#slight au

“Watch your step,” he muttered sharply, hand grabbing your wrist before you could trip over a vine. His grip was a little too tight. “You’re not paying attention.”

“I am,” you whispered.

“No, you’re not.”

His tone made your stomach twist. This wasn’t the protective Steve who shielded you from demobats or jumped in front of claws and teeth.

This was the Steve who thought he was losing you.

The one who didn’t handle loss well.

A distant screech echoed through the fog.

You both froze, weapons out. You lifted your weapon, inhaling shakily.

But instead of scanning the shadows, Steve turned toward you.

His voice was low. Unsteady. Dangerously calm.

“So,” he said, “you still want that break?”

Your heart dropped. “Steve-this isn’t the time.”

“Actually?” He stepped closer, eyes unreadable in the dim blue light. “This is the only time. Because right now? Right now we don’t get to lie to each other.”

You tried to step back. He followed.

“Steve-”

“No.” His jaw clenched. “Say it. You want to walk away from me.”

“I just needed space-”

“Space?” He laughed, but it wasn’t amused. It was hollow. “You want space from me, but you don’t blink when it’s monsters ripping into me, tearing up my sides, clawing through my shirt. No. No, you only want space from us. From me.”

You shook your head quickly. “That’s not what I-”

“Then explain it,” he snapped. “Explain what you meant. Because I can’t- can’t lose another person I-"

His voice broke.

He looked away, breathing ragged, knuckles white around his bat.

“I’m not Nancy,” you whispered. You meant it softly.

He whipped his head toward you, eyes darkening.

“I know you’re not Nancy,” he hissed, voice shaking with something wild. “That’s the problem.”

You blinked. “Problem? Steve, what is going on with you?”

He let out a shuddering breath and leaned in, forehead almost touching yours.

“You don’t get it,” he murmured. “I don’t want perfect. I don’t want some Barbie-doll romance. I want you. I want… all of you. The stubborn. The sweet. The brave. The parts that drive me crazy.”

He swallowed hard.

“And the parts that hurt me.”

Your lips parted, stunned.

Before you could answer, the ground vibrated - something big, something close.

But Steve didn’t move.

“You want a break?” he whispered. “Fine. But we’re not talking about it out there.”

He nodded toward the direction of the real world.

He took a step closer.

“We’re talking about it here.”

“In the Upside Down?” you asked, voice trembling.

He nodded once. Slow. Certain.

“Where you can’t walk away from me.”

Your pulse hammered. “Steve-”

“You think you can just… say we’re done and then what?” His eyes glinted. “We go back to being strangers? Pretending none of this happened? Pretending I don’t love you so much it makes me sick?”

Your breath caught.

He stepped closer again, backing you toward the twisted remains of a tree.

“You can’t leave me,” he said quietly. “Not here. Not after everything. Not when I-”

He grabbed your chin gently, but with enough pressure that you couldn’t look away.

“-would do anything to keep you safe.”

A demodog howl cut through the fog. Movement flickered on the edge of your vision.

But Steve didn’t even turn his head.

“You want to talk breakups,” he said softly, “then I’ll walk away right now. I’ll leave you here. Alone.”

Your blood ran cold.

“You wouldn’t.”

“Try me.”

Your heart pounded so hard it hurt.

The shadows moved again - closer this time.

You grabbed his arm instinctively.

And he smiled. Small. Twisted. Devastating.

“That’s what I thought,” he murmured.

He lifted your hand to his chest, pressing it over his heartbeat.

“You’re not leaving me,” he whispered. “Not now. Not ever. Not as long as we’re fighting this shit. You and me? We stay together.”

Another screech erupted.

Steve’s grip tightened on your hand.

And then-harsher, angry:

“Say it.”

You swallowed.

“Steve-”

“Say it,” he demanded “We stay together.”

Your chest ached. Your throat closed.

But the fear of losing him - to the darkness, to the monsters, to his own unraveling - hit harder than the fear of staying.

So you whispered:

“We stay together.”

His exhale was shaky relief.

He leaned his forehead against yours, eyes closing.

“Good girl,” he murmured.

Then he turned toward the approaching creature, jaw set, bat raised.

But he didn’t let go of your hand.

Not even when the demodog burst through the fog.

Not even when the fight began.

Not even when he dragged you behind him, ready to tear apart anything that tried to take you away.

Because Steve Harrington could face monsters.

But losing you?

You’d been standing in the kitchen of the Holmes’ residence for just over three hours. Sherlock was on a case until six hours previous when you received word from his brother that Sherlock was, in fact, missing. 

Unable to do anything to find him, you turned to the one thing you knew always seemed to calm you when almost nothing else worked; you baked. 

Cakes, scones, cookies, bread; anything to help you with your frustration and fear. 

When you didn’t answer, James spoke again. 

“You’re beating the thing as if it owes you money.”

“Why are you here?” You asked, without looking up.

Not that you had to, to know how he was standing. Leaning against the frame of the open door, one foot crossed over the other with his hands crossed in front of him. 

James paused for a slight second. “I was hungry and smelled a fresh loaf in the oven. Came to see if there was any available.”

You sighed. “By the counter.”

He nodded his head, pushing himself from the doorframe. “Thanking you kindly.”

You were that tense and wired, you couldn’t feel his eyes fixed on you as he walked across the kitchen. Nor could you see the way he was studying you – analysing you. The way you stood, the way you moved, the fact you weren’t yelling at him was his biggest worry. 

Instead, you just kept kneading the bread over, and over, and over again. 

Crossing the room once more, James stood beside you and laid a hand on your arm. You hesitated, but you stopped working the bread for a moment. 

And a moment was all he needed. 

“He’ll be okay.”

“How?” You asked, not tearing your eyes from the wooden counter top. “How could you possibly know that?”

“Because I know him.” 

You sighed, closing your eyes. 

“Knowing Sherlock,” James said. “He’s probably halfway to the docks to ask some poor, unsuspecting stranger a random question. Without context. And get him caught in a two hour lecture about…bees.”

That got a chuckle out of you, but rather than it being coarse and dry – like the usual sound of your laughter when you ‘laughed’ at something he said. Your laugh was…wet. Held together by the tears you were too stubborn to shred. 

“He’ll be okay.”

“You should be out looking for him.” You said, your voice unarmed for the first time in his presence. “What if he’s hurt?”

“There’s nothing I haven’t taught him, that I already know. He’s prepared.” James nodded, before adding. “I just hope he listened.”

You nodded, trying to believe it yourself. But from the way you’d gone from pummelling the unbaked bread, to using whatever energy you had left to try and kneed, told James more than he needed to know. 

For a second, he hesitated. “I-I’m gonna do something, now, but I need your word that you won’t try and stab with your bread knife.”

Swiping your hand across your cheek, quickly, you tried to steady your voice. “Why?”

“Because I’m going to hug you.” 

Looking at James, the memory of your first meeting flipped through your mind as quickly as it took a few seconds to pass. 

It had been around the time when Sherlock had thought of the bright idea to help his mother escape her asylum. Although you didn’t like her being in there in the first place, you would have thought he might have written to you to tell you before he came barreling into his home, sounding alarm bells in your head. 

As Sherlock and James had searched a couple of the rooms, James had entered the one you were standing in. Rather than announce himself, however, he opted to lay a hand on your shoulder and proceeded to get flipped over you, his arm twisted and a bruise in his shoulder that was an identical match to the bottom of your heel. 

Rather than flip him in the kitchen, you accepted the hug. 

And when Sherlock came strolling in through the back door, the next afternoon, and found you and James Moriarty not only alone together in a room, but that room was also standing; it was safe to say he was more than shocked. 

“Sherlock!”

Laying the hot try down on the counter, you ran over and hugged him as tight as you could. 

“I see you’re alive,” James said, taking in the muddy image of his best friend. 

“I can see you are, too.” Sherlock replied. “You bake?”

“My mother taught me,” James smiled, leaning on a tea towel and crossing one boot over the other. “Not to say Y/n hasn’t taught me a thing or two in the last day or so.”

Standing back from the hug, you hit Sherlock as hard as you could in the arm. “Where the hell were you?! What the fuck did you think you were doing?!”

He rubbed his arm, a little offended that it hurt him so much. “Ow!”

“I’d answer her if I were you, Sherlock.” James chimed in. 

In the last twenty four hours alone, Sherlock had been kidnapped, made friends with his kidnappers, helped them solve their case, cash in on their favour for him, solved the majority of his current case and picked up a new one. 

And out of it all, seeing you and James be…friendly? Was that really the best term? It was the strangest thing to happen to him. 

“Forgive me,” Sherlock said, leaning across the table hours after his explanation of his day. “But…are you two friends? I go missing for several hours and you two decide to-”

“Decide to…move on quite quickly and find a new best friend?” James asked before nodding proudly. “Yes, I believe so.”

Then you hit his shoulder, hard. 

“Ow.” Mostly, he laughed. 

“We’re civil,” you corrected, before laying a tray of biscuits in front of Sherlock. “Eat up. There’s plenty more.”

Looking across the kitchen, Sherlock made a mental tally of the baked goods. More than likely, you’d be wrapping them up and handing them out to the people in the village. 

“I’m sorry I worried you so much,” Sherlock said, sincerely. He wasn’t always the best at apologies, but looking around, he had no choice but to give you one. 

You nodded. “Next time, send a telegram. Better yet, take James with you.”

Sherlock and James looked at each other with slightly knowing smiles. “I’ll be sure to do that,” Sherlock said just as James said, “He can survive without me.”

You didn’t notice, but a look crossed between the boys as you turned away. Sherlock knew what it meant and James wasn’t one bit embarrassed to be caught in his crush. 

*~*~*~*~*

“Tell me something,” Sherlock said, keeping his voice quiet. 

You’d fallen asleep on the sofa just over an hour into the whiskey filled conversation between the boys. James was sitting beside you, letting your feet rest against his thigh, whilst his hand absentmindedly fell to your ankle and traced against the soft skin. 

“Do you like her because she’s the first woman to not flirt back? Or because you actually…like her?”

James looked at his friend, a tired smile on his face. “Can’t be giving away all my secrets, now.”

Sherlock’s face didn’t change. “She’s my friend, James. I won’t see her get hurt.”

“I think she can take care of herself, don’t you?”

“The sentiment still stands.” 

James watched Sherlock for a quiet moment, but Sherlock was unwavering as usual. 

“A bit of both,” James answered, honestly. “She’s beautiful, and smart. She can keep me on my toes, that’s for sure. I suppose she intrigued me…when she didn’t flirt back.”

“You mean when she told you to fuck off?”

James chuckled. “Yeah. That.”

During your first meeting, after asking who he was, he’d tried flirting with you a little just before Sherlock walked in and properly introduced you both. With his arm still twisted, you’d rolled your eyes at the fact the guy you were physically standing on still had the gall to try and flirt. 

That had been when you’d told him to fuck off. 

“But, truthfully, I can’t deny that having her argue with me…well,” James smiled. “It’s certainly a highlight of my day.”

Sherlock smiled, briefly, too. But watched as James’ eyes fell onto your sleeping frame. His friend didn’t have to ask his question out loud. 

Sitting forward in his chair and laying down his empty glass, Sherlock let out a small breath. “It’ll take time. But- and this is only if you’re serious about your feelings for her. I suspect that somewhere behind all those walls that I’ve seen her build…she’s willing to lower them. For the right person.”

Sherlock bid his friend goodnight before leaving you in James’ hands, which became the physical embodiment of the truth. 

After downing the rest of this drink, James stood and gently pulled the blanket from your frame. 

“Come on,” he whispered. “Let’s get you to bed.”

It took him a try or two, to try and get his arms around and under you without jostling you too much and waking you up. But he succeeded and lifted you from the sofa, before carrying you up the main staircase and towards the general servants area of the house. 

Mostly, it was out-of-date guest bedrooms that Cordelia had told you to stay in when she returned with Sherlock since she didn’t like the idea of the cold and dreary room you’d been sleeping in since she’d hired your parents to work in the kitchens and on the grounds. 

“Sleep tight,” James told you, though he suspected you couldn’t hear him since you were lost in a dream. 

Either way, once he’d closed your door with a soft click, he couldn’t help but hope that his friend was right. Would you be willing to lower your emotional barricades? Would you be willing to lower them for him?

It took six months, eight days and fourteen hours for James Moriarty to get his answer. 

All because some stuffy, upper class gentleman who had been a long-time friend of the family’s decided to stick his nose into business where he wasn’t wanted. 

He’d arrived one afternoon with Mycroft. 

Considering he had nothing else to do that afternoon, a simple carriage ride out with his friend to see the people he cared for sounded like a lovely idea. 

“Michael,” you had smiled, almost friendly, before accepting his hug. 

“Oh, him you’ll hug,” James said, quietly, as you stood back again and stood just in front of him a little. 

“Shush.”

As Mycroft introduced James to Michael, he got an uneasy feeling. Though he couldn’t be too sure it wasn’t because you’d hugged him, rather than flipped him and nearly broken his arm. 

“Mrs Holmes,” Michael smiled, gracing the lady of the house. 

She blushed, just a little. “Michael, darling. How are you? When Mycroft told me you were coming I was almost certain it was a practical joke! I thought you’d forgotten all about us.”

“Oh, I couldn’t forget about you Mrs Holmes.”

“Cordelia, please.”

He nodded, politely. “Cordelia.”

Raising your chin just a little, you cleared your throat. “Tea, Mrs Holmes?”

“That sounds delightful,” she smiled, warmly at you, before she took Michael by the arm. 

“You will be joining us, won’t you, Y/n?” Michael asked. 

Cordelia jumped in quickly, nodding her head. “Oh, yes, darling do!”

You smiled and nodded your head. “I’ll be right out.”

“Fantastic.”

Meanwhile, as you went to fetch the tea tray, Michael was led outside by Cordelia. But, rather than follow them, James followed you. 

“Oh, Michael,” he said, mimicking your accent. “Michael, how much I have missed you.”

“Shut up,” you told him, hitting him in his diaphragm. 

James just laughed. “Is he seriously the kind you’re mooning over? I thought you didn’t like the guy?”

You didn’t look at him. “What gave you that impression?”

“Uh, I don’t know.” James pretended to think. “The tight lipped smile you gave Cordelia when she told you he was coming, the way you stand back in the hallway rather than beside Sherlock like usual. Or how about-”

“Yes,” you said, clipped. “James. I think I get it.”

“So?” James asked, leaning against the counter in front of you. 

“So…what?”

“Is it that sort you like?”

You looked at him longer than you usually did before tearing your gaze away and picking up the tray. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

James watched you as you walked away and for the first time…something didn’t make sense to him. 

Outside in the garden, Sherlock could practically feel the heat radiating from his friend as he sat down beside him. And it all made sense once he started listening to the rather boring conversation that was taking place between his brother, mother, friend and Michael. 

It was the most words, in a calm tone, that either Sherlock or James had heard you utter. And then came the inevitable question of romantic relationships. 

Cordelia pressed Michael, against Mycroft’s wishes. Apparently he was yet to find a suitable woman whom he could love. But he was certainly on the market. 

James watched as, within a split second, all the attention around the garden table turned to you. 

And you hated it. 

Surprisingly, you managed to sit incredibly still. James (and even Sherlock) were expecting you to at least fidget with your hands as you spoke. Well, rambled. 

“Well, I–” 

That was the second surprising thing. You were lost for words. 

The third and final surprising thing was where you looked. Rather, who you looked at. 

It was just a split second. Nothing more than that. But James saw the look in your eyes. And Sherlock saw the exchange. 

“Darling, I was just speaking to your mother,” Cordelia smiled. “She was saying you’d only just spoken to her about this?”

If your eyebrows could have hit the sunshade above you, they would have. Awkwardly, you barked out a laugh. “Oh, um, well, yes!”

God, you wanted to die.

“You’re looking for a husband?” Michael asked, leaning forward in his chair. 

Sherlock and James looked at one another rather quickly. They both knew how you felt about getting married so young. 

“I’m not against it.”

“You’re just not for it.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“Is it marrying me? Is that the idea you’re not fond of?”

You groaned. “For the last time, we’re not getting married! And–” You groaned. “Neither of you would understand what being married actually means! It means giving up the very little part of me that isn’t owned by anyone else! Marriage, for centuries, has been nothing more than a business contract between families. Men have the ability to do as they see fit, even in marriage. But not women.”

“But I’m not asking you to give that up.” Sherlock clarified. “I’m just asking you to pose as a couple getting married. You don’t actually have to go through with it.”

The context of the conversation was something different, but even after Sherlock's case of The Missing Wedding Dresses, he’d asked you to expand on your views on marriage. 

“Uh, well-”

“Well, I’m certain you are,” Michael announced. “Isn’t it what every young lady dreams of?”

“Not always, Michael,” Cordelia jumped in. “But it can be a rather big adventure. With the right person.”

With the right person. 

As James cleared his throat, rubbing his temple and you stood up quickly. “How about some fresh tea?”

“That sounds delightful,” Mycroft said. “Thank you, Y/n.”

James watched your every movement. The lack of eye contact, the speed at which you cleared away the cups and saucers. 

And the slight tremble in your hand as you did so. 

Plastering on a fake smile, you excused yourself and started making your way back over towards the house. 

Finally able to place the tray down and start a fresh pot of tea, James came carefully bounding through the backdoor. 

“Are you alright?”

You nodded. “I’m fine.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t stop them when-”

You looked at him for the slightest moment, before looking away again. “You didn’t have to.”

“I should have. We both know you hate the spotlight being on you.”

“It’s fine, James.”

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

Slamming down the teapot in the sink, you closed your eyes. “Please just-” You took a breath. “I’m fine. You should get back out there.”

Only, he didn’t. 

Instead, he remained fixed in place between the table and the door, his gaze doing nothing but analysing you. 

“Would you stop that?” You asked, noticing him. “What? What is it?”

“Women have confused me…for a long time,” he said. “But you…you are…”

“I am what?”

You continued moving around the kitchen. Pulling biscuits out of the oven, boiling the water, setting the tray back up – all of it done within a fraction of the time it normally took you. 

“Utterly confounding.”

“Why, thank you,” you replied, dryly. 

“I can’t tell if you like the fella, or if you want to see him dead.” James said. “All I know is that you’re holding something back. And since you didn’t know your mother spoke with Cordelia…there’s something else you’re not telling me.”

“I don’t have to tell you anything.” 

James nodded, moving around the kitchen towards you. “Fair point, you don’t. But I can read you.”

For the first time, you stopped moving and turned to look at him, placing one fist on your hip as you gripped the tea towel in your hand. 

“You can read me?” You almost rolled your eyes. “Now I know you’ve been spending too much time with Sherlock.”

James nodded. “Probably, but it’s true. And I’m trying to work out if that’s because I’ve known you longer than I expected to. Longer than you expected to, I imagine.”

You nodded without feeling guilty. 

“Or if it’s because…”

“Because of what?”

James, again, studied you before standing tall and keeping his hands in his pockets. “Or because you want me to. See, I’ve known you for, what? Almost a year? And in all of that time, you haven’t shown anything to anyone you haven’t wanted to. You don’t talk about things, and you’re hyper-aware of your actions.”

You nodded, just a little. “Well, I grew up with Sherlock. He could be quite the taddle-tale, if you weren’t careful with your secrets.”

“How come I know yours then?”

For a brief moment, you paused. You could admit the truth that had been growing inside of you – developing over the last few months you’d gotten to know James Moriarty. But you still weren’t convinced your answer to that question was correct. 

Not yet at least. 

So, rather than tell him (and probably satisfy his ego), you shook your head just a little. 

“I don’t know.”

From the look in your eyes, James saw your truth; it wasn’t ready yet. You were still working it out. But something was clear. 

You didn’t know. Not really. 

“Darling, it’s starting to rain,” Cordelia said as she entered, followed by Mycroft who was carrying the sunshade. “So we’re going to take tea in the living room. Is there anything I can bring in to help?”

Before you could answer and tell her you had it handled, James turned around with his cheeky but charismatic smile. “It’s alright, Mrs Holmes. She’s already ordering me about.”

On instinct, you hit the back of your hand into James’ diaphragm. But he surprised you and caught it. And once the others had left and passed through the kitchen to the other door, he turned to you. 

Lifting your hand to his mouth, he pressed a kiss to your palm. 

“When you figure it out,” he said. “Tell me.”

You had a feeling by the time you figured it out, he’d already know. 

Another few months passed and before you knew it, Sherlock was raising a toast to the year anniversary he and James had met and become friends. 

Meanwhile, you were helping Cordelia set up a charity centre that would help children in and around Oxford and London an education, the ability to find apprenticeships easier, and hone their crafts. 

“Knock, knock.” You heard the Irish tone say before the English followed. 

“We’ve come to make sure you haven’t died.”

“I am very much alive,” you called out with a tired smile before seeing the pair open the door and walk inside. “I was just going over your mother’s diary. She’s got a busy week ahead of her.”

“Of that, I have no doubt.” Sherlock nodded before he took a tour around your office. “Mycroft told me you had been granted your own office.”

“Your point?”

“He wants to know how his brother knew before he did.”

“Ah,” you nodded, peeling your eyes from James to Sherlock. “Well, if you’d answered the telegraph your mother had sent you, you would have seen whose office it came from.”

Sherlock turned to you. “You know I never check my mail.”

“You should at least check it from your mother, Sherlock.” James told him. 

He just hummed, continuing to pace and take in every inch of your new office. Meanwhile, James took a seat on your desk and started rifling through your notes. 

“What are you doing?”

“Just checking.”

“What?”

James hummed. “Secret love notes, cipher keys to your beloved. The usual.”

“Ah, and who would this beloved be?”

“Well, I was hoping it would be me.”

You hummed, narrowing your gaze at him playfully, letting him continue. “But since I hear you’re such an independent woman these days– ah ha!”

“Ah ha?” Sherlock asked. 

“There is a lover!”

Despite wanting to throttle the pair of them for prying, you couldn’t help but laugh as James took a turn around the room, reading out the supposed love letter. 

James feigned a gasp. “Y/n, this is practically a scandal sheet! Oh- he wants to do what?”

“Who is this man? I must defend your honour!” Sherlock played along. 

James turned around, laying a hand on his chest and shaking his head. “Not with your fighting skills, dear.”

“Ah, I suppose you're right. How about you, then?”

James shrugged. “I don’t see why not.”

You chuckled. “Are you two quite finished?”

“We must make a plan.”

“Yes, a plan!”

Groaning a little, but hiding your laughter, you held your head in your hands but continued to watch the Shakespeare worthy performance in front of you. 

As the pair discussed their ‘plan’ to send a fake letter to your lover, then move under the cover of darkness- 

“How well does he know the court yard?”

“At the university?”

They both nodded. 

“Like the back of his hand.”

“Drats.”

“Change of plan?”

“Perhaps we can blindfold him.”

When they’d finally finished their plan, you had tidied up your desk, put your coat on (with James’ help as he continued to plan with Sherlock), managed to get both of the boys out of the building and locked the building up behind you all. 

“There’s just one solution left,” Sherlock said. 

“We must take you away.”

“Away?”

They both nodded, letting you loop your arms around theirs as you walked between them both. “Somewhere far away. Far enough to help you and this Barnabus character forget all about each other.”

“Barnabus?” 

Sherlock nodded. “We’ve renamed him.”

“Rather fitting, don’t you think?”

“If you think so,” you chuckled. 

The story continued all the way back to Cordelia’s London home where it was recounted to Mrs Holmes in full detail over a warm meal and some tea. 

“Come on, sleepyhead. I’m practically falling asleep watching you,” James said before he scooped you up in his arms. 

You called his name but he barely flinched. 

“Put me down! Where the hell are you taking me?”

He paused in the doorway, still holding you in a bridal carry. “To bed.”

From the grin on his face, his words landed exactly how he wanted them to. So, rolling your eyes, you hit his shoulder. 

“You’re pathetic.”

“Only for you, dear.” Then he started walking again. 

“I can walk by myself, you know.”

“And let you twist your ankle on the stairs? Or fall from being unable to lift your weary limbs.”

By the time he was finished listing the amount of unlikely accidents to happen, he dropped you down on your bed and bid you goodnight in a less gentle manner than he had done the first time he’d carried you to bed. 

“Well, here we are.” Then he hummed. “I suppose you're right.”

“That’s a first, coming from you.”

And, despite the laughter from behind the door that had you rolling your eyes, you couldn’t help but feel the faint burn against your palm. 

A sensation that only seemed to happen when you were around James Moriarty. 

*~*~*~*~*

“Do you ever plan on staying still?!”

Through the darkness of the discontinued factory, you looked at James as he finally joined you behind one of the barrels. 

“They were shooting at us! What the hell did you want me to do?”

“Sherlock told me to look after you!”

“I don’t need looking after!”

Another bang from a gun sounded somewhere behind you both before a forgotten barrel on a shelf exploded. 

“At least they’re a shit shot.”

“Doesn’t matter how bad they are if they’re close enough!”

Running again, James groaned and ran after you. No doubt Sherlock would scold him if he didn’t – not that he planned on leaving you behind. If he was being honest, he was rather hurt Sherlock thought he had to remind him. 

Until he told him the reason why. 

You both ran as quickly as your legs could carry you, through the building and out of the back, narrowly missing the flying bullets. But, aside from your lives remaining intact, all that mattered was that you were holding the evidence to prove a boss’ misdeeds against his employees who, no doubt, were probably in the same pickle with Sherlock. 

They were just in the town square rather than by the docks. 

Taking as many back streets as you both could, eventually you both made it to a street with a carriage. Hailing it down, you handed over the address and made sure the curtains were closed as the horses began trotting in the same direction you’d both ran from. 

The men with the guns ran past the carriage, none the wiser. 

Meanwhile, inside the carriage, you were still trying to catch your breath. 

“Are you alright?”

You nodded, swallowing hard. “I’m…I’m-”

“You can’t breathe.”

“I just need a minute.”

In that moment, James fully understood what Sherlock had meant when he said it scared him. 

In recent weeks, you’d begun to suffer with breathing difficulties. Mostly, they stemmed from anxiety or panic attacks. 

Only, rather than fall down and back yourself into a corner, you worked through them. Rather, rammed through them. It was bad enough not having your own body know what it was going through; but the thought to have to sit with that feeling? 

It churned your stomach. 

“C’mere.”

A little panicked at where James was reaching, you stopped him. “What are you-”

“You need to breathe. That corset can’t be helping any.”

You were still struggling to catch your breath and, although you knew he was right, something in the back of your mind was panicking for a whole other reason. 

You trusted him. You didn’t think he’d take advantage of you, or use your vulnerable moment against you. 

But it was still a vulnerable moment. 

“Turn around,” he told you, his voice calm. 

You found yourself complying whilst he fiddled with the hooks on the back of your skirt, pulled up your blouse from the back and started pulling at the strings holding your corset together. 

“Always thought these things were like torture chambers.”

You hummed. “They’re usually not so bad.”

“Better?”

For the first time, you managed to let out a full breath. “Yes. Thank you.”

You could feel his hand gently pressing against your back. “Just try and take some deep breaths, yeah?”

You nodded, bracing your hands against the frame of the carriage as it rattled over the potholes in the street. Meanwhile, you tried to focus on James’ calming voice as he focused on keeping your breathing. 

“How long have you been like this?”

“A while,” you admitted as you finally caught your breath and he helped tie everything back up again, though not as tight. “I don’t know what started them.”

“Stress of the job?”

You shook your head. “It’s the only time I can feel like I can breathe. I don’t know what they are. They just…come out of nowhere.”

“Have you consulted a doctor?”

You laughed. “What? Just so they can tell me I’m being hysterical?”

“Fair point. Maybe you are.”

You hit him in his diaphragm. 

“Joking. Joking. I’m just messing with you.”

“Better be.”

James nodded before continuing to hypothesise what could be causing your sudden inability to breathe at random moments. Though neither of you had much longer to talk since the carriage was coming to a stop. 

“Not a word about this to anyone. Do I make myself clear?”

“Crystal.”

And, to his credit, he didn’t. He didn’t tell anyone…who didn’t already know. 

“How was she?” Sherlock asked as you headed to bed on Sherlock’s orders. 

“Exactly as you said,” James replied. “Breathless. Constricted.”

“Constricted? I never said constricted.” 

Rather than panic, he remained calm. 

“What do you mean constricted?”

James let out a controlled breath. “She needed help. I helped her.”

“I’m aware you care for her, James. But you really need to be careful-”

“Sherlock, nothing untoward happened. You have my word on that.”

“Do I?”

“Yes.” James nodded, his voice firm. “Have I really given you a reason to doubt me now?”

Sherlock studied him for a long time. “No. I suppose not.”

James nodded with a little thanks. “I’m gonna go check on her.”

“No, let her be.”

“Why?”

“She needs rest.” Sherlock said. “She’s been swept off her feet since coming to London. I highly doubt she’s had the same rest to balance it out.”

James sighed, pausing by the door. And, for the first time, Sherlock truly saw his friend in a vulnerable state. “I’m worried about her.”

“I know,” Sherlock laid a hand on his shoulder. “So am I. But she’ll only get agitated if we hover.”

James knew his friend was right. He didn’t like that he was right. But he was right nonetheless. 

Though it didn’t stop him from worrying about you. 

Or checking on you when he woke up in need of a glass of water. 

Your bedroom door was wide open, but you weren’t inside. 

James found you sitting in front of the fireplace in the living room, wrapped in a blanket, and far away in your own head. 

“Are you alri-”

You nearly jumped out of your own skin. “James.”

He held up his hands as he stood by the door. “Sorry. How long have you been awake?”

“Oh,” your gaze narrowed on the mantle clock. “I don’t actually know.”

James looked around. “Want some company?”

“Aren’t you tired?”

Walking inside and taking a seat on the other end of the sofa, he shook his head. 

“Too much excitement from the day.”

You let out a small chuckle. “I suppose you’re right.”

For a while, James and yourself talked. He tried to keep the conversation away from the case or anything that would get your brain fully tuning in and working. 

And, after a solid hour, it worked. 

“Rest now,” he said, softly, running his hand through your hair as you laid your head down against his thigh. 

And somewhere between the feeling of his hands running through your hair and the soft hum of his voice, you fell into the first deep sleep you’d had in weeks. 

James woke up to a gentle hand shaking his shoulder. “James, darling.”

“Mrs Holmes,” he said, a little shocked. “Is everything-”

“Oh, yes, yes. Everything’s fine. A telegram has come for you, from Sherlock.” Cordelia held it out to him, keeping his voice in a hushed whisper. “It seems rather important.”

“Thank you, Mrs Holmes.”

“Would you like me to wake her?”

James almost forgot what she was talking about until he looked down and saw you still fast asleep, his hand on your arm. 

“Oh,” he shook his head. “No. Let her sleep.”

Cordelia smiled. “I thought that would be the answer. I just wanted to make sure. You go ahead. I’ll stay with her.”

James nodded, carefully moving you without waking you. And, just as Cordelia took his place, she turned to him as he stood at the door. 

“James, dear.”

“Yes, Mrs Holmes?”

“Thank you for helping her sleep,” she said, her tone soft. “I knew she hadn't been resting as much, so this was a delightful sight to see.”

Laying a hand over his heart, he bowed a little. “It was my pleasure.”

You woke up a little over an hour later. At first, you were a little embarrassed. And then worried. But the reassuring smile and hug from Cordelia calmed you. 

Your job wasn’t in jeopardy, and neither was your standing within her home. 

By the time the boys returned, with Mycroft in tow, they were bleeding. 

“Jesus,” you breathed, standing quickly from your place at the kitchen dining table. “What happened?”

“Sherlock! Oh, my- James!” Cordelia called out as she took in the sight of them both. 

Mycroft was the only one unharmed. 

As you were gathering spare, clean rags and some warm water, Mycroft and his mother helped the boys into their seats. 

Apparently one of their suspects didn’t like the idea of getting followed. But, at the very least, they knew they were on the right track. 

“Look at me,” you instructed as you turned James’ head to look at you. Not that you needed to force him all that much. 

“You look well rested,” he told you. 

You nodded, quickly. “And you look like you’ve just lost your first fight.”

“I’ll have you know, I won this one, actually.”

Sherlock nodded, trying to escape his brother’s attempts at cleaning his wounds. “He actually did. Saved my bacon, too.”

“Thank you, James.” Cordelia said, reaching over and squeezing his hand, briefly. 

“At least someone has thanked me.”

“I had it under control.”

From the back of his head, Sherlock felt you hit him. 

“Ow.”

“Thank him. God only knows you’re terrible at fighting.”

Sherlock sighed, “I suppose I do owe you thanks, James. So…thank you.”

“That’ll do.”

Holding Sherlock still, you placed a separate cloth against his wounds before handing him back to his brother. Meanwhile, you returned to James. 

And you tried to ignore the way he was gently holding his hand against your thigh.

“And you should know,” James told you. “I lost my first fight ages ago.”

You hummed. “Really? When?”

“Against you.” He smiled. “Don’t you remember?”

“I just remember you being an arse.”

“Seems the only time I’ve actually lost a fight has been against you. Sadly, multiple times.”

“You don’t sound so beat up over that,” you said, because he didn’t. 

He seemed happy. Amused, even. 

Then you finally looked him in his eyes, and not at his wounds. And he was practically beaming. 

“No,” he said. “I guess I’m not.”

Thankfully, Mycroft broke the tension that was growing quicker than usual between both yourself and James Moriarty. 

“Would you stay still?”

With a heavy sigh, you rounded behind James and shoved Sherlock back into his seat. 

“It hurts!”

“James?” You asked, looking at him. 

He just nodded, placing both of his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders, anchoring him into his seat. “Stay still.”

 “I regret ever going missing now,” Sherlock announced. “If I hadn’t, you two wouldn’t have become friends.”

“Don’t feel too bad, Sherlock. I’m sure I’d still be holding you down to help her if we weren’t friends.”

“Did anyone ever tell you- Ow!”

You smiled, briefly, holding up the shard of glass that had lodged itself in Sherlock’s arm. “It’s out.”

“Now I’m bleeding.”

James leaned down. “You were already bleeding.”

“But, now, I’m bleeding more.”

“Stop complaining,” you told him. 

James smiled. “Listen to the woman, Sherlock.”

“Are you well, James?”

“I’m less beat up than you – I’d say so. Why?”

Sherlock lifted his head to look at his friend. “Because you never agree with Y/n.”

You didn’t look at either of them as you cleaned out the bleeding wound. “He’s open to learning, unlike some people I know.”

“If you mean me, I am open to learning.”

James leaned down, again. “Ah, but do you listen? You might find you learn more, that way.”

“If us being friends bothers you so much, Sherlock,” you sighed. “Maybe you should have sent a wire to tell us where you were.”

“You still haven’t forgiven me about that?”

James stood tall, crossing one boot over the other. “Didn’t you know her grudges have an excellent shelf-life?”

“All done,” you announced.

James smiled, lifting his hands from his friends shoulders. “See! It wasn't so bad.”

“Ah, I believe it’s your turn, James.”

Sherlock stood, with a proud smile. Though James didn’t need any help being held down to stay still. He was rather pleased that, despite the pain, he got to stay within your vicinity – even if you did take to scolding him every once in a while. 

“Don’t they give you a headache, mother?” Mycroft asked, leaning over. 

“No more than you boys did growing up,” Cordelia smiled. “Besides, it reminds me of being at home. There’s never a quiet moment. I can’t stand the quiet anymore.”

Mycroft gave her a reassuring smile, taking her hand in his. 

In the meantime, Sherlock ran over everything that had happened whilst working the case and you cleaned the cuts across James’ face, arms and hands. 

That case was cleared up within the week. 

Though it wasn’t long before Sherlock was sticking his nose in somebody else's business and dragging James with him. And, by proxy, yourself and eventually Mycroft. 

*~*~*~*~*

“I’m home, dear!”

Without looking up, you continued writing out your letters that would be sent to every wealthy friend who couldn’t say ‘no’ to Cordelia Holmes. 

“Is there a reason you’re bothering me in the middle of the day?”

“I thought I might check in on you,” James said, looking around your office, though his eyesight always landed back on you without fail. “Make sure you aren't overworking yourself.”

“As you can see I am perfectly fine,” you smiled, still not looking up. “But still rather busy.”

“Do you ever actually leave your office?”

“Yes,” you told him. “In fact, I’m due to meet Mrs Holmes at the Charity House. We have another shipment of sheets and general medical equipment coming in.”

You could hear the smile in his voice. “A baker, a maid, a secretary and now…a nurse?”

You chuckled. “Sherlock and yourself aren’t my only patients.”

“Don’t you have to be medically trained to help?”

“That’s why Mrs Holmes has hired a resident doctor,” you said. “We all help out where we can. Anything major gets an appointment at the hospital. You might think about volunteering at some point.”

“Oh, I might?”

You nodded, looking at him. “You might. It would keep you and Sherlock out of trouble.”

“Do you really think you can keep me and Sherlock out of trouble?” He asked, leaning forward against your desk. 

You hummed. “Probably not. I figure by now it’s soaked into your bones.”

James hummed, too. “Souls, you might say.”

“That would figure you were born into it, would it not?”

He shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe not.”

You kept your gaze fixed on his. And whilst his eyes searched yours, a smirk started to develop on his face. 

His voice dropped a little lower. “D’you know what I think?”

“What?”

“I think you like me,” James said, rather confidently, though quietly. “And I also think you want to see more of me.”

“Is that so?”

He nodded. “Yes, I believe it is.”

“So…going ahead with your theory…if I asked you to come with me to the House and help out…what would you say?”

He smiled, his eyes landing on the small vase of flowers by your desk. A small vase of cornflowers and baby’s breath. 

Hope in Love. Purity and Innocence. 

“I’d say…” James leaned over, plucking a single stem of baby’s breath and a simple bloom of cornflower, before leaning closer to you and tucking the small bunch behind your ear. “Anything for you, my dear.”

In the two afternoons a week he spent volunteering at the Charity House with you, helping entertain the children with stories, and helping hold patients steady as the doctor helped clean their wounds; you got to see his vulnerable moments. 

And he got to see yours. 

Whilst he simply collected visual evidence of something he already knew, you caught passing glimpses of his softer side. 

“You’re good at this,” you smiled as yourself and James walked down the street and towards the carriage. 

“Good at what?” He asked. 

“Entertaining,” you clarified. “Teaching. Keeping people calm.”

“Ah,” he chuckled, lowering his gaze to his feet. “The art of distraction.”

“Call it what you want,” you said. “It works. Do you have siblings? I’ve never heard you mention any but the way you are with the kids…you’ve got a natural talent.”

James scratched the back of his head. “Just a brother. But my ma tended to a couple of the local families in the village. Believe me, I’ve cleaned more scraped knees and stopped fights than you could count.”

“And I suppose, taught them how to properly defend themselves, too?”

James chuckled. “I suppose. But if my mother ever asks, you don’t know that.”

You nodded. “Duly noted.”

Helping you into the carriage, quickly followed by Cordelia who had finally said goodnight to the doctor, James sat beside you. 

And when the carriage shook from the pothole in the road, and James held out his arm to steady you, you weren’t quick to throw him away from your reach. 

*~*~*~*~*

Later that evening, as Sherlock balanced the needle of the gramophone to his mother’s favourite song collection, James held his hand out to Mrs Holmes before leading her to the make-shift dance floor in the middle of the living room. 

Somewhere between the laughter and slightly out of time dancing, as Sherlock tried his best to avoid stepping on your toes, Mrs Holmes whispered something to her own dance partner. 

“I believe someone’s feet are in need of saving.”

It didn’t take much for James to catch on to what Cordelia was telling him. Stepping across, Cordelia pulled her son away and into her arms, laughing about how he used to dance as a boy. 

Meanwhile, James held out his hand and, despite the pull you felt in your gut – that awkward, yet excited feeling that usually would have had you pulling your hand away and politely saying no – you went with it. 

Taking his hand in yours, over the next thirty seconds, you came to realise just how much James Moriarty had been keeping from you. 

Because he was rather an excellent dancer, despite the context. He didn’t step on your feet, led you rather than you leading him; all whilst being light on his own feet. 

And you had never known. 

But it was a relatively nice surprise. 

“I shall bid you goodnight, my darlings,” Cordelia's soft voice smiled before she kissed each of you on the top of your heads. 

The dancing had long been put to rest, but the conversation had followed far into the evening.

“Don’t stay up too late,” she told you. “And do try to stay out of trouble.”

“Of course, mother.”

Sherlock soon followed his mother, James saying he wouldn’t be long behind him. But, finally being left in silence together, yourself and James cleared away the glasses and half empty decanters. 

“I have a question I’d like to ask you.” James said, breaking the silence. 

“Should I be worried?” You asked, looking over your shoulder to him, finding him already looking at you. 

“Maybe,” he answered with a grin. “Probably.”

“Then I await your question in trepidation.”

James chuckled, feeling the warmth of the dying fire. “There’s actually a few questions I’d like to ask you, but I’ll stick to one for now.”

You looked at him, and nodded. “Okay then.”

“Have you been sleeping? Well, I mean.”

Taking the short stroll from the window to the mantel, you nodded again, placing your hands behind you. “I have, if you must know.”

“Good.”

“I believe the reason for that is…down to you.”

“Down to me?”

You nodded. Again, you felt that pull inside of you. But rather than excusing yourself and locking yourself in your room for the rest of the evening, you decided to follow it. 

“Whenever I can’t sleep…I think of you.”

“Oh…right.”

“Not in that way.”

James chuckled, a little nervous. “Right. No, I suppose not.”

“But certainly the memory of you,” you told him. “That night…in here…it was the first time I felt…” You took a breath, unable to break your gaze away from his. “Safe. At ease.”

James took a small step closer towards you. “That’s a lot…coming from you.”

“I suppose so.”

“What was it that you called me, when we first met?” James looked away and down at your waist before looking back to your eyes once more. 

“A half-wit?”

“No.”

“A reckless one?”

“Closer.” 

James took another small step towards you. 

Then it hit you. “Ah, a reckless idiot?”

James nodded. “Actually, I think your specific words were ‘reckless, untrustworthy, idiot’. Have to say – you were pretty spot on with that insult.”

You bobbed your head. “Well, you did think the best course of action was to sneak up on a woman.”

“Well, I did learn my lesson.”

You chuckled. “You did.”

“What…what I’m trying to ask you…” Never in his life had he been this nervous to talk to a woman. 

“Do you still believe that?”

“That you’re reckless? Or untrustworthy? Or an idiot?” You asked, quickly, with a confident tilt of your head. “Because I have a different answer for each.”

The feeling of James’ heart sinking in his chest when you asked him the specifics of his question, came to a grounding halt when you finished your sentence. 

This time, you took a step closer towards him. Instinctively, his hand came to your waist, trying not to hold onto you for dear life but also trying to keep you tethered to him so he had at least one memory of holding you close; in case everything blew up in his face. 

“I do think that you’re still reckless,” you told him. “But only when you have to be. I still do worry about you and Sherlock from time to time. Sometimes I wonder if one morning I’ll find your names printed in bold in the paper.”

Your hands pressed gently against his waistcoat and the sleeve of his shirt. 

“In terms of you being an idiot, well, for as long as I live both you and Sherlock will both be idiots to me. Stupid? No. Well, unless we’re counting the time you two thought it was wise to pose as policemen to break into a jail.”

James chuckled a little. “Even I have to admit, it wasn’t exactly our brightest moment.”

You smiled gently, before making sure he looked you in the eye for what you were about to tell him. 

“But if you’re asking if I think you’re untrustworthy?” You took a breath and shook your head. “No. I don’t think you’re untrustworthy. Not anymore. I’ve seen you with your friends, and with the people closest to you. I’ve seen how you’ve treated strangers in their lowest moments, and in their highest.”

Gently resting your palm against his cheek, you continued talking. 

“But most of all…I have seen how you’ve treated the moments I’ve shared with you. I don’t trust easily, James. But rather than judge me for that…you listened. And you learned. And you…you made a safe space for me to be…me. Without judgement and without fear.”

“There have been plenty of times where you could have used something against me,” you continued. “Sadly, I’ve known people who would have. But you didn’t.”

“I’d never. Not for anyone I care for. Especially you.”

With his hands anchored at your hips, he pulled you closer to him before he lowered his head against yours. 

“I know,” you smiled. “I know. And that is why I trust you, James.”

Closing his eyes, James breathed you in, solidifying a memory of you both that in his darkest moments, he would use as a lantern to guide him home. 

You could feel his straining resistance as he tried not to ruin the moment. One of his hands anchored themselves at the base of your skull, under your hair; either to pull you in and kiss you, or to keep you away from him in case the reality of kissing you was more than his existence could handle. 

But you trusted him. 

Gently, you swiped your thumb back and forth against his cheek. 

“I trust you, James,” you said, your voice soft and calm. “I trust you.”

Looking at you, his gaze flickered over yours, searching for a physical answer. So, you nodded a little and repeated yourself. 

“I trust you.”

Finally, he kissed you. 

He kissed you like it was the last thing he would ever be able to do in life. As if he was begging with God Almighty to let him live just a moment longer, just so he could kiss you. 

Your hand circled to the back of his neck, in order to pull him down closer to you. 

By the time morning rolled around, neither of you spoke about what had occurred the night before. You knew you would, eventually, when the room was safe from prying eyes and ears. 

Ultimately, when the time did come for people to find out, the only one who didn’t seem surprised was Cordelia. 

________________________________________________________________

"Suck it all in, my lady...!" Your handmaiden demanded, tugging at the laces of your corset.

"... I'm sucking in all I can..." You murmured under your breath, "Is this truly necessary?"

She looked at you as if you'd just sprouted two more heads, "Are you jesting? Half of Westeros is showing up to this tournament. You have to look your best."

"Yes but-... all this for what?" You asked, rather dumbly.

Your handmaiden gave one final, vicious yank. "For presentation," she said firmly. You made a sound that was not unlike a dying goose.

After what seemed like forever, she stepped back and inspected you. Her foot tapped against the floor, assessing what was missing.

There was a light rap of knuckles against the door, and a voice spoke, "Are you quite finished in there? It's been centuries."

"Yes, father." You sighed, amused, "Come in, before I suffocate to death."

The door slid open, and your father made his way across the room. Your handmaiden returned to your dress, nitpicking at the details. She tied the ribbon piece at your waist impossibly tighter.

"Careful, Mya," he said mildly to your handmaiden. "If you kill my daughter before the opening feast, I shall have to host a funeral instead of a tournament, and I’ve already paid the bards."

He came to stand by the window, glancing outside rather thoughtfully. In one hand, he held a peach, and in the other, a small knife.

Mya rolled her eyes. "My lord, if I do not lace her properly, every son of every lord from here to the North will think Lady Baratheon cannot be bothered to sit straight in her own gowns."

"Good," Lyonel said at once. "Let them think she has a slouch and a bad temper. It will keep them away."

You snorted. Mya, who had long ago given up pretending your father was a sensible man, stepped back at last and smoothed down the bodice of your gown. "There. Breathe."

"But I cannot."

She ignored you and bent to fuss with your skirts instead, "If you can find a way to sass at me, you can breathe fine. Do not be so dramatic."

"That is hardly reassuring, Mya."

You turned, carefully, (because apparently your ribs were now ornamental), and looked at yourself in the polished mirror.

Black and gold. Your father's colors, of course. The gown was light, though far more fitted than anything you might've chosen for yourself.

The sleeves embroidered with little designs in golden thread. The neckline was modest enough to keep your father from fainting dead. But flattering enough that Mya looked deeply pleased with herself.

"Well?" Mya demanded, looking around for jewelry.

"I look very expensive, Mya. Thank you." You said, tilting your head.

Lyonel barked a laugh from the window, "You are expensive, darling girl." He held out his hand, offering a slice of peach to you.

You turned towards him, and accepted the fruit gratefully, "... This all feels rather absurd, father."

"It is not absurd," your father said. "It is strategic."

"Strategic," you repeated flatly.

"Yes." He popped a slice of peach into his mouth. "Three days of jousting, feasting, dancing... and public humiliation. A perfect education."

You raised a brow, and chewed thoughtfully, "Education? For who? For me?"

"For you. And the men." He shrugged, "... Both."

You crossed your arms as best you could in the gown. "I was under the impression this tournament was being held to celebrate my introduction into the court."

"It is," Lyonel said.

Mya made a face.

He lifted one broad shoulder. "But if every peacock in the realm wishes to preen himself before my daughter, then I am content to let them. Better she sees how awful they are now than finds out after marriage."

 You scoffed, "That is not entirely fair. Or true."

"What?" he said. "You think I do not know how these things go? One writes poetry... One swears he slew a mountain lion with a dagger."

Myra nodded her head, in quiet agreement. Your father continued, slicing another piece of peach, "By the end of the week half of them are bleeding out and all of them are lying."

"...So I think it's entirely fair. And true." He said, waving his knife to add emphasis to his words.

You smiled despite yourself. That was the thing of it. Your father could grumble all he liked. But underneath the bark, was a fondness few got to see.

He had been impossibly proud when your studies were completed. Proud enough to host a tournament. Proud enough to summon half the realm.

Proud enough, perhaps, to pretend this was all some great cautionary display of masculine idiocy rather than what it plainly was.

A celebration. For you. You moved forward, and took the slice of peach from his hand before he could protest. "Thank you." You said, quietly.

Lyonel stared at you, suspicious at once. "For what?"

"For this." You gestured vaguely, at the gown, the noise drifting in from the courtyard below where squires shouted., "For all of it."

His expression shifted in that subtle, awkward way it always did when he was struck with tenderness and did not wish to be caught feeling it, "Hm.. well, yes." He shrugged, "You are my daughter."

"As if I could forget."

"Mhm." He narrowed his eyes. "And because you are my daughter, there are rules."

"Oh no."

Mya, traitor that she was, brightened and moved to stand by the door as if she too wished to hear the proclamation.

"Oh, yes." Lyonel held up one scarred finger. "You will not wander off alone."

You opened your mouth. He held up a second finger, and cut you off, "You will not accept flowers from any man who uses too much perfumed oil."

"That seems oddly specific." Your head tilted, both amused and bewildered. While you found it somewhat endearing, you couldn’t help but wonder if it was all… well, overkill.

"It is. They are always the worst sort. Pompous and-... Well, never mind. Just don't do it."

Then, a third finger. "And you will not dance more than twice with the same knight."

You scoffed, and shook your head, "Father I really don-..."

"Unless he is losing."

You blinked, "... Really?" You said, a bit surprised. 

Lyonel nodded, "If he is losing, you may dance with him thrice. It builds character.." Mya snorted so hard she had to turn away.

"And," Lyonel said, now with a fourth finger raised like the hand of a septon delivering judgment, "under no circumstances will you allow yourself to be cornered by any Targaryen."

You should have known it was coming. Your expression shifted, and he snapped his fingers, catching it instantly.

"Ah, there it is..." He said, crossing his arms, "So that's what has got your stomach in knots, then."

You looked around the room, indignant, "My stomach is not in knots."

"Please." He held a hand up limply, "You're wound up tighter than a Dornish lute string." Mya made a little noise of agreement and, wisely, slipped out the door with the excuse of fetching your veil. Coward.

You sat on the edge of the bed opposite your father and smoothed your skirts over your knees. "It has been years."

"Good." Lyonel scoffed, "Thank the seven for that."

"Father."

"What?" Lyonel said. "I speak plain. They were trouble then, and I imagine they are just taller trouble now."

You couldn't help the small laugh that escaped you, "Not all of them. Surely." You shook your head, amused, and looked out the open window. Beyond the stone walls, the castle grounds had transformed into a bright and bustling sprawl of summer tents and fluttering banners.

Black and red dragons. Green fields and golden roses. Fancy sigils catching in the warm wind. By midday, the high lords would begin to arrive in earnest. Including them.

You had not seen the royal family since you were a girl running half-wild through summer corridors with grass stains on your hems.

Your mother had been a good friend of Lady Dyanna's. She had lived in at Summerhall. And during the late spring, and summer, your father would send you over, to spend time with her.

You could remember Dyanna’s perfume, candied fig and cinnamon... The sound of Prince Daeron laughing too loudly at something he ought not to.

Prince Aerion appearing out of nowhere with a frog cupped in both hands and the smile of a demon. You remembered scraped knees and stealing sweetcakes from the kitchens. And you remembered leaving one summer and not returning.

After your mother passed, Lyonel saw no reason for you to stay at Summerhall anymore. "I doubt they'll even remember me." You admitted, softly.

Lyonel’s expression gentled, though he tried to hide it, "They will. It would be impossible not to. You bit Aerion Targaryen."

"He deserved it." You reminded him, quickly.

He pointed the dagger at you. "Exactly." Despite yourself, you laughed. Lyonel’s mouth twitched. "If they do not remember you, they are fools. If they do... they are still Targaryens. So, I suppose it's the same either way."

You exhaled through your nose. "You really do hate them."

"I do, yes." He sighed, fondly.

"Even Prince Daeron? I don't remember him being as cruel as Aerion."

He gave you a look, "Hm... If I recall correctly, that one at least had the decency to be frightened of me."

"We were children." You grinned, "... Besides, everyone is intimidated of you."

"As they should be." He agreed.

A horn sounded in the courtyard below. Then another. The arrival call. Your stomach dropped all over again.

Your father heard it too. He straightened in one smooth motion. For a moment he simply looked down at you, his daughter, the child he had spoiled into sharpness.

Then he put both hands on your shoulders, "Listen to me." He said, "You are a Baratheon."

You lifted a brow, "That sounds suspiciously like the start of a war speech."

"It often is." His mouth quirked. "You are cleverer than half the men coming here, and twice as well bred as the rest. You do not need to impress anyone. If they fail to appreciate you, that is their misfortune."

Your throat tightened. "And if any silver-haired princeling gives you trouble," he added, voice turning disdainfully once more, "you come find me."

You smiled faintly, "I thought I wasn't allowed to be cornered by Targaryens."

"You are not."

"But if I am?"

"Then I shall corner them back." 

That made you laugh outright. Mya returned at that moment with your veil, took one look at the two of you, and sighed deeply. "If you’ve finished plotting murder, my lady, the procession is beginning."

________________________________________________________________

By the time the formalities were over, and after a speech from your father that somehow managed to be both gracious and faintly threatening... you were half-mad from smiling.

Lords bowed and pretty ladies curtsied.

Knights looked at you with varying degrees of ambition. One very handsome Reach boy even kissed your hand.

You were beginning to understand your father’s point about peacocks. Still, there was a thrilling sort of madness to it all. By midday, with the more notable arrivals still drawing a crowd at the main yard, you found your opportunity.

No one, for one glorious moment, was looking at you. So naturally, you slipped away. It was hardly difficult. You ducked behind a line of servants carrying wine and made for the outer field where the tournament pavilions had been raised in neat rows.

The noise softened there, replaced by the creak of leather and the buzzing of beetles. You passed tents striped in crimson and gold, white and blue... Any color imaginable, really. 

You slowed, your anxiety momentarily paused by your delight. You'd always loved this part. The before. The sharpened anticipation in the air. The sense that by sunset someone would be triumphant, someone would be humiliated...

And someone would definitely throw up in a decorative hedge. Probably yourself, if you were to be honest. You smiled to yourself and turned down another row of tents. Then promptly walked straight into a young man carrying a saddle.

"Oh!" you gasped, stumbling back.

The boy yelped. The saddle tipped. You caught one end on instinct before it hit the dirt, "Sorry! sorry, my lady-...."

"It was my fault," you said quickly, helping him right it. "No harm done." The boy blinked, red-faced, and bowed himself nearly in half before hurrying away.

You watched him go, amused. Then you looked up, and froze. Black silk canopies. Dragon banners… Squires, in expensive apparel, moved briskly between trunks and weapon stands.

And at the center of it all, half-turned away as a servant adjusted the clasp at his shoulder, stood a young man in riding leathers. His short, silver-white hair catching in the sun like polished steel.

Before you could decide whether to retreat, someone else emerged from the open flap of the largest pavilion carrying a goblet. Tall. Broad-shouldered. And a little rumpled already, despite the hour. His golden locks far less disciplined than the other's. His expression was softer, or maybe just dazed. You couldn't tell.

Prince Daeron. Older now, obviously. He looked a little worn at the edges, despite being only a year your senior. But still with that same boyish tilt to his lips.

He glanced over at you, absentmindedly, and frowned. Not in displeasure exactly. Maybe in recognition, trying to catch up with itself. Before either of you could speak, the first prince turned.

Prince Aerion Targaryen had grown into exactly the sort of man one might expect from a child who delighted in chasing people with snakes. Sharp-jawed, with violent violet eyes. And dressed as though he expected the world to admire him. Beautiful, in the way dangerous things often were.

qHe looked you up and down once, quick and dismissive, taking in the gown... the lack of escort... And, naturally, he drew the worst conclusion possible. "You there," Aerion said coolly, as if summoning a kitchen girl. "Find whoever’s responsible for these tent placements and tell them my horse is not to be stabled beside that one."

He pointed with visible offense toward a nearby Friesian who had done nothing except exist. 

You stared at him. For one heartbeat, two. Then your brows rose slowly. "Your... horse?"

Aerion looked faintly irritated by the question. "Yes...? Mine. Unless the beast has suddenly become self-governing."

Daeron made a choking sound into his goblet. You turned your head. He was staring at you now, his eyes wide with horrified dawning realization. "Aerion," he said, too late and with the air of a man stepping toward disaster, "I do not think she is-..."

"...- What?" Aerion snapped, "Is she a whore you've called for? Already? Are the tents even properly set up, Daeron?"

"... I should hope not." you cut in, feigning patience, "A stable boy would be much more useful in this situation."

Aerion’s expression sharpened. There it was, that old spark of affronted hostility, alive and well after all these years, "I beg your pardon?"

"You may," you said.

His eyes narrowed. Daeron, meanwhile, was looking between the two of you as if he’d just stumbled upon a wildfire and was deciding whether to run or watch.

You folded your hands before you and offered Aerion the prettiest smile you possessed,"I was under the impression royal guests were meant to arrive with manners packed among their trunks," you said lightly. "How strange. Did yours get lost on the kingsroad?"

For a moment, Aerion simply stared. In utter shock at the insolence shown. Never, in all his years, had he ever been treated with such upfront disrespect. Something flickered. Recognition pulled across his face. His mouth parted the slightest bit.

"Gods," Daeron said, sounding half delighted and half appalled. "It is you, isn’t it?"

You turned to him then, and the years seemed to collapse all at once. He looked so much older than the boy you remembered, and yet not older at all. The same sheepish smile trying to appear despite the awkwardness was still there.

And the same tendency to look as though he had arrived somewhere entirely by accident and hoped no one would ask him to explain himself, ".... Prince Daeron," you said softly.

A startled warmth reached his eyes before he could stop it. "Seven hells...," he said under his breath, almost laughing. "You’ve gone and become a proper lady."

You looked down at your gown. "Against my will, I assure you."

That got a real laugh out of him. Aerion was still staring at you as if the past had personally insulted him, "You," he said at last.

Daeron let out an incredulous noise. "That is what you lead with?"

"What would you have me say?" Aerion snapped, "...You should not even be here, unescorted especially." He shot, towards you.

Before Daeron or you could respond, somewhere, in the distance... A horn sounded from the yard, calling the nobles toward the lists. The sound rolled over the tournament grounds and at once, the camp around you lurched into motion.

You glanced toward the sound, then back to the princes. "Oh," you said, suddenly aware of exactly where you were. "I should likely-..."

"Yes," Aerion said at once.

"No," Daeron said, at the very same time.

Aerion turned his head slowly. "...No?"

Daeron ignored him, looking at you instead with that helpless expression of a man already regretting what he was about to involve himself in, "Yes... You should likely be heading back," he said carefully, "but..."

He looked around at the fact that you were, unfortunately, quite visibly alone. His mouth twitched like he knew exactly how ridiculous he was about to sound, "...if Lord Baratheon discovers you’ve been wandering the royal encampment unescorted..." he paused, "I’d rather not be accused of abandoning you to certain death."

You blinked, "That’s very kind of you, your grace."

"It is not kind," Aerion cut in. "He is only trying to save his own hide.."

Daeron sighed. "That too."

You folded your hands behind you, tilting your head. "But you’ll escort me?"

Daeron hesitated for half a heartbeat, just enough to be endearing, "We will... If... if you’ll allow it."

"What? We?" Aerion scoffed loudly, "Do not involve me in this. I have no obligations towards her."

"You’re the one who pointed out she was unescorted."

"Yes," Aerion said, affronted, "which was meant to be criticism, not an invitation."

You had to bite the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from laughing. Daeron offered you his arm. For a moment, you looked at it. Then at Aerion, who looked as though he would sooner fling himself into Blackwater Bay than participate in any of this.

You slipped your hand lightly through the crook of Daeron’s elbow. "Lead on, then," you said sweetly. Daeron went just the slightest bit stiff.

Aerion's lip curled, "Oh, this is humiliating for you. For us."

"Only for you," you said.

He gave you a look that promised vengeance. You rather enjoyed it. The three of you fell into step toward the lists, threading through the bustling lanes between pavilions. It was all absurdly familiar.

Daeron kept himself slightly to your left, guiding you around loose tent ropes and puddles. While Aerion stalked on your right with the expression of a prince being marched to his own execution.

The silence was deafening. And after just a moment, Daeron cleared his throat, "I must ask, my lady... For Aerion's sake." He glanced down at you, "Are you still in the habit of biting princes?"

"What?" Aerion whipped his head towards his brother, "What are you fucking on about?"

You lifted your chin. "Well, to answer the prince’s deeply urgent concern... no. I do not make a habit of biting royalty."

"Charming." Aerion drawled, dryly.

"You used to think so, yes." You hummed in reply

"I was nine."

"And yet," you sighed, "still somehow the same."

Daeron made a soft noise, like he was trying very hard not to enjoy this as much as he clearly was. To fill the brief silence, he glanced toward the musicians assembling near the lists. "Do you still spend your days with books and songs?" he asked.

A question asked not just out of politeness, but memory. You looked up at him. "I do," you said. "Though I’ve gained a greater appreciation for poetry than I had as a child."

Daeron smiled. "Have you?"

"Mm." You nodded thoughtfully. "There’s a poet in my father’s court just now. Sabrina of House Carpenter."

Daeron blinked. "I can’t say I know the name."

"She’s wonderful," you said at once, brightening. "Sharp-witted and very romantic when she wants to be."

Daeron looked, quite unfairly, as if he was genuinely interested in everything you said. Aerion scoffed beside you. The sound was so abrupt and disdainful that both you and Daeron turned to him.

"Of course you like her," he said.

You stared. "What is that supposed to mean?"

He lifted one shoulder. "Frilly love poems. Very fitting." Daeron winced.

"Do enlighten me, then, prince. What do you prefer?" You frowned, arching a brow.

Aerion’s chin tipped upward, and there it was again: that impossible, infuriating arrogance. "Heavier ballads," he said, with all the self-importance of a man announcing statecraft. "Something with actual substance. Rebellion. Rage Against the Tyrant."

You looked at him. Then at Daeron. Daeron’s mouth twitched. Oh, that was rich. You turned back to Aerion, "Isn’t that a bit ironic?" You asked, wondering if he meant it to be that way.

Aerion frowned. "What?"

You widened your eyes just slightly. "Nothing."

"No," he said at once, suspicious. "What?"

"Truly, it’s nothing at all," you said. "Only... one might think a prince, particularly this prince, would be rather more partial to the tyrant than the rage against him."

Aerion's eyes narrowed, "I do not understand the jest."

"Oh, that is obvious," Daeron said quickly.

You lost the battle then and laughed outright, the sound escaping before you could stop it. Daeron broke with you, bowing his head as a grin finally won over his composure.

"Disgraceful." Aerion muttered, "Both of you."

By the time the three of you reached the noble stands, the first rows were already filling. And there, standing near the front with his arms folded and his expression darkening by the second, was your father.

You felt Daeron tense beside you. Aerion, to his credit, did not look especially concerned. Your father’s eyes found you first. Then your hand tucked through Daeron’s arm. Then to Aerion.

Daeron murmured, "I may die."

Aerion, under his breath, said, "Then let me have your books."

Lyonel descended the last two steps toward you like a gathering storm, "My lady."

"Father."

Daeron immediately straightened, all awkward charm evaporating into pure survival instinct, "My lord, I assure you, it is not what it appears-..."

"Hm?" Lyonel said.

Daeron faltered.

"... What?" Lyonel added, louder this time, as though Daeron were a very distant and uninteresting bird. "Go away. I think I heard your father calling for you, princeling."

Aerion looked scandalized. Daeron blinked, "My lord, we were only-..."

"Returning my daughter?" Lyonel said. "How noble. You have my everlasting gratitude. Now be gone."

Aerion drew himself up. "Lord Baratheon, if you think I would ever intentionally-..."

"Excellent," Lyonel interrupted, not even looking at him. "You may go too."

Daeron caught his brother by the sleeve before he could say anything else disastrous, "Come along," he muttered.

Aerion allowed himself to be dragged a single step, then looked back over his shoulder at you.

For all his vanity, and his sharp little sneers... There was something almost curious in his face now. Like he’d found a puzzle he disliked on principle, but intended to solve anyway.

You watched them go. Daeron glanced back once, and tried to give a polite smile. Your father let out a slow, dangerous breath beside you, "Absolutely not."

You looked up at him, all innocence, "Whatever do you mean?"

You smiled a bit to yourself, and Lyonel gave you a look. Then, with a firm hand at your back, he steered you toward your seat as the trumpets blared and the first riders took the field.

The bedroom Remus had claimed was as dark and narrow as the rest of the house. It had that cold, musty smell that so many old homes are plagued with. The dark green wallpaper peeled, the ancient oak bed was warped with age, and there was a perpetual draft he could never seem to find the source of.

He had never asked whose room it had once been. He did not wish to know.

Remus sat at the tiny oak desk, which was pushed up against the room’s only window. A single candle flickered in the darkness, illuminating his gaunt face. To his left lay his journal, the ink barely dry from a new entry within. The soft fluttering of paper filled the cramped space as he thumbed through a stack of Order files.

Again and again, he read the words in front of him, but they simply blurred before his eyes. Tomorrow was the full moon, and he would be traveling up to his cottage in Yorkshire for it. His thoughts wandered, and his body tensed as he imagined landing on the dilapidated doorstep of his property. He thought of the front door creaking open to reveal dusty floorboards and a few broken pieces of furniture. He imagined sitting on the floor, staring out the window as the sky grew darker and the inevitable approached. He remembered the feeling of his bones breaking, his flesh ripping, and the monster emerging…

A soft knock at the door made him start.

“Yes?” he called, too quickly.

There was a pause. 

“Sirius told me to come get you.” He was shocked to hear Y/N’s voice on the other side of the door. Normally, only Sirius or Molly ventured up to retrieve him, if not one of the Hogwarts lot. Remus stood and cleared his throat, his heart racing despite himself. He crossed the room in long strides and opened the door. 

Y/N stood with her arms crossed and her lips pursed as if coming to find him was some form of punishment. She avoided his gaze, staring pointedly over his shoulder into the room beyond. 

“He’s in the kitchen. He said he has something to show–” Her words died, and her brows furrowed. Her gaze landed on something behind him. Remus turned to see what she was looking at and spotted his journal on the desk directly in her line of sight. 

Her journal. 

Remus cleared his throat and moved forward, quickly shutting the door behind him. Y/N’s expression was unreadable. Her face boarded up like an abandoned house. Was she angry? He had asked himself that question so often it felt worn smooth inside his skull. He tried to find something to say, a lie or an excuse that could act as a bandage for this awkward encounter. 

“Of course. I’ll be right–”

Y/N, however, simply turned on her heel and walked back down the long wooden stairs. Remus had no choice but to follow at a respectable distance. 

Their footsteps creaked like a rickety wooden symphony. Remus watched the way Y/N gripped the banister, illuminated by the eerie lamplight. Her shoulders tensed as she tried to ignore his presence behind her. She wore her hair up, exposing the back of her neck. Remus spotted the dark bruises just peaking out from the collar of her jumper, the kind only a pair of lips could have left. He averted his eyes and watched his feet instead.

Life in Grimmauld Place for Y/N looked slightly different these days.

Yes, she still spent plenty of time discussing war tactics with Moody and muggle peculiarities with Arthur and Hermione. She even taught Ginny the Bat Boogey hex (resulting in a rather intense argument with Molly). But when the sun dipped below the rooftops, she often slipped out with it. 

Remus had spent far longer than he would have liked to admit pondering where she went on these nightly outings. At first, he assumed she was simply enjoying the London nightlife. She was a young woman in a major city after all. But logistically, it rang false. Order work required the utmost secrecy; Mad-Eye would never permit such a diligence. 

But there was more… other signs. Deep shadows beneath her eyes, her new tendency to jump when touched, the way her temper flared at a moment's notice, as if her patience was hanging by a single thread. Arthur had even remarked on it after a particularly heated Order meeting where Y/N had called Mundungus a colourful series of names. 

“That girl is running on fire,” He said, peering at Remus over his glasses as the door slammed shut behind them, china rattling in the cabinets. Mundungus protested pitifully to an indifferent crowd. “I’m not sure when,” Aurther muttered, “But she’s either going to explode or burn out, bless her. ”  

Perhaps most worrying of all was the sudden increase in intelligence the Order seemed to have. New names cropped up on Mad-Eye’s list weekly, from sources he would not reveal. New circles of young, prospective Death Eaters. Old pure-blood families making suspicious moves. They had even uncovered a plot to harm a Muggle family, which the Order had been able to intercept in the nick of time. 

No, Remus thought as he watched Y/N reach the ground floor. Something definitely is off. 

Y/N reached the kitchen first, Remus descending the last few steps behind her. She pushed through the peeling black door and let it swing shut behind her. 

Remus entered the long, stuffy room. The reddish walls and roaring fire made the kitchen feel just a bit warmer than the rest of the house. Several tall cabinets lined the walls, displaying all sorts of porcelain plates and cups. Pots and pans dangled from the ceiling over the long table. 

Towards the end of the kitchen sat Sirius. Harry, Ron, and the twins gathered around him, all peering down at something large and worn. Mad-Eye stood opposite them near the hearth, flicking through a stack of letters, his magical eye darting left to right, reading their contents through the envelopes. 

“L/N,” he barked without looking up, thrusting one toward her as she moved toward the kettle.

“Why, thank you,” She said sarcastically as she plucked it from his grasp. “I love my mail freshly rifled through.”

“Anyone could be anyone these days,” Moody grunted. “Lucky for you, it’s just yer mum.”

She froze. 

Remus saw it as he pulled up a chair next to Sirius.

“There you are, mate!” Sirius grinned broadly. “Look what we found cleaning out the attic! I think my dear mother left it her ‘to be destroyed pile’ and croaked before she had a chance to set it ablaze.”

Before them all lay a thick, dust-coated photo album. Remus leaned closer. The beaming young faces of his friends waved up at him from the pages. 

“Goodness,” said Remus, the weariness melting off of him and a smile tugging at his lips. “I did not know most of these existed.” He reached forward and turned the pages gingerly, as if the memories might disintegrate beneath his fingertips. 

There was a picture of first-year James and Sirius sitting on a dormitory bed, a pile of sweets between them as they waved at their observers. He spotted a photo of himself, probably in his third year, sitting in a tree in the courtyard, nose deep in a book. Sirius pointed out a picture of Lilly to Harry. Her photo version seemed to object strenuously to her picture being taken by throwing jelly slugs at the photographer. 

“God, and here’s Snivellus—”

“Sirius,” Remus warned.

Sirius explained each photo to their enraptured audience, Remus jumping in to fill in the blanks. They told tales of their escapades around the castle and adventures in the forest. They made sure to show Harry each photo of his parents in detail.

As Sirius rattled on about a Ravenclaw he had attempted to woo in their sixth year, Remus noticed Moody and Y/N talking by the hearth in low voices. He strained his ears to hear, peering at them as he pretended to scan the album. 

“You’re pushing yourself,” Mad-Eye mumbled. 

“I’m fine,” Y/N said bluntly. She fidgeted with the letter in her hand.

“We can’t afford mistakes–”

“I know that. I’ll report to you–”

“Blimey, and there's the Three Broomsticks!” Sirius said, stealing his attention. Remus looked down at a picture of the four of them outside the pub, probably towards their last year at Hogwarts, glasses raised. 

“Ohh yeah,” said Fred Sagley. “I’ve heard you’ve had a lot of fun there, Professor.” Remus felt himself tense. Surely he wasn't alluding to Remus’s escapade in the early spring? How could word of that possibly have gotten around?

“Well, yes. We all spent a significant amount of time there in our youth.” Remus replied. 

“Oh, in your youth now?” George said from Remus’s right, sharing a look with his twin. Harry looked down at his shoes, the tips of his ears pink. Remus glanced at Sirius for an explanation but spied Y/N instead, her fist clenched deathly tight on her mug, her eyes locked on Moody as if she were trying to block out all other conversation. 

“Right..well, moving on–” 

“Don’t think that barmaid ever did from the sounds of it,” Fred mumbled. 

A sharp crack split the air making everyone jump. One of the porcelain plates shattered. Then another. Then another. The entire row of china exploded where they perched on a cabinet shelf. Bits of glass tinkled as they fell to the floor and stunned silence swept over the room. 

All eyes fell on Y/N. Her eyes were wide and her mouth half-opened, chest heaving. She closed her mouth as she took in all the faces staring back at her. Straightening, she schooled her features into a facade of annoyance and indifference. Turning on her heel, she marched out of the kitchen, the heavy ‘thud’ of the door slamming shut behind her. Remus could have sworn he saw her toss her letter into the hearth as she left.

Sirius sighed, breaking the silence. “Where's Kreature when you need him?”

***

“How much longer are we expected to wait?”

Severus Snape did not raise his voice. He never needed to. As much as Remus hated to admit it, his long, cold draw possessed the power to cut cleanly through any room. It was the kind of voice that made people lean in to hear it despite their unease. 

Snape had made one of his rare appearances at headquarters. He stood near Moody at the head of the long kitchen table, black robes pooling around him, the fire behind him casting his silhouette tall and distorted against the ceiling. As always, he resembled a large, overgrown bat, and a very impatient one at that. 

It was nearly two in the morning. Sirius had long since slumped sideways in his chair, half asleep with his head in his hands. Mundungus was fully asleep, chin to chest, a thin thread of drool stretching obscenely toward the wood grain of the table. Molly sat rigid next to Arthur, lips pursed, knitting abandoned in her lap. The rest of the Order sprawled around the table in various stages of consciousness.

One chair, however, remained empty.

Remus sat very still, arms crossed tightly over his chest. Though Molly had tended to him upon his return, the new scratches on his hands had not yet closed; thin red lines disappeared beneath the cuffs of his shirt. His forearms ached in dull protest with every small movement. Though the moon steadily waned, its memory lingered deep in his bones.

Remus stared at the opposite wall and counted the seconds between the ticks of the crooked kitchen clock. Click, click, click. The sharp tap of heels against tile hit his ears, growing closer and closer.

The kitchen door flew open, and there stood Y/N. She was flushed and breathless, hair slightly dishevelled. She wore her usual going-out clothes, and the lamplight caught on the bare skin of her thighs as she walked in.

“Sorry,” she said quickly, already moving for her chair. “That took longer than I anticipated.” The scrape of wood against stone screamed through the silence. All eyes were on her. She tugged the hem of her dress down as she sat, pretending not to notice the stares. Remus tried hard not to look at her face, but as always, he failed. 

Her chest rose and fell as she caught her breath. Mascara smudged under her eyes, and her lips looked soft and swollen. There was a faint red bloom at the base of her throat that had nothing to do with the cool night air. Molly made a small sound of disapproval and deliberately turned her gaze to the fire.

“I do not suppose,” Said Snape, crossing his arms and glaring down at her. “That you care to elaborate on your tardiness?” Remus noticed the sarcastic snarl in his tone, as if he wasn't just challenging Y/N to admit where she’d been, but that he knew and dared her to say it out loud. 

Everyone watched as Y/N glared at him, flames dancing in her eyes. Remus observed the pair as they stared each other down with pure loathing. He thought back to that fateful Christmas. If he peered past the painful memories, he could just make out the image of Y/N ready to hex Snape as the potion’s master stood by the punch table. There also lingered the vague memory of hearing through the trail of Hogwarts gossip that she had suffered twelve weeks' detention for that act of defiance. 

“There were delays on the tube,” Y/N said sharply. 

“You didn't apparate?” Piped up Strugius from the other end of the table, appalled. 

“I did when I got close enough.” She said with annoyance. “It’s safer that way.” 

“Plus she ain’t very good at it.” Yawned Mundungus, finally awake. 

Y/N whirled on him.

“Shut it, Dung, you–” 

“Enough.” Moody’s gruff voice cracked like a gunshot. He focused on Y/N. “I’ll catch you up later. What have you got?”

Y/N froze, her brows furrowing.

“Here?” She asked. 

He grunted. “No time for a private report.” 

The room hung onto every word, watching the pair, waiting for answers. 

Y/N took a deep breath. She stared directly at Mad-Eye, ignoring the rest of the room. 

“Stan Shunpike is a dead end. He’s all talk. He’ll do anything to show off, but has no actual connections. There are some promising leads, newly graduated Slytherins I’ve seen around Knockturn Alley. I’m going to start engaging with them and see what's happening in those circles. I’ve heard murmurings of some planned Muggle attacks out in the east, but they could have just been drunk ramblings. I think we need to keep an eye out there, though.” 

So this was what she was doing, Remus thought, his heart sinking in horror as he stared at the marks visible on her body. Espionage in its greatest form: seduction. He chose to stare down at his hands on the table rather than look at her as she continued. 

There wasn't shock. It was once again just the simple sadness of a confirmed truth that flooded his veins. Now was not the time to unpack this. Not here, in the middle of an Order meeting, his brain fighting off sleep and his body aching from his injuries. But these emotions would not remain quiet.

His stomach churned with disgust at the thought that it had come to this. Sure, there had been plenty of undercover work in the last war. Even he had spent time among werewolf foes. But this felt different, exploitative. Dirty. 

Remus forced himself to look back at Y/N. She was alive and ablaze despite how tired she must be. The candlelight danced across her face as she spoke surly and intelligently. For a moment, he searched for the shy girl, the one who struggled with spells and held herself back. But he couldn't find her. Her words turned to a faint buzzing in his ears, and all he could hear was the hammering of his heart.

“So, yeah.” Sound returned, and she slumped back into her chair, as if she had used the last of her energy. “That's what I got.” 

Silence stretched as Mad-Eye pondered the news, but it was broken by disapproving tsk. All eyes flicked to Snape. He peered down at Y/N over his long, hooked nose. Y/N straightened once again in her seat, her fire reignited. 

“What?” She challenged. “Got something to say?” Snape regarded her as he did the slimy specimens in his potion jars.

“Is this truly the sum of your… efforts? How disappointing. One would imagine greater yield, given the enthusiasm with which you pursue your assignments.”

Sirius made to rise from his chair, mouth open in protest, but Y/N silenced him with a single raised finger. She glared at Snape, jaw set, and the rest of the table held their breath. 

“It was my efforts that prevented that attack on a Muggle family in Bristol. I don’t see your work bringing in much lately.” 

Something dangerous flashed in Snape’s eyes. 

“Lack of visible progress on my end,” he said softly, leaning forward, palms flattening on the table, “is preferable to parading oneself through Knockturn Ally in exchange for scraps of gossip.”

Moody barked, “That’s enough—”

“Well, we can't all be Dumbledore’s spy, can we?” Y/N said, ignoring the command. Snape rested his palms on the table; he looked like a cobra preparing to strike. Remus found himself rising from his chair, the legs scraping sharply against the stone, ready to intervene. 

But he was a moment too slow.

“I find it much preferable," Snape said, cold and precise, “to being Dumbledore’s whore.” 

The room was still. Not a soul dared to utter a word, not that they could find any.

Y/N froze, then nodded once, as if turning the words over in her head. She rose from her chair slowly. 

She didn't even go for her wand. 

Y/N threw herself at Snape with such ferocity that all most could do was get out of the way. A colourful string of curses flew from her mouth. Sirius and Kingsley lunged forward to hold her back. Chairs toppled, and Molly shrieked from the other side of the room. Remus moved to step in, but he was too late, too hesitant — his body still heavy from the moon. His mind was a storm of guilt and fury and something far, far uglier. Protests erupted from the table, and Moody yelled above them all, demanding decorum.

“That was out of line, Severus!” Sirius snarled as Y/N struggled between his and Kingsley’s grasp. Out of line was an understatement. Remus wanted to break his nose. Y/N yelled insults at the top of her lungs, eyes ablaze.

“Stand down!” Moody thundered. She took deep, shuddering breaths and finally went still, eyes still trained on a smug-looking Snape who had manoeuvred to the opposite corner of the kitchen. Kingsley released Y/N first, Sirius second, and she took a step back. Her eyes were full of the most intense hatred Remus had ever seen. She took deep, ragged breaths, and her gaze flicked towards Remus for the briefest of moments. A chill went down his spine at the ferocity of it. With a final shuddering breath, Y/N turned and walked out of the kitchen, slamming the door shut behind her. 

There was a pause before Remus found himself crossing the kitchen towards Snape himself. No one realised what he was doing until he was face to face with Snape, his wand raised and pointed at the other man's throat. Cries of protest flooded the kitchen once more, but Remus ignored them.

“Do not ever, ever, insult an Order member in such a manner!” He said in a low, measured voice. “That is low, even for a miserable coward such as yourself.” Snape opened his mouth, no doubt ready to hurl more insults, but two large hands on each of their shoulders pulled them apart.

“Sit down, Lupin,” Moody growled in his ear. “That’s enough.” 

Remus did not sit. His chest still rose and fell too quickly, the last remnants of the moon’s violence humming unpleasantly through him. Moody placed himself between Remus and Snape. The other man smoothed down his robes, his face indifferent as if nothing remarkable had just transpired. Mad-Eye berated Snape with words of his own, but Remus didn't hear them.

Around the table, people began shifting in their chairs again. Someone righted one of the toppled seats. Molly muttered something under her breath as she gathered fallen papers from the floor. Sirius and Arthur cast each other grave glances. 

But the only thing Remus could think about was the door behind them. The one that still trembled slightly on its hinges from the force of being slammed. 

The one Y/N had just disappeared through.

***

The house was deathly quiet, most of its inhabitants already sound asleep in their beds. Fresh school robes were draped over the bannister, the kids' trunks littered the entry hall, and an organised mess of textbooks and pranks was strewn about the kitchen table. 

Remus sat up in the parlour, Sirius snoring soundly on the settee by the fire. It was well past midnight. A well-worn novel rested in Remus’s lap, but his gaze stayed fixed on the grandfather clock in front of him. The gentle tick, tick, tick of the minute hand echoed like a rhythmic drum in the stillness. 

He rubbed his own tired eyes. He should be in bed, ready for an early start tomorrow, and the chaos of transporting six Hogwarts students (and one very high-profile one at that) all the way to King's Cross. But rest never seemed to find him. Not when she was out. 

Remus flicked his gaze to the hearth, and images flooded his mind. Y/N walking down busy London streets, cabs and double-deckers zooming past her as her heels clicked against the pavement. Y/N perched at a bar, pulling out secrets from naive men with sultry smiles and a bat of her lashes. Y/N pushed up against a wall in an alley as those men’s hands trailed up her— 

He tore his eyes away from the fire. He wouldn't allow himself to finish the thought. 

He wasn't sure when he had started waiting up for her. He wasn't even sure when he had noticed he was doing it. It must have been sometime after the fateful Order meeting with Snape, when so many truths came spilling out. Nonetheless, it had become a sort of ritual; Sirius and Him sat in the drawing room night after night. Waiting. 

That telltale slam of the door rang through the house now. Remus sat up straighter, and Sirius stirred from his slumber. He waited with bated breath as the sound of footsteps grew closer. Most nights, he was lucky to get a glimpse of her as she climbed up the grand wooden staircase, or to see the dark silhouette of her creep into the kitchen. But tonight, she poked her head into the parlour door. 

“Have either of you seen my cigarettes?” Her hair was frazzled, and she had an exhausted look in her eyes. 

“Top drawer of the entry way dresser, I think,” said Sirius sleepily. “Unless those twins tried to nick them again.” 

“Thanks,” She muttered, running a hand down her face. For a moment, Remus could have sworn her gaze lingered on him, but she turned to leave, and he told himself he’d imagined it. 

Remus watched her retreating figure fade into the darkness of the house. The same questions haunted his mind. Was she angry? Was she ok? Was this all his fault? 

A soft ‘ahem’ from beside him made him turn. Sirius was staring at him imploringly. 

“What?” Remus whispered. 

“Go talk to her.” It was the same four words Sirius had said last night. And the one before that. Remus simply shook his head. 

“I’m quite certain that is the last thing she wants.” 

“Merlin’s beard!” Sirius ran a hand down his face and shook his head. “How can you be so blind?” Remus opened his mouth, ready to make some excuse, but Sirius continued. “You spend so much time looking at her, and you never see the way she looks at you!” 

Remus froze. Could that be true? 

“She waits for you, Remus.” Sirius continued. 

Remus frowned. “That’s ridiculous.”

“No, what’s ridiculous,” Sirius said, “is that every night she comes home, and every night you happen to find a reason to be awake at the same time in this god-forsaken sitting room just to make sure she’s ok.”

Remus said nothing.

“Honestly, Moony, if she hated you as much as you think she does, she’d have hexed you months ago.” 

Remus stared down at his shoes, deep in thought. Sirius’s voice softened slightly. “There's a war on, Remus. We’re not exactly living in a world where people get endless chances to say what they need to.” 

Remus sighed and gave his friend a long, hard look before standing from the couch and walking out of the parlour. 

He crept through the dark halls, careful to step over trunks and tennis shoes. The front door grew closer and closer, and as it did, his heart seemed to beat faster. The handle sat before him like a question, a choice. His hand rose and hesitated over it. He hadn't been filled with this much trepidation since he sent the initial Order letter to Y/N. His own words echoed in his head now.

Out of nothing prior except concern for your own safety, I urge you not to do this.

He turned the handle and opened the door. 

The street outside Grimmauld Place had a quiet tranquility to it. Rain from earlier that evening had left the pavement slick, and the yellow glow of the streetlamps shimmered across the wet asphalt. In the small park at the center of the square, an old man walked his dog, unaware of the figures on the doorstep due to the house’s protection charms. The trees swayed gently in the summer breeze. Somewhere in the distance, a car rolled past, its tires whispering briefly against the damp road before the sound faded. The air carried the faint scent of flowers and cigarette smoke mingled with something softer, the familiar perfume Remus had come to recognize as Y/N’s. 

She sat on the first step of the stoop, a cigarette between her lips as she flicked open the lighter. The small flame flared briefly, illuminating her face while she cupped her hand against the wind. Remus closed the door behind him and cleared his throat awkwardly, but Y/N gave him no mind. The flame caught. Her cigarette glowed, and she exhaled a thin stream of smoke into the quiet night. 

“I wasn't aware that you smoked.” She cast him the briefest of glances. 

“Yep.” She said coolly. 

Steadying his nerves, Remus sat next to her on the top step, his elbows resting on his thighs. He saw bruises on her back from beneath the thin straps of her dress, and he didn't miss the way her body tensed when he sat. He gazed out towards the empty street; it was easier than looking at her. 

“I suppose Sirius has been rubbing off on you?” He said lightly, remembering his friends' own affinity for nicotine in their youth. 

She took a long drag of her cigarette. “Maybe he has.” The words had their desired effect. The monster of jealousy reared inside of him, and he pushed it down with a deep breath. This was not going how he wanted. 

Remus tore his gaze away from the street and let his eyes land on her. The street lamps lit her features with their soft glow, and he was transported back to that night on the bridge. He thought of the fireworks that had flashed over the lake, illuminating her smile and tear streaked face. He remembered the look in her eyes when her gaze met his. Now, all he saw was exhaustion there, and he was filled with the deep, all-consuming need to know if she was ok.

“Are you…faring well?” She scoffed and finally turned to look at him incredulously. 

“Yeah, I’m just fantastic.” Sarcasm dripped from her tongue. 

“I apologize, I simply meant–” 

“I know what you meant. I’m fine.” The silence stretched on like a chasm between them. Remus racked his brain, looking for the right words.

“I’m sorry you are here. It should have never come to this. The Order, the work you’re doing, I cannot help but feel I had a hand in it.” He cast her a sidelong glance, trying to gauge her reaction. “You must be… very angry with me.” She gave him a curious look.

“Y-yeah. Yeah, Remus. I’m fucking furious with you.” She took a long drag of her cigarette, shaking her head incredulously. “But don’t you dare act like I’m here because of you.” She rose, as if disgusted to be seated next to him. “Do you think I threw myself into this cause because of you? I don’t sacrifice myself and my dignity time and time again because of you!” Her voice rose, louder and louder. “But yeah, you are right, I am angry. I’m fucking furious! I burn with anger, Remus. I can’t sleep because I’m so angry, it eats me alive!” She roared.  “I’m angry that the only way I’m useful is by using my body, I’m angry that I let Death Eaters feel me up, and sometimes I like it! I’m angry that Molly won’t let me near her kids anymore, and yes, Remus, I am angry at you!” She paused, taking a deep, shuddering breath as if she had been waiting a lifetime to let these words spill out. “Cause I was stupid and naive, and I’m embarrassed every time I see you, but you, you made me think you fucking cared! You used me, and when you didn't like what you had created, when you couldn't handle it, you threw me away!” 

“Y/N…” He said softly. 

“I moulded myself into something for you!” 

Remus swallowed dryly. “I never intended you to.” 

“You didn't need to.” She said with disgust. “God, what was your plan here? Leave your guilt on the doorstep? Shake hands and call it a day? Well, news flash, you don’t get to do that! You don't get to call me up again and break me down just to clear your conscience! You don’t get to write a little letter telling me not to get involved and call it a day!” 

“No.” He said firmly. “I would never dream of feeling redeemed.” She laughed, once. Sharp, cold, and hard. 

“No, of course you wouldn't! I suppose you just go and fuck the nearest barkeep when you wanna feel something close to it!” Remus winced, and Y/N smiled without mirth, seeing her insult land. “Oh yeah. I know all about that. Play with the affections of a young girl, then run and fuck the nearest real woman! Real classy.” 

It came to him then. The memory of rushing through the castle halls after that unplanned encounter. Nearly running headfirst into Y/N, the way she had looked him up and down as if searching for confirmation she wished not to find, the panic and disgust in her tearful eyes. 

“How did you–” 

“It pays to be friends with portraits.” She said coldly. She wrapped her arms around herself and scoffed, whispering almost to herself. “How was I ever even supposed to compare?” 

Remus stood. That felt the only proper way to do this. He took a deep breath, and surprisingly, the words he needed all along fell from his lips easily. “I have hurt you deeply. Though I wish there were, I know nothing I can say will fix that. What I did, what I let transpire, was deplorable. I never meant to hurt you, but I think I always knew I would. And that, there, is my greatest shame and failure.” She looked at him, eyes still hard and guarded. “You were…a bit of sunshine in my incredibly dark and pathetic life, and I was too much of a coward to let you go. You deserved so much better than that… than me. If I could reach back through time and fix things, I would. Time may forgive what I have done, but trust when I say that I never will. I am deeply, tuly sorry.” Something in her eyes softened, tears welling in them, as if the flames of her anger had burnt themselves out and she was left fragile and exhausted. 

“You can’t tell me it all meant nothing?” She whispered. 

“I would never dream of telling such a lie.” 

Her lip trembled, and she sank to the stoop as though her legs had simply given out beneath her. Remus watched her tentatively, his heart breaking at the sight. 

“I’m so tired.” Her voice broke. Gingerly, Remus resumed his seat next to her. 

“I know.” He said softly. 

Silence settled between them. Leaves rustled overhead. The ember of Y/N's forgotten cigarette glowed faintly beside her shoe before finally burning itself out. Remus focused on the sound of her steady breaths. It felt like a dam had broken open between them, months of anger, hurt, and misunderstandings all spilled out in front of them, and together they sat in the wake of its wreckage. Gently, Y/N rested her head on Remus’s shoulder. He tensed for a moment before relaxing under her touch, allowing his head to rest against hers, his eyes closing shut. It was a silent, somber agreement; a symbol of forgiveness. 

Neither of them spoke, but perhaps they should have.

Perhaps there were still things left unsaid. Feelings that should have been confessed or buried properly instead of being carried around like old wounds.

But neither of them seemed to have the strength for that tonight.

So they sat together on the front step of Grimmauld Place, her head on his shoulder, watching the dark London street and listening to the distant sounds of the city.

For now, it was enough.

 “Aunt May actually let me come this time since I’ve been doing great in school,” he declared, his grin wide and unabashed.

Tony, lounging back with a glass of something suspiciously amber in color, raised an eyebrow and smirked. “Kid if great means a C in physics, we need to talk.”

Peter’s face flushed slightly as he stammered, “H-hey! It’s an A-minus actually.”

Sam, lounging comfortably with a bowl of pretzels balanced on one knee, snorted and added, “Don’t worry Parker. We’ll make sure to remind you of that every time you pause the movie to point out what they got wrong.”

Peter looked even more embarrassed. “I only did that twice....” He weakly tried to defend himself causing the two men to laugh.

Sitting on another separate furniture was Thor.

“Enough of this school talk! Let me tell you of the time I faced the mighty frost giant of Jotunheim!” The God of Thunder waves a drink in the air as his booming voice echoes.

His unoccupied arm was draped across Loki’s shoulders, a silent reminder to the trickster god that mischief had its limits tonight.

Loki rolled his eyes with a scoff and folds his arms. “Must you always tell that story brother?” 

Vision, oblivious to the banter, hovered near the screen, adjusting the settings for optimal viewing quality.

Wanda sat near him, her fingers idly flicking through the air making small shapes out of glowing red energy, her expression relaxed.

Bucky, quiet as ever, had hesitantly settled into an armchair next to Steve. Though the wounds of the past had scarred them all, a fragile truce held in place.

Steve’s blue eyes softened as he caught Bucky’s glance, offering a subtle nod of reassurance.

Bruce approaches the ex-Winter Soldier and hands over a can of soda with a small smile of understanding as he sits next to Clint.

Bucky timidly accepts and nod in thanks, his shoulders slowly relaxing as he took in the scene—it felt almost normal.

Almost.

“I can’t BELIEVE THIS!” A rageful yell pierces the air causing all conversations to hush mid-sentence.

Eyes turn towards the source of interruption. And there, before them, stood a seething Natasha.

The color of her red locks were no match for the fire that were blazing within her eyes. 

Steve, ever the voice of security, gaze search hers. “What’s wrong Nat?”

Natasha crossed her arms. “Have any of you guys noticed anything weird happening lately?”

“Uh...” Peter awkwardly raised his hand almost as if for asking permission to speak. “Actually now that you mention it...people have been asking for pictures with me more than usual.”

Her lips press tightly together. “Exactly.”

Tension crackled in the room as the rest exchanged looks of confusion.

Tony groaned, leaning his head back with a dramatic roll of his eyes. “PR issues? What’s new?”

Natasha doesn’t spare him a glance. Instead she turned to face the ceiling.  “FRIDAY. Pull up the video.”

“Right away Agent Romanoff”the AI responded as the room’s lighting dimmed.

The movie setup on the large screen disappeared, replaced by a polished brightly colored advertisement.

Serene music played as heroic shots of the Avengers in action appeared: Tony soaring through the sky in his Iron Man suit, Steve deflecting a hail of bullets with his shield, Thor summoning thunder and the others saving civilians—all framed with flawless cinematic glory.

A voiceover, warm and honeyed, filled room. “The Avengers: Earth’s mightiest heroes, defenders of humanity.”

Tony leaned back and sighed in a mix of irritation and smugness. “A fan-made promo? Really Nat?”

The corners of Steve’s mouth quirked up in polite agreement, his eyes soft with an almost paternal pride. “It looks positive so far. Is there something we’re missing?”

“Just watch.” Natasha hisses, her expression still tense.

“But what happens when the protectors become the cause of destruction?”

The serene music cuts off abruptly—replaced by a hollow somber chord. The visuals were no longer heroic, no longer triumphant.

Instead footage showed of crumbling buildings, shattered streets, smoke billowing into a gray sky as civilians looked on in shock and despair.

A ripple of unease went through the team, some recognizing a few scenes from their latest mission.

Tony sat up straighter. “What the hell is this?!” he snarls, clearly unamused.

The montage continued; the aftermath of battles, people sifting through debris, the sound of distant sirens before the camera cut to a series of sidewalk interviews.

A man in a dark suit appeared—his expression stoic. “I watched the Hulk throw my car at a villain...and miss.”

Bruce shoulders hunched as a grimace flickered across his face.

Another clip showed a driver next to a half-destroyed Sedan, gesturing to it wildly “Captain America used my door as a shield. Now how da HELL am I supposed to drive this to work?!” 

Another shot showed an older woman wearing a pink fuzzy robe with slippers to match. “Five times...FIVE TIMES that lanky ass spider boy done come and tore up the block. This week alone! I finally paid off my car and now look at it!” Her lips curled as she took another sip from her glass of red wine.

Peter pales recognizing that exact neighborhood.

“Uh...is this the kind of press we usually get?” Wanda asked quietly, half-joking. Vision tilted his head. “Based on the tone I would say no.”

Loki’s delighted laughter erupted from the corner of the room. He tossed his head back, savoring their discomfort.

“Mortals and their misplaced faith,” he began, but his glee was cut short as the screen suddenly shifted to a familiar face: his.

The headline Special Edition: Loki Lawlessness Insurance Package appeared under a clip of him cackling maniacally mid-chaos.

His smile faltered into an offended scowl. “That’s not even my best angle,” he muttered.

A final gut-punching clip played out on the screen: a little girl—no more than six—standing amongst rubble as she clutched a half-burnt teddy bear.

Tears streaked her soot-covered face as she spoke into a reporter’s microphone. “The heroes who saved us...killed our home and puppy.”

The words echoed leaving a gaping silence in the room. But before anyone could break the quiet the screen flickered back to life.

This time there were no chaotic images or bleak interviews.

The camera steadied on a young woman standing outside a modest, unassuming office building.

Braided hair flawlessly styed into an updo, the well-fitted blazer and knee-length skirt that matched in color was simple yet elegant.

And her eyes...a beautiful shade of [eye color] so fierce with determination, yet her features were gentle—a disarming contrast that made the delivery all the more captivating.

Peter Parker’s eyes went wide as he nearly jumped from his seat. “____?!” the shock vibrated his voice.

Tony's eyes darted to the teenager. “Who's ____?”

“Hello my name is ____, founder of Avenge-Yer Life Back Insurance,” Your voice (the same one that narrated the video so far) was voice steady and clear.

The camera panned out a little more revealing the logo of your company posted on the building behind you.

Eyebrows shoot up as heads swivel almost in unison to fix their attention on Peter. The sophomore hero’s face pales and he shrinks under the sudden scrutiny.

 "I too, like so many others, once admired the Avengers." Fortunately for Peter your voice continues, reclaiming focus. "But admiration can turn when reality hits home."

 “Years ago an incident involving the Avengers changed everything for my family. We lost our business, our home, our livelihood—everything that made life stable. But instead of succumbing to that destruction, I decided to do something. To create a solution for others like us—those who were left to pick up the pieces after the Avengers saved the day.”

The scene now changed to you walking confidently through an aisle in the office building as views of smiling employees and distressed citizens signing documents played in the background. “At Avenge-Yer Life Back Insurance, we ensure that those who suffer from collateral damage have the means to rebuild. With proven evidence that a hero was present during the damage to your property or accident, we offer comprehensive coverage. From homes reduced to rubble to livelihoods disrupted overnight, we ensure that you’re not left in the aftermath without hope.”

“People have been exploiting it too,” Natasha said suddenly, her voice breaking through the tension. “They've been using loopholes—taking selfies with heroes and timing accidents to match the incidents. Spider-Man currently has the highest coverage rate.”

Peter’s head snapped up as his eyes widened in realization. “Wait...pictures?!” His voice cracked from a mixture of confusion and panic.

Steve’s voice cuts through. “Isn’t this bordering on defamation? Our honor’s at stake here. We could—”

Tony doesn’t let him finish, scoffing with a sharp laugh. “What do you think this is, the 1940s? Oh wait—my apologies, you probably did for a second there.”

Sam let out a laugh before quickly covering it with a cough in attempt to hide his amusement.

Steve just rolled his eyes but chose not to respond, his focus returning to the screen.

The advertisement ends with you looking directly into the camera.

You lean forward slightly, your eyes locking onto the viewer with compelling intensity.

“The Avengers. You know them as heroes who saved the world and lives of many...but how many have they destroyed?”

The room fell into a suffocating silence as the screen faded to black; the air heavy as everyone processed what they’d just seen.

Every eye shifted toward Peter whose face flushed pink.

He instinctively raise his hands in a gesture of surrender at the weight of their stares bearing down on him.

Bucky, who rarely spoke up unless necessary, was the first to break the silence. His voice was gruff, expression serious as he turned to Peter. “Explain kid.”

Peter’s mouth opened then shut before he took a shaky breath. “I...I think I know her...kind of,” his voice was barely above a whisper.

“She was a junior at Midtown High when I was a freshman. The only person who didn’t ignore me or—” he swallowed hard, “—bully me. Other than Ned. Defended me every chance she got...”

“I might’ve...”He glanced down, cheeks turning a deeper shade of red as he muttered, “...had a massive crush on her.” 

But Natasha’s sharp gaze caught everything. “What was that last part?”

Peter’s eyes widened and quickly rushed to speak over her. “But yeah! You know she disappeared halfway through the year before I ever worked up the courage to talk to her.”

“I didn’t understand why she left. I thought maybe she’d just moved or something. But now...” He lets out an almost wistful, forlorn sigh as his shoulder slightly slumped. “Now I see why.”

There was a pang of something unidentifiable in his voice—regret maybe, or sadness.

The Avengers exchanged looks, some expressions softening, others hardening with simmering frustration. 

Thor shifted on the sofa in displeasure.

“So mortals now speak ill of us for saving them?” his voice tinged with indignation. “Ungrateful wretches—should they not sing songs of our deeds as they did in my time?”

Wanda raises a brow. “Yes Thor, because their top priority is singing songs of your deeds while they fix their plumbing.” She says dryly.

Steve, however, straightened in his seat and interjected before the tension could boil over.

“Thor...they’re not entirely wrong.”

The God of Thunder frowned, his brow furrowing deeply. “Not wrong? Captain we fight for them. We bleed for them!”

“We also bulldoze their coffee shops,” Sam quipped under his breath. Thor shot him a sharp glare.

Ignoring the comment Steve continues. “Think about it: To us it’s a mission—we go into battle, we do what we have to, and then...we leave.”

Tony raised a hand like he was in a classroom. “Uh yeah because that’s what heroes do. You’re welcome civilians.”

Steve exhaled heavily but didn’t look his way. “We leave. But they stay. It’s their homes, their streets, their lives that got caught in the middle. They’re the ones who have to stay and rebuild.”

The room quieted. For a moment, it seemed like the team might actually be absorbing the gravity of the situation.

Clint snorted. “Maybe we should hand out gift cards after every mission.”

Steve couldn’t help the twitch of his lips from that. “My point is they didn’t ask for these battles, yet they got them anyway. It’s not ungrateful to ask why it happens or how it can be prevented.”

Thor looked taken aback, caught somewhere between confusion and frustration. “But we are protectors! Not destroyers.”

Steve gave a small nod but didn’t back down. “I know that, we know that. But to them it’s not that simple. They don’t see us cleaning up the mess—they only see the rubble we leave behind.”

The tension in the room was thick as the unspoken truth settled over them like a heavy weight.

 “Okay!” Tony pushed himself up from the armchair with a flourish, setting down his glass a bit too forcefully. “That was a nice guilt-trip speech n all...but seriously? Accidents happen, it's inevitable. We risk our asses day in and day out—and now they’re trying to cancel me over an insurance company I didn’t even create? I’ll be damned!”

Without waiting for a response Tony makes his way out the room.

Vision, who had been observing quietly, head tilts as he calls out, “What do you plan to do then, Tony?”

“To fix this. First thing in the morning.” The voice of Iron Man echoed back sharp with resolve.

════════════════*.·:·.☽✧ ✦ ✧☾.·:·.*═════════════════

Anticipation hummed through the common room like a live wire.

The Avengers had gathered once more—some leaning against the walls while others paced or fidgeted with pent-up energy.

One thing for sure, they all were filled with curiosity and mild apprehension as they waited.

The door suddenly swished open and in strolled Tony Stark with a face-splitting grin.

“Well?” Natasha’s voice cut through the buzz. Her eyes narrow, finding the billionaire cat-like smile unassuring. “Did you fix it?”

Tony’s smile grew wider as he clapped his hands together. “Even better. Pull it up!”

At his words, FRIDAY makes a holographic screen appear behind him, displaying a high-resolution image: you were standing next to Tony, a bright smile on your face as you shook his hand.

In the picture Tony was handing over an oversized check boring the Stark Industries logo with a number impossible to miss—$450 million.

The room erupted with a cacophony of reactions—exclamations, groans, and even a low whistle from Sam.

Natasha’s eyes darkened with fury as she whirled towards Tony.

“What happened to fixing it?!” she snapped, venom in her voice.