#this is... yeah

- Glowing, The Oh Hellos

One-hundred and forty two.

There were one-hundred and forty two steps between the top-most floor of Atlas Academy and the small mortuary wing of the medical ward. James had taken to counting the third time he’d been called to make the torturous walk, shoulders weighed down by the circumstance of another life ended. The softly-lit halls always seemed to stretch longer, the walls closing in; leaning on the verge, waiting to crumble. His men, his Specialists -- Brothers forbid, his students: it never got easier. 

It was usually to Grimm, and grim was the resolve that those losses brought about, because they wouldn’t stop. Not until she could be stopped. Even then, some days the doubt crept in that that wouldn’t end the bloodshed entirely. He could feel it, on those rare occasions: the blood of the good and the brave and those who should have known peace, seeping through his gloves, staining flesh and metal. And with it, ultimately, the question: wasn’t it as much his fault, for sending them out to face her?

Wasn’t this as much his fault?

Today, it was a meagre fifty seven steps. Each took every ounce of his willpower. Each tightened the knot of dread in his stomach with sickening jolts. And still, he counted each that it took to walk from the recovery room to where they waited.

Today, the walls were still, and the distance was as it was meant to be. Somehow, that made it harder to keep moving. It allowed his thoughts to wander, his feet to trail and stumble, where there otherwise should have been naught but focus and steady resolve.

Today, it hadn’t been the Grimm.

James could remember with horrible clarity the first time it had been a child. Lost in a white-out, Scroll signal non-existent, unable to call for help. She’d drowned in the snow; in the crystal and bitter winds, left to sit until her Aura had withered away, and hypothermia had claimed her. An accident, but one that had been entirely avoidable. He’d stood silently in a painfully white room, watching a man weep over the waxy black-and-blue body of his daughter, and sworn to do better. Nothing could justify it: not duty, not necessity, not Ozpin -- though the latter refused to agree. Whether his students or his soldiers; if they were going out there to fight, then he was going to do everything in his power to see to it they all made it back.

It had never been enough.

He had never been enough.

And today, that was all too clear.

When he finally made it, he found Operative Ederne in the hallway. Her arms were crossed, gaze fixed on the tiled floor, expression split in a restrained echo of the grief he remembered so well. Of the team, Elm and Clover had had the closest thing resembling proper, amicable friendship. What felt like a lifetime ago, he’d been concerned that any breakdown of that sort of personal relationship would affect their ability to act professionally; now, he only hoped that it would give her some degree of comfort amidst the pain. 

Glassy eyes were turned his way, and there was a moment of hesitation. He could think of nothing; no condolence, no reassurance, no determination. Elm straightened -- a nod, a tight “Sir”, and she disappeared into the room marked M-019. He caught a glimpse of the rest of the Ace Ops, as the door slid shut; of solemn silence and faux-firm stances and a body on a cot.

James took a shuddering breath. He turned aside -- they deserved more time to mourn without intrusion, as little of that time as they had -- and faced the opposite room instead. M-020. He had to see her. He had to know.

It took conscious effort to force himself through the doorway.

She looked like she was sleeping, the faintest linger of strain and anguish caught on her still features. She was pale; a waif of a woman, nothing left of the strength and adamantine he remembered. He reached for her, and laid a hand on the wrist that had been draped over her stomach. He couldn’t feel it, but his mind unkindly filled in the absence of warmth anyways. His eyes burned, and he swallowed past the bile in his throat, and wished to-- whichever sort of deity that may have chosen to keep watch over them, that she’d stir. That she’d wake, with familiar blue eyes and a tired but gentle smile, and tell him about the tea she’d had that morning or her latest painting.

Her paintings...

James tore his gaze up and scanned the room, half a moment of desperation seizing him. There hadn’t been much he’d been able to give Fria to make her comfortable in her last days, but she had loved art well before her mind had begun to fray. It had seemed the least he could do. The thought of them being lost as well bent something in him; twisted, unrelentingly. It was ridiculous, but that hardly registered. Things had finally crumbled: he just wanted there to be something left.

His search ended on a stack of canvas, leaned beneath the window. He stepped away from her body and rounded to where they sat. On closer inspection, it appeared as though some of them had been charred, the fabric dotted with burns from sparks. A result of Cinder’s initial attack, no doubt. Carefully, ever so carefully, he turned one to face the light. 

The landscape that stared back up at him was one he didn’t know, but it was Solitas: a snowy mountain river, caught in the morning light. Something between a laugh and a sob caught in his throat. Her power may have moved on, and it may have taken a piece of her with it, but these... these were Fria’s soul. The beauty she had continued to see despite her worsening condition, and no matter her state of mind.

A beauty that was about to be destroyed.

Teetering, shoulders shaking on shallow, uneven breaths, he lifted his head to look out through the window. The Ace Ops had barely moved, and hid most of the body behind them, but he could see enough. The torn uniform. The blood. The eyes, closed by a doctor’s hand.

And the report said that Qrow had--...

James pressed a hand over his mouth. Brothers, he felt sick. He felt lost, and alone and, underneath, so impossibly afraid, and worse was that he didn’t know what to do with it. With this.

He thought he’d turned it all to steel long ago. Pushed it aside to stop her, and save Remnant.

@kingsofeverything tagged me in this, thank you! Lauren you got me at the perfect time 👀

His skin is so soft, and even surrounded by the biting chill outside, Louis’ body is flush with heat as he sneaks little nips and licks in over the expanse of Harry’s neck, leaving a shiny trail behind.

“We’re never going to have a happy ending, remember that.” - whatever pairing sparks joy angst.

i love you. how about,, uh, all of them?

1994

"Ayrton, I don't know what you want from me," he says, head in his hand, the one that isn't holding the receiver. "I'm not coming back, I'm not your punching back, there is nothing -"