cannot do so in the public ear," Allura says, "but for your service the Council of Tal'dorei thanks you. And for this reason, I feel comfortable giving you this."
She reaches underneath the cushion of the chair she sits in. Caleb watches curiously as she pulls out a small bag, and from that bag, seven gray stones. She puddles them in her palm and looks at them for a moment, then looks at Essek. She says, "How many are your number? There were seven when I saw you last, but if I am not mistaken you have added at least one to your group."
"Ah, we are now nine."
A slow smile unfurls across Allura's face. "It seems your nickname was prophecy."
"Something like that. Prophecy sounds better than sheer dumb luck."
Allura returns to her bag. Caleb glances sidelong at Essek and finds his cheeks darkened slightly, only barely visible by the flickering light of the fire. He is flustered, as he always is, at being claimed openly as one of their own. Caleb holds out his hand, and Essek takes it. Caleb squeezes their hands together, once, before letting go; and softly, into the firelight, Essek smiles.
"Here we are," Allura mutters to herself. "Pike's going to kill me, she gave me theirs for safekeeping, but--" She pulls two more stones from the bag. "No matter. I can procure others."
In her hands, Caleb studies them. They look like little more than riverstones, smooth gray rocks of varying sizes. They are indistinguishable from the gravel that lines the paths leading from Rexxentrum, and if not for the gravity with which Allura holds them he would dismiss them on sight.
Allura holds out her hand, and Caleb, automatically, cups his palms. She pours the stones into his hands and says, "Do you know what these are?"
Caleb shakes his head.
Allura smiles.
--
Caduceus is several hours from Rexxentrum when a voice sounds in his head. "Caduceus! It's me, it's Jester, and I know you're like super excited to get home but you've gotta turn back around. Caleb and Essek have--"
Caduceus looks out over the open road. It will be days before he reaches home, and though it has not been long, he still misses the Grove.
Caduceus sighs, and finds himself smiling as he replies. "I'm not sure I even want to know what those two have done," he says, "but sure. See you soon, Jester."
--
"The hell are these?"
"These," Caleb says, a smile flickering over his lips, "are called Stones of Farspeech."
"They look like river rocks," Beau complains, even as she picks one up and turns it over in her fingers. "I'm gonna lose this like immediately."
"Ah, but they come with cuffs," Caleb says. "Or, no, I have fashioned them to come with cuffs, because if we do not have them I think we will all lose them in time." Caleb pours the stones onto the table, then begins passing the silver cuffs around to each one of the Nein. "I have done my best to mold them to your ears, but I was working from memory, so if it pinches or does not fit, please let me know. Jester, yours has a little hole there should you like to adorn it with a gem or something of the sort. Caduceus, I am sorry but I would be surprised if yours fits immediately. I was not very well able to remember the shape of your ears."
"They are sort of floppy," Caduceus says agreeably. He loops the cuff over his ear, clips it into place, and winces. "Oh, yeah, that pinches. Make it a little wider, would you, Mister Caleb?"
"Of course," Caleb says. He takes the cuff and sets it on the table, muttering under his breath as the silver begins to bend and fold.
"I'm definitely going to get a sapphire for mine," Jester says, tilting her ear in Fjord's direction. "That way everyone will know I am the Sapphire of the Sea!"
"These are very nice, Caleb," Fjord says, "but what do they do?"
"Let me demonstrate," Caleb says, his cheeks beginning to hurt with how widely he is grinning. "I have no wire on me and am not casting spells as I do this."
Caleb backs away from the table. Caduceus fits his stone to his ear and joins the rest of the Nein watching him go. To be fair, so does most of the rest of the pub, as Caleb navigates backward through a sea of tables and chairs, but Caleb does not pay them any mind. Once he is a good distance away he cups his hands over his mouth and, thinking of Beauregard, whispers, "Boo."
"What the fuck?" Beau rips her cuff off her ear and stares at it. Then she buries her face in her hands and mutters, "Oh my god. Literal farspeech."
Caleb laughs, long and loud, and heads back to the table. To the whole Nein he explains into the stone, "They will allow us to communicate with each other, no matter the distance."
"Ooh! Ooh! Does that mean I can talk to all of you and Fjord doesn't have to count my words on his fingers?"
"It is unlimited, yes," Caleb says, returning to his seat at Essek's side. He adjusts the cuff on his ear, tapping it to rework the metal over the curve of cartilage by his temple. "That way you will not have to waste spells, and each of us can talk to the other whenever we like."
Veth leans forward. "Where did you get these, Caleb?"
"From the Lady Allura," Caleb says. "In return, I think, for saving the world."
"Wow," Veth says. "Wow. This is, like, super powerful."
"I think she liked you all very much," Essek adds from Caleb's side. His stone is already cuffed to his ear, a small crafted moon dripping like an earring from a carefully-transmuted chain.
"Are you sure you want to trust me with one of these?" Kingsley eyes his stone with trepidation. "You're all, you know--" he waves a hand at them, "--stupidly powerful or whatever. I'm basically a baby."
"Yes, but a very charming baby," Jester points out. "Even if you lose it I am sure you could get it back."
"Not if I lose it," Kingsley mutters, but he strings his over his ear. "Fine. Thanks, I guess."
"This is a handsome gift," Fjord agrees. "Are you sure we owe no debt?"
"The Lady Allura was insistent that saving the world was repayment enough," Caleb says. "I think you were quite convincing when you petitioned for her help, Fjord."
"That really was just meant to be for the fight."
"Yes, well, you do make quite the impression." Caleb looks across the table. The weight of the moment settles on his shoulders, and he cannot help the mournfulness that crawls into his tone. He will miss them all, so dearly. He loves them. "We are all leaving, now. Going our separate ways. And I cannot speak for all of you, but if you are ever...in need of help, or of company, or any other reason, I will come."
A moment of silence follows his proclamation. A smile curves across Beau's face, and she shakes her head ruefully. Sounds of conversations across the pub trickle into their little sphere of nine.
Then Veth says, "Nah, I'm outta here actually. You guys can go to hell."
"Same," Fjord says. "This shit sucked."
"Hey, fuck you!"
"Wow, Veth. I thought you said you loved me."
"Clearly I spoke too soon, if I'd known you were just going to--"
"I think what they are trying to say," Jester interrupts, "is that of course you will come running. And so will we! This just makes it way easier to call everyone more quickly!" Jester reaches over the table and pats Caleb's hand. "We will use these all the time, I am sure. Though I might still send just because it is so much fun. But still, it is a great gift, Caleb and Essek. Thank you."
Essek laughs, a shade nervously. "It is not truly ours, we are only messengers."
"Just shut up and take the thanks," Beau growls.
"We will call you every day," Yasha promises. "All of you. I mean, not if that is too much. Every other day?"
"We'll figure it out."
Caleb's jaw hurts again from smiling so wide, and he buries his face in his hands. He is not sure what he expected, implying that his family would not do the same, if he ever called for help. Whatever it had been, he should have expected this: Fjord and Veth shouting at each other across the table, Yasha flushed a faint pink and Beau looking at her utterly besotted, Caduceus with a cup of tea conjured from nowhere and Kingsley looking at him with wide eyes, Jester beaming at him and Essek looking at them all, awed, as if he still cannot believe he belongs.
"I suppose that is what I should have expected," Caleb mutters to himself, and raises a hand to signal the bartender. "Well, all I can say now is that neither Essek nor I are covering this round. Beauregard, if you would do the honors?"
Just like that, Beau turns on him, shouting in the exact same tone Veth had turned on Fjord only moments ago. And as chaos descends, Caleb leans back in his seat and smiles, warmth in his chest and a comforting weight cuffed around his ear.
âThe codename you just used,â Juno says. âYou called hâyou called them Angel.â
Sasha looks up from her datapadd. Thirty-some years, and sheâs never heard Juno like this. Not quite panicked, determination sparking in his eyes. âWhy do you want to know?â
âJust tell me, Sasha. Please.â
He even sounds different. But then of course he does; heâs surrounded by criminals. Of course he would pick up a mask or two. But thatâs all it is: a mask.
Because people never really change.
âItâs a codename, Juno. Iâm sure youâre familiar with him, since youâve contented yourself with the company of liars and thieves, now.â She powers off her datapadd and stands up. After this whole of this long, long week, he doesnât dislocate his shoulder trying to stand with her. âItâs our name for the Angel of Brahma.â
â
When she steps into his quarters next thereâs a set to his shoulders that hadnât been there before. She pretends she doesnât see it, taking her seat and crossing her legs as always, and just as she expected, the second she powers on her datapadd he opens his mouth.
âI want to make a deal,â he says.
âYou donât have any power here, Juno. In case youâve forgotten, weâve kidnapped you and the rest of your murdering, thieving band of criminalsââ
âI have information,â Juno interrupts. He doesnât rise to the bait. Buddy Aurinko must have trained him well; the Juno Steel she knew would have surged for her throat, bandying about an insult like that, especially toward his secretary. He never did take kindly to any slights against that Rita woman. âA whole database, Sasha. Hundreds of the people weâve worked with, and against, and what Iâve figured out about them.â
Sasha looks up. âOh?â
âYou know the name Nova Zolotovna? I know her weaknesses, what she knows about the people she works for, and how to exploit what she does and doesnât know.â
âDark Matters doesnât care about one arrogant heiress, Juno.â
âSheâs one of hundreds,â Juno continues. âIâŚdug up some stuff on Mâtendere, too. Some of Buddyâs old accomplices, Jetâs war buddies. Smugglers andâŚhow did you put it, Sasha? Murderers and thieves?â
Thereâs a ghost of a smile on his face, stretched thin and exhausted. Itâs not a good look on him. âWhy offer this up?â
âBecause I want you to stop this,â Juno says, concise and sharp. âI want you to let everyone on board go, and I want you to stop tracking Buddy and Vespa and Jet and all the people whoâve tried to do good for this galaxy that youâre hunting for pride or whatever the hell else motive you have, like the Angel of Brahma. I want you to let this crew distribute the Curemother Prime, because that is the greatest good, Sasha, and you know it. And in return, you get the information Iâve collected over this past year, and you get me, too.â
Sasha stares. âWhat?â
He takes a breath. âYou Dark Matters types, youâre spooks. People can see you from a mile away. Hell, I did, when you first sent Glass to work with me. Not great at finding information from common people, you lot. But with me as a rogue agent, well. I could make your life a hell of a lot easier.â
Sasha sets aside her datapadd, considering. âWe have trained interrogators, Juno. Whittled against the most gruesome parts of war.â
âYeah, but what good are they on the ground, Sash? Talking with people, actually investigating? You canât tell me your Dark Matters types, suits and glasses and all, really do well with gaining trust.â
That hasnât changed either, his hatred of Dark Matters. For a moment she wonders why he would even make this offer, but then again that was always Juno, wasnât it? Throwing himself away for the first cause that struck him as âgood.â
Then she wonders, briefly, how they ended up on opposite sides: her with the mental checklist of interrogation procedures and questions, him in handcuffs, bleeding from a cut above his right eye, before dismissing the thought like it stings.
âIâll consider it,â Sasha says at last.
Juno looks grateful. âThank you.â
â
Nureyev calls to him, later that night, as Juno knew he would. He sounds furious, but then Juno expected that too.
âWhat do you think youâre playing at, detective?â
âIâm not playing, Ransom,â Juno murmurs. Heâs so tired. He wants his family free again. âThis is the only way to get Dark Matters off your tail and you know it.â
âYour?â Nureyev snaps, voice never wavering above a low thrum. Juno closes his eyes, leans his head back, and lets himself rest in the sound of that voice. As angry as Nureyev is, heâs going to miss this. âYouâve already decided, then, to leave us behind?â
To leave me behind? Nureyev doesnât ask it, but Juno doesnât need Martian gunk in his blood to understand the unspoken question. âWe donât have a better plan, Ransom. And if you and Buddy donât have anything, well, itâs only a few days before Sasha finds something, and then itâs game over for the whole goddamn galaxy, and thatâsâŚI canât let that happen. We canât let that happen. You know that.â
âSo youâll give yourself up? Just like that, detective?â
Heâs furious. Juno smiles. Itâs not often their conversations go so long without a dear, a my dear detective, a love. âGot a lot to lose, Ransom. Besides, if we donât do something soon, sheâll find you. And I wonât let that happen.â
Itâs a statement of fact, but even though Juno canât see Nureyevâs face he can feel the indignation and hurt from here. âI can take care of myself, Juno.â
âI know,â Juno says quietly. âI wish you didnât think you had to.â
Silence. Juno closes his eye.
Around them, the engine of the Carte Blanche thrums.
Juno looks up. âRansom?â he asks, but thereâs no response.
â
âI need a full list of all the names you can provide.â
âOh, câmon, Sash, that spoils the whole thing.â
âThis isnât a game, Juno!â Sasha snaps. God, all these years later and heâs still insufferable, joking at anything he pleases. Were she not Director, he would never make it past the first level of Dark Matters clearance. Heâs lucky she knows what he can do. âIâm not asking to steal it from you, Iâm verifying the terms of our exchange.â
Juno looks at her, and the smile is gone from his face. He sits up, his wrists red and raw from the bindings, and says, in a voice thatâs almost small, âFine.â
He runs through the list. Sashaâs not even sure heâs aware of the full notoriety of some of the names on his list. At the end of the impressive litany, voice hoarse, he murmurs, âHey, Sash, would youâŚwould you pass on a message to the crew?â
âOh come on, Juno.â
âIâm serious, Sasha.â
âYouâre making this part of the deal?â
âNo. Iâm asking a favor.â
âGive me the message and Iâll consider it.â
âTell them Iâm sorry,â Juno says softly. âAnd tell themâŚhell, I donât know, Sasha.â He takes a deep breath, then shakes his head. âNope. Just tell them that.â
â
âJuno.â
Juno jolts awake, head spinning. When he was younger he couldâve been on his feet in seconds after spending a week sleeping in a metal chair, but heâs beginning to understand what Nureyev was griping about, all these unwelcome aches and pains that come with age.
âRansom.â
âThe Captainâs quite angry with you. I thought you should know.â
Juno snorts. âIâm sure sheâs not the only one.â
âYes, well, Ritaâs hardly happy either.â
âI know. Vespaâs probably over the asteroids, though.â
âSheâs furious,â Nureyev says quietly. âShe told me she wanted to slit your throat.â
Juno chuckles, trying to disguise the ache in his chest. âGets rid of me either way.â
âJuno. Love, please.â
âThey just got married,â Juno murmurs. âAnd Jet gave that whole speech, and RitaâŚ.â Heâd scrub at his face, if he could. âAnd besides, Ransom. This way, youâŚyouâre free.â
âDonât.â
His voice is dangerous. Juno was never one to pay danger much mind. âMade that clear in my terms, by the way. So I hopeâŚI hope it sticks.â
Nureyevâs voice breaks. âJuno, I never wanted this.â
âYeah, I didnât either, but sometimes we just get dealt a shit hand.â
âItâs an explanation,â Juno says, âand itâs good enough for me. I donât hold it against you, Ransom.â He trips over the name, a little. Even still, he canât get the name Ransom to stick for Nureyev. It just doesnât fit.
âYou should.â
âI donât think you get to decide that.â
Thereâs a sobbing laugh from above him, and Juno wishes desperately that he could turn to see Nureyevâs face; but the vents open behind him, and all the masseuses in the world couldnât let his neck crane like that. So instead he tilts his head back, closes his eyes, and lets the sound of that voice wash over him, for what may be the very last time. âYouâve become quite the thief, Juno. Stealing my own words from me.â
âYeah, well, theyâre good ones. Helped me through a lot.â
âYouâŚdeserved much better than me, Juno.â
âRansomâŚ.â
âYou donât have to do this, you know. Dark Matters has been after the Angel of Brahma for a very long time. With Ritaâs help we could draw the Directorâs attention away from the Carte Blanche, convince her to pursue, and give you all enough time to escape.â
Nureyevâs probably had this planned out for a week now, since the second Sasha Wire gate-crashed the wedding of Vespa and Buddy, but thereâs one fatal flaw in his plan. Judging by the resignation in his voice even as he presents the planâs outline, they both know it. âRita would never help you.â
âI think you underestimate how much she cares for you, Juno.â
âI think you underestimate how much this family cares for you, Ransom,â Juno says right back. âI go with them, Iâm alive. You try to run, and youâre as good as dead.â
âYou canât run from Dark Matters, Juno. You wonât be able to escape. You know that.â
âEh, well. If thereâs one thing Iâve learned over the past year, itâs that nothingâs impossible. Not really.â
âJunoâŚ.â
âBesides, this new family of mineâs a merry band of thieves. I figure, hell, if anyone can get me out of this, itâll be them.â
âThen donât get into it, detective. You donât have to do this.â
âYou got any better ideas? âCause Iâd love to hear them.â
Quiet, again. Hope springs up and dies, just as quick.
âYeah, I didnât think so,â Juno says. âHey, Ransom, I asked Sasha to give the crew one last message, once this whole mess is over, but I only gave her the first part. Could you give them the second?â
Nureyev sounds scared. No, not scared; apprehensive. Pained. âWhat is it, love?â
âI told her to tell them Iâm sorry,â Juno says. âCould you tell them IâŚ.â He breathes out through his nose, hard. Hell, this never gets any easier. âTell them I love them, would you?â
âJunoââ
âPlease.â
Nureyev sounds like heâs been stabbed. Or electrocuted. Juno knows that last one well. âI will.â
âThanks. And, uh, Ransom?â
âYes, Juno?â
âI love you,â he says. âYou know that, right?â
âI do,â Nureyev says softly. âOh, Juno, of course I do.â
â
When Sasha opens the door next, Juno is sleeping.
Fitfully, and uncomfortably, of course. Thereâs no way to weather an interrogation like this one without a good deal of pain, but then of course Juno Steel would be well-accustomed to that.
She means to wake him up. Instead, for a long moment, she watches him rest.
She hasnât seen him looking this young in years.
âJuno,â she says finally, and straightens when he looks up. âIâm going to untie you, and youâre going to come with me.â She sets the datapadd in front of him. âThese are the terms of your contract.â
She unties him, and he takes the datapadd, scrolling through it with an ease she has never seen on him before, not with electronics. She wonders at it, briefly, before pushing that thought away.
When he reaches the section listing the names Dark Matters has agreed not to pursue, he lingers. Then, after a long moment, he nods, and hands it back to her. âLooks good to me.â
She takes it, fingers numb. âYouâre really doing this.â
âI asked for this, Sasha. Did you forget?â
âYouâve always hated Dark Matters.â
âYeah, well, I hate seeing my family in danger even more,â Juno says, smiling wryly. âTurns out all those kid cartoons were right, Sasha, love really is stronger than hate. Who knew?â
And all at once she sees him clearly.
âOne last thing. Can I see Rita before we go?â he asks. He is still Juno Steel, the ill-disguised apprehension plastered over with bravado is Oldtown Steel through-and-through, but the request itself, those words, those are new. Those are changed. âI asked you to send her a message, but, uh, I want to tell her, at least, in person.â
He gets to the door, shaking out his wrists, and stops. Turns. Frowns, and asks, âSasha?â
Damn him, he sounds worried. He sounds worried, about her.
âIâll never understand you,â she says.
Juno grins. âYeah, me neither. Think Iâm getting there though.â
â
His secretary sobs, which doesnât surprise her. Juno sobs too, which surprises her so badly that she loses her words. If they couldâve hugged through the DM-field thrown up in Ritaâs doorway, Sasha thinks, they would have. As it was, Juno fell to his knees the second he saw Ritaâs face again, smiling like he was seconds away from dying. He apologized, again and again, hardly hearing his secretaryâs forgiveness. Then, just as Sasha blankly called ten seconds left, Juno leaned forward and whispered, easy as anything, I love you, and thatâs when Sasha knows for sure.
He walks off the ship with his head held high. A few times he looks upâtoward the vents, Sasha realizes, and then realizes several more things in rapid succession, letting none of them show on her face.
They step into the Dark Matters shuttle, the door between it and the Carte Blancheâs loading bay closing.
Carte Blanche, Sasha thinks, the long-buried academic raising her head. Fresh note. Blank slate.
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Juno Steel has only been aboard my ship for an hour, and already Peter Ransom cannot seem to keep his eyes off him.
Oh, he tries to hide it, of course, and he does so exceedingly well. From our weeks working together I know that much about him, at least: his resume was not an exaggeration, and masks are his forte. I will admit I had not anticipated how thoroughly he maintains the one he currently wears, but it is with no small amount of satisfaction that I catch it waver.
Juno misses it every single time, the poor darling. Probably because heâs sneaking sideways glances of his own, these flickering, nervous little things that screw up their courage before dissipating beneath Ransomâs icy silence.
I am absolutely certain that there is something there, in the pointed silence between the two of them. I watch, hiding a smirk of my own, as Juno approaches Ransom after our first meeting together as a family. He entreats Ransom for a conversation, and Ransom, with all the grace of a master thief evading a particularly troublesome mark, shuts him down quite firmly. In fact I might have written it off as a lost cause, if not for those sideways glances that Pete tries so hard to hide.
Just like that, then, I know precisely who will be infiltrating Zolotovâs ball tonight. Why, we are all supposed to be one family unit, and I can hardly have the two of them at such odds, now can I? Of course not. That would be foolish.
So I ask Jet to do some quick alterations to one of my golden ballgowns, prepare the schematics of Zolotovâs auctions, and call another family meeting to the table.
Juno chokes on his coffee, spluttering at my innuendo and my wide-eyed innocence, as though that hadnât been what I meant at all, talking about the two of them spending time together tonight. As he does, he misses the look that flashes across Peteâs face, the hurt he is trying so hard to hide, and the amusement and affection doing their best to follow.
Juno expels espresso from his lungs, and Peteâs mask slides back into place, but I have not missed it. And I am confident this heist will work.
II.
In response to humor, the most Ransom will allow himself is a quick smile. In true response, at least: he laughs quite loudly at my own jokes, the same Jetâs, but he is painfully insincere. It is equally painful, how out of practice Ransom is at existing around other people.
Weeks pass since Juno boarded the ship, and still those glances of true emotion from Ransom are quite rare, so when I pass the lounge just in time to hear Peter laughâa real, genuine, inelegant little thingâI turn to look.
It is him and Juno, of course, sitting tentatively close on the couch. Junoâs face is alight with a surprised sort of pride before he looks away, hand moving to the back of his neck. Pete looks rather surprised at himself, for his part, when he realizes what heâs done, in a common area no lessâand then his gaze turns to Juno, and that surprise melts into softened affection as the detective stumbles his way through an explanation, or perhaps a corollary to whatever crack heâd just made.
The affection is gone by the time Juno looks up, of course, because heavens forbid Peter Ransom let himself be seen expressing a truth in the open, but I am satisfied as I walk away. It is good to be reminded, sometimes, that there is indeed a man behind the mask.
III.
The 3D projection, streamed on two axes from Junoâs goggles to the projector above the appropriated kitchen table, flickers and statics as Juno drops to his knees.
âJuno!â
ââm fine,â Juno grunts. At that moment our video primary switches to Ransomâs goggles, and the flickering projection stabilizes. Already Juno is staggering back to his feet, one hand clutching at his side.
âJuno, you wereââ
ââshot, yeah, I know, so letâs get the hell outta here,â Juno mutters. Along the far wall, a door opens, and Juno fires instinctively. It takes four shotsâthree more than he would like, I know, though his shooting is markedly improved since he first boarded the Carte Blancheâbefore the lone guard falls.
But I see all of this in my peripheries, even as Rita cheers her ex-employer on with an enthusiasm potent enough to short earpieces, because I am not watching Junoâs shots. I have seen Juno shoot every Sunday since he stepped foot aboard this ship. I am watching Peter Ransom.
He does not disappoint. Aware though he must be that we are watching, he cannot seem to help that concern that staggers across his features as he hefts Junoâs left arm over his shoulders, crouching slightly to accommodate for their difference in heights. âJuno.â
âJust a scratch,â Juno says, softer than I would have expected from him, and lifts up the hem of his shirt to prove it. âCâmon, Ransom. Letâs get out of here.â
They do. And as they go, I am certain I have never seen Peter Ransom move more quicklyâor more ferociouslyâthan when they are surprised halfway to the Ruby 7. Ransom, instantly positioning himself between Juno and the man, moves faster even than the norm of my Vespa, and in a flash of steel the guard is dead.
âRansom,â Juno pants, reaching for him even before the man has hit the floor.
âJuno,â Ransom murmurs, gently taking the detectiveâs weight again, and I am struck by the familiarity of itâof holding entire conversations in a single word. In a single name. The way Ransom looks at Juno, the way he speaks Junoâs nameâŚ.
Well. I look at my Vespa, and think that it is familiar.
IV.
The Mora heist is dangerous. One of our most dangerous yet, in fact. Not for the guards, nor for any sort of blaster fire, but for the technology armed within her mansion.
Last night my family had attempted an infiltration: a standard, run-of-the-mill billionaireâs ball hosted in the lair of a woman whoâd gotten rich from the weaponry trade in Shiva. The thievery had been going swimmingly, tooâI even caught Ransom returning some of what heâd pickpocketed, bless his blossoming heartâuntil Ritaâs comms had started beeping at an alarming rate, andâwell. Long story short, weâd had to cut it off.
Turns out a genius of technology like that is also a genius of databases and surveillance, and as such, re-entry to the mansion on Ransomâs part would have him caught immediately. Try as he might, there is only so much a master thief can do to change the structure of the bones in his face. As for myself, Vespa, and Jet, well, weâve been unto legends for years. It was why we sent in Ransom alone, with Juno for backup.
Which left Juno and Rita as the only ones uncatalogued by security, at the end of the night.
So it is Juno I ask to attempt the heist again. Rita, dear as she is, is far less suited for the stealth demanded for such missions than even her loudmouthed ex-employer. Juno accepts, of course.
Truth be told, sometimes I worry about him, and how readily he takes on dangers like this. IâŚdo believe he sees us as family. I know, at the very least, that he trusts us as such. Which is why it is startlingly difficult for me to ask this of him.
Because the heist will be difficult, yes. But it is also because I know what rogue technology has done to him. It was how I tempted him into allowing me to contract his services the first time, after all. I am nervous for him.
I am not the only one.
Rita does not bother trying to disguise her worry. She brings nothing directly to me, of course, but in the sparse afternoon hours between this morningâs hasty planning session and the eveningâs second attempt, she stays by Junoâs side, whispering fiercely to him. I do not do them the disservice of eavesdropping, wretchedly curious though I am. Jet is tense, as I do not often see on him, and even my Vespa, who has grown reluctantly fond of him since our impromptu beachside excursionâthough she would sooner give up her scalpels for good than admit itâsnaps more often than usual.
Ransom, however, does not seem affected at all, and that is telling. Nothing draws any reaction out of him, of any sort. For one of the very few times I have seen since I have known him, there is neither man nor mask. There is only stone.
Juno, for his part, seeing this as well as I do, worries after Ransom. It would be comical, the blockheadedness the two of them share regarding each other, if he did not need to be much more worried about himself.
That stone-face stays firmly in place until mere moments before the Carte Blanche docks for a second attempt. My first warning comes when I catch Ransomâs hands flexing behind his back; then, just before Juno steps off the ship, Ransom darts forward. He takes Junoâs face in his hands and presses a firm kiss to his forehead, whispers something I cannot hear, and manages one shaky smile before stepping back.
All in all, a sloppy move, as Juno appears dazed as he leaves the ship, but I cannot find it within myself to fault him for his actions. I know that feeling well.
As Juno performs, I take Ransom aside and pour him a drink. It is a champagne picked up from the Solar planets, which I know to be a favorite of his. I am surprised, then, as he exchanges it for a mixture of an Outer Rim liquor with some sort of ginger extract.
It occurs to me, as I watch a man whose name I do not know down a drink I have never tried beforeâquite a feat, given my primary and only form of sustenanceâthat this worry he is allowing me to see is an expression of trust. Whether unconscious or conscious, I know how much that means.
So we drink in silence, attuned to Ritaâs occasional calls of progress. Ransomâs hands shake around his glass.
At the end of the evening, when Juno steps aboard the shipâsinged and bruised, but thankfully aliveâRansom moves so quickly that he leaves his drink behind.
It is not like him to leave bits of himself strewn about the ship like that. Still, in his haste, I do not believe he even noticed.
I pick up the glass, feeling the weight of it in my hand, before returning it to the sink.
V.
In one day, I was married, captured by Dark Matters, freed from Dark Matters, and summarily captured again. One month to that day, I was once more freed, and gifted the incredible rush of throwing a Dark Matters director into my very own brig. All in all, that rush was one of the best gifts Juno and Ransom could have gifted our family for our honeymoon, and it is with satisfaction that I tell myself there is no way our lives could get any more interesting than this.
That, of course, is when Ransom calls a family meeting. As I sit at the kitchen table, still in my battered wedding dress, I am wry with the confidence that my earlier suspicion was wrongâtoday is about to get much more interesting.
âWell then, darling,â I say, because Ransom looks far too nervous aboutâsomethingâto begin whatever meeting heâs called. âDonât leave us all in suspense.â
âYes,â Ransom says. He clears his throat, and says nothing at all. He looks down.
Juno, at his side, takes Ransomâs hand.
Ransom says, âMy name is Peter Nureyev.â
My thoughts, in order, are this: first, a fond sort of relief that at least I will not have to change the nicknames I use to needle the man. Second, a fonder sort of exasperation that he used his true first name as an alias, all the while styling himself as a master con.
Third, a bone-deep chill as I process the implications of the last name he has used to introduce myself, and disbelief-shock-wonder, all smashed together and stuffed down my gut like a particularly rude shot of whiskey.
Which is not a very good metaphor, but all of this is to say that for once my Vespa is quicker on the draw with her words than I am, and when I blink back she is snarling something at Ransom, who is trying to muster his stone-faced mask and failing. At his side I see Juno readying himself for a counterattack, and as I clear my throat I think of a strange drink made of ginger extract, and a thousand looks toward Juno Steel that I must have missed in between the ones I caught.
âWell then,â I say, cutting off Junoâs retort before it can begin. âAs a general rule, I would sooner cast thieves as devils than Angels, but I suppose there are exceptions to every rule, arenât there, darling?â
Ransomâhm, no, but this is not Peter Ransom, is it? Not anymore. This is Peter Nureyevâs face, then, that blanches with something I think to be fear, before tightening into dispassionate disdain. A defense mechanism as quick as my Vespaâs anger, and as familiar to me as my own half-rotted face.
âQuite, Captain.â
âCaptain,â I repeat, rolling the word around in my mouth, and sit back. I know what I will say after this, of course. I may not have prepared myself to formally welcome the Angel of Brahma to my crew, but I have often wondered what could have led a man like the one I knew as Peter Ransom to bury his name so thoroughly. Later I will process the full implications of this, but for now I am far more concerned with getting to know the man before me. âAn interesting thing to call me, Pete. I donât believe weâve met before.â
It is not true, of course. Peter Nureyev sat with me during the Mora heist, after all, and I have seen flickers of him for months. But as I had hoped, he stiffens as if under attack and says with honesty, âI had hoped this would serve as an introduction.â
My Vespa draws breath. A glance sideways tells me everything I need to know. Sheâd been quite invested in the story of the Angel of Brahma, spending her rebellious early twenties as she had on the streets of its sister planet, and to know that she had met Brahmaâs Angel and despised him must sting indeed. Later I will reassure her that this particular angel had not shown her his true face, but for now I am more concerned with being sure he does not disappear.
Because the more I think on it, the more convinced I grow that I do not want Peter Nureyev to leave my crew. Though I will not be Captain much longer, I know that he has a place upon it. And, much like the small hints of himself he has left scattered in our presence, his name, I know, is a gift.
âWell met, then, Peter Nureyev,â I say, and hold out my hand. He stares. I smile, and in a quieter tone add, âItâs a handshake, darling.â
âOf course,â he says, and his words are not smooth at all. When he takes my hand I can feel his fingers trembling.
âWell, that was all quite dramatic,â I say, releasing his hand with a pat, âbut I, for one, would love to be out of this wedding dress. Not that it is not immensely important to me, Vespa, but it is immensely stifling. Would you help me take it off?â
Vespa looks from me, to Peter, then back to me. She says my nameâ âBuddy?â âand there is a galaxy of questions contained within it. She is asking whether I trust him, she is asking how I trust him, she is trying to reconcile the man she knew with the hero of her homeworldâs sister planet.
But that is not a conversation I can have here, so instead I say âVespa, my love,â and it comes out soothing without any conscious effort on my part.
âIt is good to meet you,â my dear Jet says, blunt as ever, and holds out his hand as well. Nureyev, bless his heart, looks as though heâs seconds away from keeling over. Juno looks torn between giddy excitement and laughter. âI look forward to learning whatever else about yourself that you feel able to share.â
âUh, yeah, great to meet you for the first time ever Mista Nureyev!â
I swallow laughter. Oh, Rita. I do adore her so.
Vespa looks from Nureyev, to me, and back to Nureyev. She sets her feet and grits her teeth and says, âFine.â
âCome again?â
âI said fine,â she growls. âIâm not throwing you out an airlock today.â That said, she pivots on her foot and storms off to our quarters, muttering invectives as she goes.
I laugh, fondly, watching her. âThatâs my cue, darlings,â I say airily, and set a hand on Peteâs shoulder. âIf you donât mind, darling, Iâll continue calling you Pete. Unless youâd prefer something else?â
âPete is fine, thank you,â Peter says, looking stunned. It is, if I may say so myself, a good look on him. âYouâyou arenâtâ?â
âOutraged? Offended? Furious?â I laugh. In my defense, it truly is quite funny. âYou have no idea how you are remembered on Brahma, do you, darling? No matter. I would recommend you look yourself up sometime. Or have Rita do it, perhaps, if she hasnât already.â
Juno winces, and I laugh again. Once upon a time that would have made him nervous, the darling; now he only ducks his head, sheepish, knowing he and Rita have been caught.
I turn my gaze back to Peter, who is looking at me as though he does not know me. I take my hand from his shoulder. âCollect your jaw from the ground, darling, and donât think this changes a thing.â I look over. âFor our stream night, Rita, I trust you have something prepared?â
âYes maâam! Mista Jet and I are gonna, uh, go set it up right now!â
âGood,â I say. âThen Iâll see you all there.â
As Jet and Rita scamper off I turn on my heel, a smile growing across my lips, and I do not look over my shoulder as I go. I already know the shape of Peter Nureyevâs face when he looks at Juno Steel.
It is the first thing I trusted about the man, and it has not failed me once.
shoutout to the tpp adults discord, especially everyone who pitched in to make the conversation about the last name ransom as painful as physically possible
putting this up before heart of it all part two comes out and blows it out of the water. enjoy!
â
âIf I ever see your face again, thief,â Vespa snarls, âIâm taking your head clean off your shoulders.â
âUnderstood,â says Peter Nureyev, and closes his comms.
â
Three strong knocks on the door. âRita?â
âOh, Mista Jet,â Rita says. âCome in.â
The door opens, and he does. Heâs almost comically large in her doorway, as he is in most of the doorways aboard the Carte Blanche. âHi,â she says, and pats the end of her bed. âItâs, uh, good to see you.â
âAnd it is good to see you too, Rita,â Jet says gravely. âI wasâŚhoping I might join you.â
âYeah, sure,â Rita says, unbalancing as he sits on the edge of her bed. She hesitates for a moment before shuffling closer to him. He holds out his arm, and she tucks herself against his side, pretending for a moment his chest is less barrel-like, his arm thinner but still roped, and then she buries her face in his ribs.
âOh, Rita,â he murmurs, his solemn voice gentle. âI am so sorry.â
âItâs okay,â she sniffles, winding her arms tight across her own chest. âItâs okay, I know I ainâtâI ainât the only person who cared a whole lot about him, Mista Jet, and the whole crewâs real mad in their own ways âcept Miss Vespa just sorta scares me and I ainât seen the Captain at all today even when I went to go get my snacks even though I ainât even picked up my snacks and I know youâI know heâyou and Mistaââ
She buries her face in his side again, and Jet shushes her softly, his calloused fingers deceptively gentle as they thread through her hair. âI know,â Jet says. âEach of us will deal with loss in our own way. My way is that of reflection.â
Rita mouths a soft oh. âI like the sound of that,â Rita says weakly, âbut I donât know if Iâm ready for any reflectinâ just yet. I stillâŚI canât.â
âI know,â Jet says again, and tugs her closer. Heâs sturdy and exceptionally comforting and even though Rita feels mostly empty right now sheâs glad heâs here. âThat is not your way to mourn. I have always admired how freely you allow yourself to feel as you do. When you are ready to talk about it, I am here.â
He holds her close. Several long minutes pass that way, Ritaâs shoulders shaking with sobs she canât bring herself to vocalize, not like she would backâback when she was still just a secretary, âcause whenever her boss heard her crying he would always come grouching into the room and mutter something about making too much hot chocolate even though even back then she knew he never made hot chocolate for himself even though it was one of his favorite drinks and then heâd sit next to her and start ranting about whatever was on the screen and then heâd ask her in his earnest, awkward way what pissed her off, and it would always be funny a little because Ritaâs not really an angry person and she donât really get mad but sheâd talk about what made her sad, and he never really knew exactly the right things to say but he always tried, and that always mattered so much more.
She misses him. She misses him so much.
Jetâs shoulders shake around her exactly once, and when she looks up, startled from her grief, she sees tears moving soundlessly down his cheeks as well.
âOh, Mista Jet,â she whispers.
âHe was good,â Jet manages, his voice breaking like Rita has never quite heard it before. âWhen I reflect on all that he was, this is what I think of first: he was good.â
â
âNo, Vespa.â
âI can find him,â Vespa hisses. âOr the hacker can. Siquliakâd probably come with me, even if you wonât.â
âVespa, darling,â Buddy says, looking exhausted. âHeâs dangerous. We know that now.â
âThat wasnât a revelation,â Vespa snarls. âWe knew he was dangerous from minute one and yet we still decided to sign him on because we thought heâd be a good addition to our family. And we were wrong. And he hurtâone of us, so now Iâm going to kill him.â
âAnd what will that do, hm?â Buddy looks up from her glass for the first time since Vespa had stopped pacing the halls of the Carte Blanche to pace instead inside their shared quarters, cursing and growling and planning in the same breath. âDeath does not beget more life, my darling. Thisâthis quest for vengeance, it wonât fix anything. It will only put you in danger.â
âHe deserves to die,â Vespa snaps. âOr did you somehow forget what he did? He betrayed all of us, Bud. We took him in and gave him a family. You called him your son. And heâheââ
âYou must forgive me my selfishness,â Buddy says, fingers shaking around her glass. âBut I have already lost two of my family today. I would much prefer not to lose another.â
â
âI trust you have received my payment,â says the thief named Peter Nureyev, his back ramrod-straight, his hands unshaking.
âWe have,â says the Monsieur Rossignol, letting a self-satisfied smirk playing around the edges of his lips for only a moment before it dissipates. âA splendid centerpiece that Globe will make. Youâve done well for us, Peter Nureyev.â
âA thief must always pay his debts.â
âAh, yes. The first rule of thieving, I believe that was.â
Peter Nureyev does not flinch. Instead he says, âIs there anything else?â
Rossignol pretends to think, drumming his fingertips on the table. âWell, Peter,â he says, voice musing. âYour payment is rather behind schedule.â
âI delivered exactly what I promisedââ
âSeveral days beyond your deadline, which may I remind you, you set yourself,â Rossignol finishes, lifting a single hand. âYou are aware how compound interest works, as we both know. You are also aware that it renews annually.â
âYes, and I paid my debt in full.â
âThe principal balance, yes. But your interest rates have, hmâŚwell. Increased since last year, shall we say.â
For the first time, Peter Nureyevâs façade cracks. Rossignol does not hide the glee that gives him. âRidiculous. I paid my interest three times over.â
âAh, well, you know how difficult these times have been. Particularly here on the Outer Rim.â
âOh, yes, because the Barachiel Corporation has done such an excellent job rebuilding this planetââ
âYour place is not to criticize my work, thief,â Rossignol says smoothly. âYour place is to repay your debts. And if it is any consolation, what you now owe is far less than what you owed before.â
âNo.â
Rossignol raises an eyebrow. Strange; the hard set of the thiefâs mouth shakes. Nervousness, perhaps. Rage is ugly on his face. âBeg pardon?â
âI refuse.â
The second eyebrow raises the first, then both lower. âVery well then.â
âIâm glad we can see eye-to-eye.â
Save the quiver of rage, the once-renowned Angel of Brahma seems expressionless. âSurely. Well then. Who would you like for us to target next? Buddy Aurinko, was that her name?â
And oh, there it is. When Peter Nureyev speaks next his voice is shattered, his whole body shaking. âYou already took from me the person I love most in this world,â he snarls. âYou have taken my name. What else do I have to lose? My old Captain, who would just as soon see me dead? My name, which links me to the defining moment of my life, trying to destroy you? No, I have failed on all counts, countless times over, and I do not care. Do what you will, Rossignol. I will not play your game anymore.â
âThe nameless thief, willingly handing over his identity,â Rossignol says, almost awestruck. And to think that he was the one to bring Peter Nureyev so low. In his moments of honesty this, the key to manipulating the most skilled thief in the world, fell into his lap by chance. But the Monsieur Rossignol is nothing if not a man of opportunity, and this stroke of chance has paid dividends over and over again. âWho will you even be? Do you mean to simply die?â
âI do not care,â Peter Nureyev repeats, the words brandished toward him like a shield. âI donât care what you do with my name, for you to attack the crew of the Carte Blanche would be for you to do me a favor, even myâmy life savings, pitiful as youâve made themâyou may as well take them. I donât care. I have lost everything, Rossignol, and I will fade into obscurity before I earn another cent on the behalf of a man as vile and wretched as yourself.â
Rossignol leans back. He lets a long, slow smile creep over his face. The thief before him is disheveled, red-faced, and now that Rossignol knows to look for it, sees grief in the slant of every muscle. What was the name of the lady heâd had Nureyev kill? Juno Steel? A pity.
âWell,â he says, self-satisfaction thick in his throat. Look at him: this man, this galaxy-class thief, brought so low by Rossignolâs own handiwork. âI suppose thatâs it then: I reveal your name, and after that youâre hardly useful to me. You wonât be able to steal much of anything, ever again.â
The anger and rage and grief retracts, stuffed behind a mask choked with exhaustion. In this moment Peter Nureyev looks more tired than any other man Rossignol has ever seen. âFine,â he says. âDo as you will with my name. JustâŚdo not contact me, ever again.â
âOh, no,â Peter Nureyev says, laughing a quiet, broken thing. âIf I could have done that, I would have done so the moment I laid eyes on you. Goodbye, Monsieur Rossignol. To whatever angels are out there, I pray you will rot in hell.â
â
Peter Nureyevâs comms ring. He does not answer.
First he removes his coat. Then he pushes his hair back from his face. There is still a faint tremor in his hand, small enough be noticeable to only the handful of people who know him best in the world.
His comms ring again. His hand pauses over the device until, with a sigh, he picks it up.
âNureyev speaking.â
âWanna tell me where you are?â
âVespa,â Nureyev sighs. He should be afraid, perhaps, but so soon after his conversation with Rossignol heâs struggling to feel anything at all. âHow delightful to speak with you again. I assume you ask so that you may kill me.â
âI would love to do worse,â Vespa snarls. âI should. I fucking should. Hey, Nureyev, did you know that Steel loved you?â
âStop.â
âDo you think he even realized what you were going to do before youââ
âStop it, Vespa.â
âWhy?â she demands. âWhy should I stop? Did you even think twice before stabbing through his spine?â
Nureyev removes the comms from his ear, takes a deep breath. Oh, there it is again, the way his whole body shakes. It is new, that he cannot push this away. She continues speaking, but Nureyev filters it out and waits until she finishes.
He puts the comms to his ear again. âI did what I had to do,â he says, calm, and hangs up.
It rings back immediately, of course. He doesnât bother picking up.
The hotel room he bought as a base of organization to conduct this final transaction is bare, empty save Nureyev himself. The walls are dusty and splattered with odd stains, the lone drawer in the lone table in the lone room adjacent on its hinges, the carpet threadbare and patterned unnaturally. It is a storied room, but Nureyev does not have a detectiveâs eye, so he cannot read the words written beneath the fibers of the carpet, nor the ones behind roomâs thin walls.
The uncomfortable mattress remains dented from where a body laid in it just a few hours ago. Nureyev sits on the mattress, studying the curve of the pillow for a long time, before lowering himself into that phantom warmth and closing his eyes in a pale facsimile of sleep.
â
Afternoon turns to evening turns to a very early morning. Peter Nureyev does not open his eyes.
â
Somewhere around dawn his comms ring again. Limbs heavy, he picks up. He doesnât bother introducing himself.
âBuddy insisted I give you a courtesy warning,â growls the voice of Vespa Ilkay. âThe hackerâs got a lock on this comms, and Siquliak and I are very, very happy to see you.â
âDo you want me to run?â Some long-buried part of him is vaguely curious why sheâs even called.
He can hear her grin through the call. âI would love nothing more.â
â
About an hour later, a global news alert flashes across his commâs screen: Barachiel Corporation Head Monsieur Rossignol Found Dead in Unowned Vault; No Foul Play Suspected, Officials Blame Preexisting Heart Conditions.
For a moment, Nureyev stares at the screen. Tension unspools from his shoulders in degrees, his expression easing, as the last mask Peter Nureyev will ever wear slips from his face.Â
Slowly, slowly, the persona of the spurned Angel folds away, like so many ruffled feathers smoothing.
Then, for the first time in a very, very long time, Peter Nureyev smiles.
â
As he sprints through the streets of New Kinshasa, a long-dead part of him stirs, and from somewhere inside of himâa ghost, or a memoryâhe hears an old melody. Something sweet and slightly haunting. He remembers it being played on a guitar.
Faces turn as he passes, this strange unknown man sprinting through the streets, but after so long concerned with his own invisibility Peter Nureyev simply does not care. He could call a cabâone would not be hard to find, not in this area of New Kinshasaâbut for some strange reason, he doesnât want to speak. Heâs spent so much of his life wasting words. Now, he wants to save them for the one person who matters most.
He arrives at the park in a rush, out-of-breath, hair windswept and legs trembling faintly with exertion, which is more a testament to the distance than to any physical ailment. There is no one else in the park, and when his eye catches on a cafĂŠ shrouded partially by trees, he thinks giddily that it would be so easy to go inside, order one cup of Venusian fine-ground coffee and another of Martian espresso with two sugars, and he could sit on the bench just beneath that tree, and he would not take a single sip until he was no longer alone.
So he does. He feels weightless. He moves into the cafĂŠ, and places exactly that order, checking over his shoulder every ten seconds, just to make sure he wonât have to wait any longer than he has to. When the order arrives, the barista is studying him with no small amount of concern, and his hands are shaking and he is absolutely sure his grin looks maniacal, but for the first time in a public place he knows that his face is not wearing the expression it should and he simply does not care.
He carries those two cups carefully to the shade of the bench, and sits.
He does not have to wait long. A shape materializes on the path directly across from where Nureyev sits, and even shrouded by the waterâs spray Nureyev knows immediately who it is, of course he does. He sets the coffees down, laughing to himself at how naĂŻve he had been to think he would want his hands full for this, and sprints to intercept the lady limping into the park by colliding bodily with that form.
âWas that a coffee in your hand,â Nureyevâs detective chuckles, âor are you just happy to see me?â
âOh do shut up, dear.â Nureyev laughs too, holding Juno Steel tight to his chest. He feels jittery and squeezes him once, tight, before pulling back to hold Juno at armâs length. âYouâre not hurt, are you, Juno?â
âNot a scratch,â Juno confirms. âWell, except the one, yâknow. On my back. But aside from that.â
âMy impossible detective,â Nureyev says fondly. âI hope you knowââ
âOh, shut up,â Juno grumbles, then grabs his collar and drags him down into a kiss.
It is exactly as wonderful as the first time, that kiss that lit the first spark of love in Nureyevâs chest, and he sinks into it, forgetting entirely about the park, the fountain, the world around them, the coffee cooling on the bench. He winds his arms around Junoâs neck, feeling Junoâs settle securely across the small of his back, and feels relief crash through him all at once.
âHey,â Juno says, leaning back, concerned. âNureyev, are youâ?â
âIâm fine, dear,â Nureyev manages through laughter, brushing his own tears away. âI was simply worried, dear, you know how I getââ
âI do,â Juno says, and reaches up to cradle Nureyevâs face in his hands. Two calloused thumbs wipe with infinite gentleness along his cheeks, and Nureyev lets himself drift forward, tugged as always toward the sunlight that is Juno Steel, eyes falling closed as Junoâs forehead presses against his own. âHey. Nureyev.â
âHm?â
âI love you.â
Nureyev lets out a sob that could be a laugh; even heâs not quite sure what it is. He takes one of Junoâs hands in his own, presses a kiss to the palm of the other. âI bought us coffee,â Nureyev says, leading his detective back to the bench. âMartian espresso. The cafes in New Kinshasa are the envy of the Outer Rim, and I think this one might remind you of home.â
Juno sits next to Nureyev, planting himself firmly on the wood in a mirror to Nureyevâs careless grace, and brings the cup to his lips. His eye widens. âDamn,â he mutters. âYou werenât kidding. I, uh...you know I donât need this to feel at home.â
âOh, Juno,â Nureyev murmurs. âI donât deserve you, my love.â
Juno elbows him, to show him how little he appreciates that comment, no doubt. Nureyev takes a sip of his own coffee, and lets the sweet taste settle over his tongue.
âHe was right where you said heâd be,â Juno says after a moment. âYou pick that vault number? 624?âÂ
âOf course. So what was it, my dear detective? A high-speed chase, perhaps?âÂ
âA stakeout,â Juno snorts, âsince you sorta gave me the key. Besides, for such a high-end bank, their security was kinda shit.â
âYes, well, most thieves arenât given the chance to hone their skills,â Nureyev says, fighting to keep the darkness from his tone. âMost are, well, dealt with. Before they can become truly great.â
Juno just looks at him, that one dark eye flickering with concern and patience and love. Then he nods and leans into Nureyevâs side, head dropping against his shoulder. Nureyev looks down just as Junoâs eye closes, and all of himâtattered coat, the scuff marks high on his cheekbone, the eyepatch slightly askew on his faceârelaxes in his presence.
It feels like a gift. Like the most precious treasure Nureyev has ever stolenâthough it was not stolen, but gifted. Given freely.
He winds an arm across Junoâs shoulders, and together, they sit beneath the rising sun of New Kinshasa.
When the sound of a hovercraft landing explodes across the plaza, Nureyev says, âAh.â
Juno sits upright. âIs it Barachiel?â
âNo, not quite,â Nureyev says, trepidation settling over him. âNo. Juno, thereâs something I quiteâhm.â
Junoâs spotted the landingcraft, and is on his feet before something clicks visibly and he turns back to Nureyev. Not quite wary, but perhaps a little anxious. âNureyev, what havenât you told me?â
âJuno, my love, you know that things sometimes slip my mind, particularly when I amâŚstressed?â
âYes,â Juno says impatiently. âWhat is it?â
âI may have, ahâŚgotten a call from the crew.â
âOh, shit. You didnât pick up, though, did you?â
âI did.â
âNureyev! We talked about this, Rita couldââ
âAnd she did. And our dear doctor might be quite determined to kill me.â
Juno looks at him for one long, long moment. Then he swears, and loudly. âOh, goddamnit, you didnât explainâ?â
âI was more preoccupied with making sure you were okay, Juno!â
âTheyâre coming to kill you, Nureyev!â
âYes, well, I suppose youâd best go talk them down, hm?â
Juno sighs, his lovely irascible detective, a scowl settling over his features. He brandishes a finger toward Nureyev and says, âYou owe me for this, Nureyev.â
âI would expect nothing less.â
âBig time.â
âOf course.â It is a debt he welcomes.
Juno turns, then pauses, then turns back and grabs Nureyevâs collar and kisses him again. âIâm angry that you didnât at least call Rita,â he says. âBut weâll deal with that later.â
Across the square, the Carte Blancheâs small shuttle decompresses. âIt wasnât just Rita, Juno, my love,â Nureyev says quietly. âYou should know that.â
Juno stills again. Then he tilts his head in silent acknowledgement. âIâll be back,â he promises.
And Nureyev believes him.
â
First through the doors is Jet, a blaster in his hand set to kill. His eyes flick past Juno, to Nureyev, before refocusing on Juno with an impossibly long pause. He stares. Juno opens his mouth to say something, probably something stupid knowing himself, except then Vespa crawls out the hatch and lands on the ground in a crouch and sees him immediately.
She looks to Jet, and Juno says, âNot a hallucination.â
âI watched you die,â she snarls. âI watched Nureyev stab you in the back.â
âCollapsible knife and a bunch of blood bags,â Juno says. âAlso one hell of a tranq. But Iâm alive.â
Vespa stares. Jet stares, then turns and announces to the interior of the ship, âHe is alive.â
âI rather expected so, darling, weâre here to kill him.â
âNot Peter Nureyev,â Jet clarifies. âI am referring to Juno.â
Fucking immediately there is a clatter of an impossible number of footsteps, and moments later, Rita comes barreling out of the ship at top speed. She sees him, shrieks loud enough to startle the birds from the trees, yells âMista Steel, I thought you were dead!â and then barrels directly into his chest.
Juno stumbles a considerable number of feet, laughing despite himself. âRita, hey, Iâm okay, Iâm aliveââ
âI know, boss, I can see that! Howâre you alive? Was it some kinda miraculous resurrection or some kinda kiss of life or oh! Oh! Did your spirit just decide you werenât gonna die âcause you had business that you ainât finished back in the mortal world âcause you gotta go kill Mista Nureyevââ
âNone of that,â Juno interrupts, and kneels before her. âHe, uh...I had to get him out of a bad spot.âÂ
âBy pretendinâ to be dead?â
âActually, yeah,â Juno winces. Behind her, Buddy Aurinko emerges from the shuttlecraft, her eyes immediately finding his and holding them for just a moment before striding forward. Juno pulls Rita into another hug and says, âIâm so sorry we had to make you think I was dead, Rita. If there was any other way, we wouldâve taken it. Iâm sorry.â
âJust a moment, darling,â Buddy says. âWe?â
Juno kisses the top of Ritaâs forehead, closing his eyes briefly, before letting her go and standing again. âWe were being held ransom,â he says. This doesnât seem like the time for long-winded explanations, and Vespaâs grace period before her anger runs out and she decides to just stab Nureyev for the hell of itâare her cheeks blotched?âis probably pretty short. âAll of us. You know Nureyevâs name. To get off New Kinshasa and Brahma the first time, he took out a loan that the Rossignols took over. They found out he was working with us and upped his debt when they realized they had more collateral.â
Silence stretches out before them, long and dumbfounded. Juno takes a deep breath, then blows it out. âWe needed to clear his debts and remove their collateral. Make him think that you didnât matter to him anymore and drop Rossignolâs guard. There werenâtâŚthis was the best we could come up with. Rossignolâs dead now, but that, uh, isnât really my story to tell.â He turns and waves, and Nureyev, nervousness telegraphed in every movement of those long limbs of his, stands.
âWell then,â Buddy says, brushing her fireball hair back from her face, allowing Juno a rare glimpse of her cybernetic eye. âThatâs one hell of a story, darling.â
âYeah. All true, too.â
âAnd you could think of nothing else.â
âYeah,â Juno says awkwardly. âThere werenâtâNureyev, uhâŚI mean, I canât speak for him. But he, uhâŚyou guys matter. There wasnât much else we couldâŚ.â
âIâm glad youâre okay, boss,â Rita says.
âThanks, Rita.â
âAs am I.â
âOh, uh, thanks, big guy, thatâsââ
âI was getting ready to skin Nureyev,â Vespa announces, which Juno takes a moment to parse as a compliment.
âUhââ
âYou had all of us quite riled up, darling. Enough to have us all embarking on a crusade for vengeance and everything.â
âRight. Yeah. Sorry, Captain.â
âForgiven, darling.â She takes two long steps toward him and hugs him, smelling of cinnamon whiskey, and Juno leans into the embrace, taken aback and overwhelmed. âIâm glad youâre alive.â
âThank you.â
âAnd if you do it again, darling, this mechanical heart may well fail for good, so I would request that you do not do anything like this, ever again.â
âOhââ
âMiss Vespa was real mad,â Rita chirps. âAnd I was pretty angry too! Didnât even realize I was so mad until Mista Jet pointed it out!â
âWe spent much of last night sharing stories and discussing how deeply we both cared for you.â
âOkay,â Juno says, bewildered. Making sense of this is far harder than investigating and tailing Rossignol had been. âShould Iâwhat kind of stories?â
âAll good ones, boss!â
âThat is untrue. Several of the ones Rita shared with me were quite sad.â
âSome of them were from, yâknow, right after the HCPD and all that,â Rita stage-whispers. âSorry, boss. I thought you were dead.â
âItâs all right, Rita.â
âIf anything, it only heightened my opinion of you. I hope that is a comfort, Juno.â
âSure,â Juno says weakly. âI donât want to know. I mean I do, but not right now. You all, uhâŚ.â Juno trails off, unsure how to even ask. âYouââ
âI donât know if somehow the quest for vengeance escaped your notice, Steel, but yes, we care,â Vespa spits. âObviously. So get those tears out of your eyes and keep me from gutting Nureyev with my knife, because trust me, Steel, itâs still really, really tempting.â
âWhich she says mostly because of how angry she was,â Buddy says.
âHey! Bud!â
Buddy shrugs, smiling in the way that only Vespa can pull from her, playful and sincere. âIâm hardly lying, dearest.â
âThat doesnât mean you should justââ
âNureyev.â
Vespaâs attention snaps back to Juno, and then to the man just by Junoâs shoulder. Juno follows Jetâs gaze to Nureyev, his tread utterly silent in his nervousness, and motions Nureyev closer with his shoulder. Quietly, reassuringly, he takes Nureyevâs hand.
âHello,â Nureyev says, and Juno tries his level best not to wince.
Vespa is not so considerate. âNice,â she snaps. âWay to begin these next few minutes in which youâll be begging for your life.â
âVespa, dearest,â Buddy murmurs. Then, to Nureyev: âSo. Juno is alive.â
âAh, yes, Captain.â
One of Buddyâs brows half-arches at the title. Nureyev flinches minutely, and Juno squeezes Nureyevâs hand reassuringly. She doesnât comment, however, and instead says, âYou didnât kill him, then.â
âNo. Notâno.â
âTypically this is where you would explain yourself, darling,â Buddy says dryly.
âRight,â Nureyev says, and for once his anxieties are plain on his face. Juno is so, so proud of him. âSo. You all know who I am by now, I am sure. ThisâŚplace, the planet below it, was my home.â
âBrahma,â Vespa rasps. âOuter Rim.â
Nureyev nods to her. âYes. More specifically, I was its Angel,â Nureyev sighs, contempt and exhaustion lacing the word. Vespaâs brows shoot to the top of her forehead, jaw going slack. âAnd before I became the nameless thief, my name wasâwell. My name was Peter Nureyev.â
Juno nudges him, just slightly. Nureyevâs gaze flicks to Juno briefly before he clears his throat and corrects himself. âIs,â he says. âMy name is Peter Nureyev.â
There is a long moment of silence. Then Jet says, âI am Jet Siquliak.â
âYes, Iââ
âAnd Iâm Rita!â Rita half-cheers, startling the birds that had tentatively resettled in its branches into flight.
âWell then. I suppose Iâm Buddy Aurinko, famed thief and Juno-proclaimed âhuman fireballâ.â
âThis is stupid,â Vespa says, and Buddy says, âVespa, darling,â and Vespa glares daggers at Nureyev and spits like the words jab like knives into her tongue, âVespa Ilkay, which you know already.â
âYes, well.â Nureyev blinks, a little breathless. âThank you all for that. It is, umâŚgood. To meet you. Again.â
âAnd you as well, darling,â Buddy says. âWell, Iâll be honest with you all. Losing a daughter and then finding him again does absolutely no good for a mechanical heart, and finding out that your son is still your son after all is even more so, so I find myself quite exhausted. Iâm sure yours is quite the riveting story, Pete, Juno, but if you donât mind Iâd much rather hear it in the comfort of our home.â
âOh,â Nureyev says quietly, and Junoâs heart aches. âIâŚwould like that. Very much.â
Buddy cocks her head at him. Then she says, âYou know what, darling? I believe you.â
Then she disappears through the hatch and into the belly of the shuttle.
âIâm still furious with you,â Vespa growls. âI havenât forgiven you for anything.â
âI could expect nothing less.â
âIf you ever hurt Mista Steel like you pretended to, Iâll tear you apart,â Rita says cheerfully. âBut also Iâm real glad you ainât evil after all âcause I like you a lot, Mista Nureyev! Besides we still got a ton of streams we gotta finish and I was gonna play one from Brahma but now Iâm thinkinâ maybe that ainât such a great idea and weâll save that for much much later.â
They vanish. Jet lingers for a moment, watching Rita clamber into the hatch after Vespa, then turns to Nureyev, who stiffens anxiously under the scrutiny.
Jet clears his throat.
âIt did not escape me that it was us held for ransom for your debts, Peter Nureyev.â
Nureyevâs gaze flicks to Juno again, who shrugs slightly. He didnât really see much point in hiding that particular detail, not after everything. âAh, yes. That is true.â
Jet nods. He says, âWhen I was the Unnatural Disaster, it was caring for Buddy that pulled me out of my violent habits. I am no longer the man I once was. And I do not think you are the man I thought you were. I look forward to meeting Peter Nureyev, because although I know little of him, what I have learned of him leads me to respect him already.â
Then he turns and goes.
Nureyev makes a quiet choked-off noise and Juno turns and silently pulls him into his arms.
âIâm sorry,â Nureyev manages into Junoâs shoulder, one hand raising to grip Junoâs shoulderblade tightly. âI did not thinkâI hardly imaginedââ
âQuite,â Nureyev sob-laughs, burying his face in Junoâs shoulder. He slumps against Juno, bone-deep exhaustion heavy on Junoâs skin, and Juno holds him. Then, after a long moment, he leans back, wiping his own eyes and smiling. âThat wentâŚso much better than I expected.â
Juno scoffs. âI knew it was gonna go that well.â
âNo you didnât, my love.â
âMaybe I didnât,â Juno admits. âBut it doesnât surprise me.â
Nureyev takes Junoâs hand and leads him toward the shuttle, primed already to return them home. âNo?â
âNo,â Juno says decisively. âThey didnât want to hate you, Nureyev. They justâI mean, you canât have betrayal if you donât first have trust. Thatâs why they were so angry.â
Nureyev is silent. Juno takes the ladder first, then turns to help Nureyev, quite unnecessarily, through the hatch. Juno sits by Rita, and Nureyev, he is unsurprised to see, sits wordlessly by Jet.
Jet, who moves over to accommodate his place.
âWell then, darlings,â Buddy says from the cockpit, Vespa in the co-pilotâs seat. âHomeward we go.â
â
âOkay, so this oneâs real special,â Rita announces, brandishing the streamâs cover in front of them. In flashes Juno can make out a tall, thin man with outstretched wings. âAnd itâs probably also gonna be real weird but Iâve wanted to watch it for months and months and months now, ever since I found out Mista Nureyevâs real name! And I ainât seen it so I donât know how good it is but I thought itâd be a great stream to watch with the whole family!â
âOh no,â says Nureyev.
âOh yes,â Rita cheers, flicking the stream on and squishing herself into Junoâs other side, burrowing into his ribs until he lifts his arm to pull her close by the shoulders. âTime for a family night special: The Angel of Brahma!â
The opening sequence begins. Nureyevâs forehead lands solidly on Junoâs other shoulder, and Juno laughs. âNervous?â
âNo one knew,â Juno murmurs. âIt couldnât show up in the movie. And honestly, from the cover, it was rebel-made, right? Probably gonna paint you in a real flattering light.â
âHardly true to life.â
âI donât know,â Juno says musingly, and turns to drop a kiss to the back of Nureyevâs head. âI donât think so.â
âYou flatter me, my love.â
âYou make it easy.â
Nureyev laughs softly, turning his head to nestle into the crook of Junoâs neck. âI love you, Juno Steel.â
The opening sequence fades to black. An anticipatory hush falls along the family: Buddy and Vespa curled against one arm of the couch, Ritaâs legs sprawled over Jetâs lap, her head butting into Junoâs shoulders, Junoâs fingers twined with Nureyevâs as his forehead dips slightly into Junoâs collarbone. Juno adjusts the blanket over Nureyev and Rita both.
Juno turns his head for just a moment to rest his cheekbone atop Nureyevâs head, and murmurs, simple and soft, âI love you too.â
âHeâs not here,â Jon breathes, looking incredulously around the Panopticon. For months theyâve traveledâat least as well as he can figure in this changed worldâonly to find Magnus, the coward, left his throne empty. Jon approaches it, eyes narrowed, and curses at the plush unblemished velvet. Damn him, thereâs a little golden crown sat artfully askance at the edge of the crest rail. A single sapphire sits in the middle like a cold blue eye. âDamn it!â
His voice echoes around the chamber. Jon grits his teeth, hands balled into fists. In response to his incredulous rage, his fury, eyes pop out all over his skin like boils, all narrowed and hateful, for all the good it does him in the Panopticon. Here, he canât see through them. It doesnât matter. Magnus isnât here.
Jon sighs. âLetâs keep looking,â he says. âMaybe weâll find something in theâMartin?â
He looks around. The room is empty. Martin had just beenâ âMartin?â
No response. The single word, the call, echoes quiet and ominous through the room.
Fear ricochets through him. He takes two quick steps forward, looking around as though Martin would just be sat against the wall, leaned against the door, but thereâs no sign of him. âMartin!â
The vast emptiness of the room presses in on him, and Jon shakes it away angrily. Yes, this is the epicenter of all the fears, but the Vast and the Lonely have already gnawed their marks into him and Jon has no intention of letting them take a second bite. Maybe Martinâs gone down to the Archives. Yes, heâd always rather wanted to continue the work he began just before the Unknowing. Maybe he means to set the whole damn place on fire.
Jon sets off for the long, toiling stairwell that coils up to the top of the Eyeâs Tower. Theyâve been separated before, but theyâve always found each other. Thereâs no sign of Magnus, so this is Jonâs domain now, and no harm can come to Martin here. Few things would dare cross this worldâs Archive.
And then:
âJon?â
âMartin!â Jon turns, relief shuddering through him, and finds Martin stood next to the throne. He steps forward, but Martin stays where he is. âWhere did you go? What happened? I just looked back and you were gone!â
Martin shrugs, one-shouldered, and smiles. It stretches oddly on his face. Like a mask. âI went exploring,â he says, in a voice that isnât quite right. Jonâs frantic steps slow. âIâve always been curious.â
His eyes are blue.
Jon freezes. Martinâs eyes are blue. Bright, cold, ice-chipped sapphire blue.
As he watches, a smile curls across Martinâs face, sinuous and slow.
âNo.â
âOh, yes.â
âNo,â Jon breathes, voice cracked. âNo, youâno!â
Martin tilts his head, expression turned simpering, sickeningly sympathetic. âWhatâs wrong, Jon?â
âGive him back,â Jon demands, vicious and aching. He steps forward, viper-quick, raises his chin to glare deep into eyes that arenât Martinâs. âGive him back! You canât have him!â
âOh, Jon,â Jonah Magnus says, cloyingly sweet, âI already do.â
Jon shakes his head. âNo,â he says, fighting to keep his composure, to keep his eyes inside his skin, to keep the static that crackles just beneath his skin in check. No. No. âGet out.â
Magnus laughs. âIâm afraid itâs permanent, Jon.â His head tilts. âYou really should take better care of your things.â
âMartin can take care of himself.â
Magnus hums. âMaybe before, but here? He was so trusting, Jon. You told him this was your domain, and he was so comfortable. He dropped his guard.â The sweet expression sours into a smirk. âWhat was it you said, about this world you have made? You cannot trust comfort.â
Magnus had heard him. An anger so powerful it feels unreal shivers through him, and he no longer cares, no longer bothers to struggle as eyes sprout along his skin, wide and staring. When his jaw aches he realizes heâs snarling. Magnus just chuckles, unconcerned, and sits, languid, on his throne. Martinâs fingers look delicate as he picks the crown off the inlaid wood and spins it, considering, in his hands. âYouâd done so well, too. Both of you. His performance in the Lonely? Stirring.â
âShut up.â
âWhy? What are you going to do, Jon? Beat me to death? No.â Magnus crosses his legs, crosses Martinâs legs, and settles the crown gently on hair that Jon has run his fingers through countless times, as comfort, for Martin and for him as theyâd grieved the changed world and it sickens him to know that Magnus watched that, too. As though he knows what Jonâs thinking, Magnus smiles, and adjusts the crown on his head. âItâs ornamental, really, and probably too gaudy for your tastes. Martin certainly wouldâve hated it,â Magnus says, and Jon sees red, but what can he do? What can he do? If he has any chance, if he has any chance of getting Martin back then heâthen he canâtâ âI do love it though.â
âShut up.â
âItâs inspiring, really,â Magnus says, voice almost gentle. âHow far you two made it, before you reached the end.â
The rage boils up and over and Jon reaches out, tears into him as he has so many, searching for weaknesses and points to grip, to rend, to destroy, but the Eye is a ward around Magnus and all his anger collapses like cloth against a barricade, finding no purchase. He tries again, searching, desperate, for anything Magnus might know that Jon could use, heâs been stealing bodies for so long and he must know something about regret or recrimination, and if not him then Rayner, anything that could bring Martin back, but his mind is impervious and faintly when Jon staggers back, drained and head aching, he hears Magnus laughing.
âThis may be your domain, my beautiful Archive,â Magnus says, almost fond, and Jon wants to be sick, he wants, he wants to be overwhelmingly furious and powerful but all of his despair and anger cannot make a dent against a mind a hundred years older than Jonâs. âBut it was mine long before you were born. You have no power here.â
No. No. Jon refuses to accept that. He refuses. He will not let Magnus win. He will not let Magnus take him.
Jon takes a deep breath, pushing down his fury and despair and shoving it away, down where all the other dark and broken parts of him lay scattered, and decides, then, that if he dies in this attempt it will be a mercy; but he will not, because he will not fail, because he is this ruined world and he will not accept anything less. âThis may be your Institute,â Jon grits, his whole body shivering, eyes sprouting along the backs of his hands, his shoulders, along his back, and something great and awful unfurls from his shoulderblades as he growls in a voice that is not his own, âbut the ruined world is mine.â
And then he digs.
Because Magnus may be hundreds of years old but Jon knows the agony of millions, and he detaches himself from the frail flesh form of the Archivist, bereft and grieving, and becomes more. His feet leave the ground and he feels his body pulse, shaking apart, and he reaches out to every single person still living and aching and breaking in the world that he destroyed and summons it: their fear, their terror, the love that this world twisted and made rotten, and shoves.
It batters and pours against Magnusâs wall, and from far, far away Jon watches Magnusâs eyesâthose eyes that he hates like nothing elseâgo wide. With fear, or surprise, perhaps? It doesnât matter either way, because in one moment Jon and all the forces of fear he has wrought slam against a warded mind and the next they spill through. The Archivistâs frail body shakes and splits with veins too delicate and thin to maintain that much weight, and Jon leans into it, leans into the fear and terror and love, spoilt and rotten though he made it, and shoves it into Magnusâs mind, and watches, detached and crumpling, as Magnusâs mind strains and fights and breaks, blood rocketing to his eyes and spilling out as they finally, finally, finally go dark.
Jon drops to the ground.
His vision fringes. Blackness encroaches, and there is not a part of him that does not want to twist and die with agony, but he pulls himself to his elbows, to his knees, and crawls over to Martinâto Martinâ
Blood trickles down Martinâs face. He lays unmoving, save for the faint breath of wind that trickles around the ruined top layer of the Panopticon. Jon crumbles, landing hard on his side, and reaches out to cup a cheek stained crimson in a cooling pool of blood. He tries to whisper, to speak, just one word, just one, but his voice catches and breaks. He shifts, and along his back something twinges and he winces, then laughs, at that one hurt temporarily overruling all the others when none of them matter. Jon forces himself to peer closer, a trembling hand lifted to brush the hair from Martinâs face.
His eyes are closed. Aside from the teartracks of red staining down his face, he could be asleep.
Jon chokes on a laugh. His vision grays, and Jon traces his own bloodied hand across Martinâs other cheek, brushing the hair along his ear, and curls a sob into his chest.
All across his body, eyes blink and sway, overtaking his skin entirely, not just atop him but within him, bitten into every inch of his flesh. The hand he rests against Martinâs chest, knuckles curled against his heart, blinks tiredly back at him.
Jon swallows, feels the river-smooth-pebble twine of his throat, the pull of air through dimpled lungs. His tongue is pockmarked flesh. He breathes out: just one word. A name, or maybe a hopeless prayer. It should have sounded so, so sweet.
Jon closes his eyes.
â
He aches.
He sucks in a breath in a rush and winces, the air cool and harsh against his throat. He tries to open his eyesâhe canât remember why he should be surprised that he woke up at allâand fails. Something has gummed them closed, and Jon gives up quickly on trying to open them.
Martin.
God, Martin.
Jon slumps back to the floor. He remembers, now, why he hadnât thought he was surprised. He remembers the ruining of the world, and then Magnus, and MartinâŚ.
Then: âJon?â
ThatâsâŚhe knows that voice. Jon wrenches his eyes open, and meets a familiar face, heavily scarred and framed with a jagged crop. âHey,â she says.
He tries a smile and thinks he succeeds. Strange: his cheeks no longer feel like river-rocks. He tries to lift a hand and grimaces, giving up. âDaisy.â
âEyes are gone,â she says, and shifts to sit more comfortably next to him. Jon looks around himself, and is stunned to realize he only has two eyes. He tries to sit up and retches, pain spearing through his chest, and she pushes him back down with a wry snort. âSaid your eyes were gone, Sims. Stop trying to look around.â
âWhereâ?â
âPanopticon,â she grunts. Her arms are folded over top her knees. âBeen here awhile.â
Jon steels himself. He is proud of how empty his voice is when he asks, âAnd Magnus?â
âDead,â Daisy says. She looks sidelong at him, and he keeps his gaze fixed up, toward the ceiling.
Jon has nothing to say to that. So he doesnât.
He doesnât move. He doesnât want to. Daisy doesnât bother him; she just sits next to him, eyes closed, head tipped peacefully against the wall. He wants to know how she is here, how she came back to him, and where the rest of them are, but he canât bring himself to be curious about it. Canât bring himself to be curious about anything at all.
If he could, he would laugh at the irony. Now, five years later and after the end of the world, now his curiosity is gone from him. One last cosmic irony, he supposes. It tastes bitter.
Eventually Jon finds that he can move his neck. For a while he doesnât, preferring to keep his gaze on the ceiling. It takes several minutes of steeling before he looks to the side, then looks away again as though heâd been burned. No, heâs been burned before; even faster than that.
Theyâd moved Martinâs body, at least. He canât decide how he feels about that. He canât feel much of anything at all.
He canât tell how much time passes. Time doesnât pass anymore anyway; it more winds and loops and distorts. He used to measure it in the steady wavebeats of fear, but theyâre gone from his consciousness now. For the first time in years, the only eyes on his body are the two sunk deep in his face.
He should panic, he knows. He should be full of fear for consequence. He should probably be dead. He canât bring himself to care.
Jon closes his eyes and rests.
â
The Panopticon trembles.
Daisy sucks in a breath. Jon opens his eyes, drags himself into a seated position. His voice is little more than a croak. âDaisy?â
âHold on.â
âWhat?â
She grabs his arm, eyes narrowed. âHold on to me.â
Now, too late, fear shoots through him. âDaisy, whatâ?â
âTrust me,â she grits, and crouches next to him, shielding his body with her back. He strugglesâhe doesnât want her doing this, he doesnât care, if heâs in danger she needs to runâbut her grip is a vice of iron, and she doesnât yield.
âLet me go.â
âNo,â she grunts, face buried in the back of his head. Something booms, and Jon doesnât Know but he thinks itâs part of the ceiling, slammed onto this top floor. Â Â Â
âDaisy, get out of here!â
âShut it,â she snaps, and the metal beneath them shakes.
âDaisy! Run!â
âNot leaving you!â
He wants to shout. He wants to cry. âDaisy, please.â
She just holds him tighter. He slumps against her as the world around them shakes apart. Her grip on him stays tight but he goes limp, willing it to be over. For all of it to be over.
Then, just as suddenly as it began, the shaking stops.
A shifting as Daisy looks up. She makes a small pleased noise, then lets him go. âSims.â
âWhat?â
âStop swanning,â she says, and sounds so content that he looks up.
âWhat, Daisyâ?â
The floor beneath them is smooth. Before them are windows. The sky outside is blue.
Daisy stands, brushing off her knees. Jon stares, open-mouthed, gaping. âRight then,â she says. âLetâs go find the others, yeah?â
âTheâŚthe others?â
âYeah, the others,â she repeats, almost amused, as if Jon were not staring at the simple white cloud puffing above a street full of buildings. Straight-edged, right-cornered buildings, windows of glass and clear-paned. They canât be any more than two stories up.
âDaisy?â he manages weakly.
âCâmon,â she says, and offers him a hand. âEasier to see than explain.â
â
She takes him to the house on Hilltop Road, except, of course, there is no longer a house there. Instead, there is a crater in the ground. Next to the crater, the house crouched behind the door they knock upon is a squat one-storied thing that looks like it contains no more than three rooms. Basira answers the door.
âHey,â Daisy says, smiling, and Basira wordlessly grabs her and kisses her, there on the doorstep. Jon looks away.
After a moment they break apart. Daisy is more flushed than heâs ever seen her, and Basira is grinning. She leans over her shoulder and shouts, âJonâs here!â
There are immediate footsteps, almost comically quick. Basira blocks most of the door, allowing Daisy to slip inside, but over her shoulder he can see Georgie, waving frantically at him, Melanie flipping off his general direction, the Admiral thrumming on her shoulder, andâandâŚ.
Basira moves out of the way and closes the door. The street is empty, the world set back to rights, and Martinâs arms are so covered in bandages that Jon canât count his freckles, but his eyes are a soft brown and heâs smiling, wiping at his eyes as he steps out onto the porch.
âHi,â he says, and Jon stares at him.
He realizes heâs shaking his head. âIâyouââ
âYeah,â Martin says softly. âMe.â
âYou died.â
âYou saved me.â
Jon chokes on a sob. He reaches out, hand shaking, instinctively pinning Martin with eyes that no longer exist, desperately straining to know if this is Martin, if this is his Martin, if this is a trick; but then his hand lands on Martinâs shoulder, still blood-streaked, pressing a faint handprint into the ragged orange wool of his jumper, and itâs real.
âOh,â he manages, voice gone high-pitched, before burying his face in Martinâs chest and breaking into the most painful sobs of his life.
Martin presses his face into Jonâs hair, holding him up with a familiar easy strength. He murmurs oh, Jon, like itâs Jon that heâd worried for, and every part of him aches as he crumples in Martinâs embrace and wraps his arms so tight around Martinâs waist that heâs sure the fabric of the jumper stretches and he just does not care.
âIâm sorry,â he shudders, âMartin, Iâm soâI didnât meanâIâm so sorryââ
âNone of that,â Martin says softly, his fingers tousling gently into Jonâs hair, brushing it back in small, soothing movements. âYou did so well.â
âI lost you.â
âAnd I found you again,â Martin says gently. Jon presses his face into Martinâs chest so hard that the press of his glasses against his face is painful but Jon revels in it, leans into it, because it means heâs real, that heâs woken up, and heâs not dreaming. âWe said we always would.â
Jon bursts into helpless laughter at that. âI suppose we did,â he says shakily. He rests his cheek over Martinâs heart, eyes slipping closed as he listens to the heartbeat there, slow and steady and deep. One of Martinâs hands slides down to curl around the small of his back, the other cupping the point of his jaw. He brushes a kiss to Jonâs forehead.
There, in the distance, is birdsong.
Jon feels himself smile.
â
Jon doesnât let go of Martinâs hand. Theyâve appropriated a table fromâwhoever lived here before Georgie co-opted it from the terror of the Dark that held it captiveâand the six of them cluster tight around it. Melanie has one leg hitched over Georgieâs lap, and Basiraâs shoulder brushes against Daisyâs, easy and sure.
âHow?â
Basira looks to Martin. Martin colors, and shrugs. Jon counts the freckles on his face. There are more than there were before, Jon notices, helplessly happy, and thinks about how much he wants to kiss each one. âI found out what the Web wanted,â he says, as though that were simple. âAnd then I sort ofâŚmade a web of my own.â
Jon laughs, just as helpless, just as enamored, because of course. Of course, at the end, it was that simple. âBrilliant,â he says, and Martin smiles down at him, fond and crinkled, and Jon canât help but smile back.
â
Martinâs flat stands at it had before the changing of the world, save a perpetual low-hanging mist that coats the ground floor. They, as do the rest of the once-residents of that building, decide against returning.
Jonâs flat is decrepit; not from the worldâs end but from simple disuse. He burns with faint embarrassment as he unlocks the door with a key that miraculously reformed after melting in the Desolationâs fire, but Martin just looks around and elbows Jon, teasing him about somethingâthe furniture, maybe, or the dust thick along the counter, but Jon doesnât care. He canât. He laughs, harder than the comment warrants, and then Martin is laughing too. He leans on Martin, who scoops him up. Jon makes a quick startled noise, latching onto Martinâs shoulder, but Martin is strongâalways has beenâand seems unbothered as he carries them both to the small sofa that courts the space generously called a living room. He plops them both down, and Jon kisses the underside of his chin, marking a single one off the list of freckles he means to map with his lips over, and over, and over again.
â
Even the nonperishables in Jonâs apartment are rotted, and that fact, coupled with the realization that the pain in his stomach is indeed hunger of the regular human variety, sends Jon and Martin tentatively to one of the corner shops that stock frozen meals.
They arenât the only ones browsing the aisles. People whose scalps are half-burned, people who limp on unfeeling legs, people who look around quick and fearful. Jon and Martin pass through them unnoticed. An old man stumbles on his way from the store, laden with bags too stuffed to carry, and a young woman with bright blue hair and a slow smile takes one for him and walks with him through the automatic doors and out.
Outside, the London rain returns. As Jon and Martin step outside, along the street they see dozens of people do the same. The automatic door stays open as shoppers discard their bags by the door, piled in the corner, stretching out their arms and turning overjoyed faces toward the sky.
The water is clean. Someone bursts into tears. Another handful start laughing. Jon takes Martinâs hand as they cross the street, a small incredulous smile of his own spreading across his face as the buildings of London are washed with a fresh spring rain.
When he looks to the side, a small contented smile to mirror his has slid across Martinâs face. And when Martin catches Jon looking, he squeezes their hands together, then tilts his head back and sticks out his tongue.
Jon laughs, as Martin continues unabashedly catching raindrops on his tongue, before giving into childlike giddy glee and doing the same.
â
That weekend, they take a vacation. Daisyâs safehouse in the Scottish Highlands isnât quite large enough for six, but they bring sleeping bags and camper beds and an overwhelming amount of good humor, and somehow they all fit. The firehouse roars for hours, and only dwindles in the late hours of the morning. Daisy and Basira tuck into the single bed that Jon and Martin had once claimed as their own, and Melanie and Georgie set up sleeping bags outside; Melanie canât seem to get enough of hearing the world, returned to its rightful place, ensconced as happily in a choir of crickets and owl-hoots as in blankets and warmth.
Martin holds a still-warm mug of tea in his hands, eyes glinting with mirth as he and Jon talk about nothing at all. Apparently, Jon learns, he wants to start a garden. Jon concedes on the condition that they get a cat. Martin asks what theyâd name her, and Jon says, decisive, âThe Corporal.â
Martin snorts. âA rank below the Admiral, hm?â
âYes.â
A pause. Martin leans back. In the distance, a cow lows, and Jon finds himself smiling again. Long-disused muscles in his face ache from all the smiling heâs doing, and he curls closer to Martin, anchored by the warmth of his side. âIâm calling her Cooper.â
âAbsolutely not.â
âItâs a nickname, Jon.â
âItâs disrespectful!â
âYou canât stop me!â
Jon splutters and Martin laughs, shoulders shaking. Jon keeps up his pretense of indignation, just because he can, because he wants to, because Martinâs laughter is his favorite song in the world. He grumbles and grumps his way onto Martinâs lap and waits as his laughter subsides.
âHello,â Martin says, unbearably fond, and Jon mumbles something unintelligible at him before pressing a kiss to his jawbone. He stills. âJon?â
âHush,â Jon says, kissing along his cheek, in a pattern he sees when he presses against his eyelids.
âJon?â Martin sounds confused now, hands settling against Jonâs waist. âWhat are you doing?â
Jon hums, making his way around to Martinâs nose, before leaning back and saying, serious as anything, âKissing your freckles.â
Martin looks back at him. Then he snorts, pushing at Jonâs cheek. âYouâre ridiculous.â
âYouâre lovely,â Jon says, catching Martinâs hand, and Martin stares at him. Even in the dim light of the embers, glinting from their cradle of wood, he colors visibly.
âJonâŚ.â
Jon smiles. âI know.â
Martin brings a hand up, brushing the hair from Jonâs face, eyes traveling soft along Jonâs face as he does. âWhen I woke upâŚ.â
He trails off. Jon tilts his head, and Martin cups his cheek, swallowing. He opens his mouth, jaw working, and Jon says, quiet, âYou donât have to.â
Martin shakes his head, so Jon waits.
âI thought youâd died,â Martin murmurs. His hand slips from Jonâs cheek, curling empty in his lap. âIt was awful.â
Jon keeps quiet, sympathetic. He knows the feeling well.
âYou had wings,â Martin says, âdid you know?â His lips quirk in a hollow smile, and Jon hurts for it, that even still he smiles to reassure Jon even as he aches. Martin reaches over his shoulder and pats the top of his shoulderblades. âTwo of them. Full of eyes. They were closed.â
âMy eyes?â
âYeah,â Martin says, folding his hands together. They wring, anxious. âAll of them. Thatâs whatâŚthatâs why I thought youâdâŚ.â
Jon winces. âIâm sorry.â
Martin brushes the comment away. âYou were all eyes,â he says instead, soft and haunted. âAnd when Iâwhen I called your name, you didnâtâŚnot a single eye looked at me, Jon. That had never happened before, when I tried to wake you up.â He laughs, quiet and empty. âI tried so many times.â
He falls silent, hands fallen still. Outside, a nature renewed sings its gentle chorus: creatures of the night, chirping and cooing and thrumming and lowing, all a distant murmur, a blanket. A comfort.
Jon takes Martinâs hands in his own. He laces their fingers together, carefully, and lifts one pair of their interlaced hands, and brushes a kiss to the starburst of freckles running along his forearm, ending on the back of his palm.
âDo you remember it?â he asks, not sure whether he wants the answer. For once, he doesnât have to mind the compulsion that threaded so easily through his voice, and the low resonance of his tone is entirely his own making. âWhen MagnusâŚ.â
âTook over? No.â
âGood,â Jon says, grateful. What heâd done to Magnusâ âGood.â
Martin huffs a little laugh. âWhat did you do?â
âNothing,â Jon says, purposefully too quick.
âJon.â
âMartin.â
Martin swats at him with his free hand, and Jon ducks out of the way, his sharp exhale rounded with mirth. âWhatever you did, it must have been a lot.â
âA lot. Yes, thatâsâŚone way to put it.â
Martin doesnât say anything to that, just watches him quietly. He reaches out, then, and takes Jonâs other hand; winds their fingers together, just as deliberate, just as tender. âI love you, you know,â he says, voice soft.
Jon looks at him. In the low lighting of the ember-bed keeping them warm, Martinâs hairâwhich never quite recovered its full hue after the Lonelyâglints with burnished golds, the fire highlighting and haloing his head. His eyes are soft, and open, and sure.
âOf course I do,â Jon murmurs. âMartin Blackwood. I am in love with you.â
He says it, quiet and even, and watches with pleasure as Martinâs expression slides oddly along his face, the truth of Jonâs words warring with Martinâs doubt. His fight with the Lonely had not ended with the righting of the world.
Jon raises their interlocked hands, wraps his around to cup the back of Martinâs, brings it to his mouth. Presses a kiss, feather-light, to the heel of his palm. âI love you,â Jon says again, because he can, because it makes Martin smile, faint and helpless; because every time he says it, Martin believes him a little more.
He laces their fingers back and leans forward, chin raised, and Martin bows his head obligingly. Jon moves across his forehead, trailing kisses along the wrinkles there, eyes slipping closed; if he misses one, well, heâll get it the next time around.
âJon,â Martin says, half-laughing, unbearably fond, and Jon leans back. âYou ridiculous man.â
âSo Iâve been told.â
âI love you.â
âI know,â Jon says, warm. âI love you too.â
Martin hesitates. Jon keeps his gaze, steady, patient.
âI know,â Martin murmurs. âI do.â
Jon smiles. He shifts back around to tuck himself against Martinâs side, and yelps quietly when Martin picks him up, then sets them on the couch and tugs them both sideways, lying face-to-face. Martin drapes Daisyâs old tartan quilt over them, adjusting it carefully over Jonâs shoulders, and lies still, obliging, as Jon does the same.
Jon closes his eyes, presses a kiss to the freckle just between Martinâs eyebrows, feeling them scrunch beneath his lips. There are more, he sees, on the image of Martin he holds in his mind; wound around his eyebrow and drifting toward his temple, but those, Jon thinks, he can leave a little while.