Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Summary: Ashes. Ashes. We all fall down, when she fell, she didn’t realize the one-up option was something she could take. She realizes just who she really is- There’s only one solution. Get to All-Might and hope for the best. “My name is Shimura Tomoko, I’m Nana’s granddaughter, and I’m in danger of the man that killed her.” 

Tags: Drabble, Reincarnation, OC-Insert, Female Shimura Tenko, Dad!Might, 

Characters: Tsukauchi Naomasa, Shimura Tenko or ‘Tomoko’, Toshinori Yago, All Might

Pairings: Hawks/Tenko

Chapter One

Shimura Tomoko shifted, little legs swinging. She was so small, that she didn’t touch the ground in the precinct’s sofa. The precinct’s family room was bright, forcibly cheery with pale blue colors on the walls broken up by splashes of colors from various posters, and a toy chest in the center of the room, over-stuffed with hero merch. She tried not to flinch as the door opened. She had been here for a little over two hours, and the female officer assigned to her had finally given up and called the person she was demanding to speak to. Said Detective came into the room, face completely baffled. He looked her over, from her messy, dry blue-tinted hair to the deep circles underneath her eyes, this strange little girl dressed in dirty winter clothes. 

Wasn’t often, after all, that a little girl of four walked into a police station and demanded an audience with a very specific detective. It had taken her two days to reach this particular precinct, a couple of near misses, several trains, and all of the petty money she had been able to scrounge up. She only had her backpack, filled with a few changes of clothes, toiletries, some snack foods, water, and a stolen pocket knife. 

Detective Tsukauchi Naomasa looked at her with complete confusion. Because he did not know her. 

She shifted on the sofa, her scuffed mary-janes, oversized as a hand-me-down from her sister Hana, clanking together. She swallowed thickly.

“Hello, young lady,” his confusion didn’t translate to his voice. It was soft and warm.

She swallowed.  

“...Hi,” her voice was small.

Small and scared. She couldn’t help that. She gripped her dirty All-Might bag tighter to her chest, and he saw him furrow his brow at the strange-looking gloves on her hands. Self-knitted, badly, admittedly, mittens in similar colors. It was a precaution- she knew she wasn’t supposed to activate her quirk until she was five, a late bloomer- but she rather not kill someone on accident for assuming. She also wasn’t reborn a boy, so any certainties on her part could be pretty much thrown out the window. But most things seemed to be lining up, save for the gender swap, but she was being careful. What her foggy memories basically told her was that quirk required contact of all of her fingers until the modification surgery made to her male counterpart made her quirk stronger and more controlled. Solution?

Mittens. 

Just mittens. Leaving just her thumb free, and preventing her own hand from making complete contact with anything. She vaguely remembers being an avid knitter. Something about keeping her hands busy and focusing. The memories made her ability laughable, but serviceable as a new child. Her clothes were a reflection of her fear of still dormant quirk- it was the middle of the summer, and she was dressed in tights, a sweater dress, and mittens. She even had a beanie over her head and a face mask. The only thing visible of her skin was around her eyes. Less chance of contact that way, just in case her quirk manifested in a different part of her body. In a different way.

“You asked for by name, can you tell me why?”

Because you’re a human lie detector and have a connection to All-Might.

She breathed. Tried to keep it steady but it already broke into a half-suppressed sob. The smell of her gum, mint and refreshing, was thick on her tongue. She chewed it, quickly, trying to count backward from 100 to calm down her racing heart-

“Sweetheart-”

He reached to touch her. Comfort her as any rational adult should. She flinched away from his touch. Because she had learned in this life that people reaching for you meant a blow- and because she knew she could hurt him back.

“ Don’t. I could kill you,” her whisper caused him to flinch back. His eyes went wide.

Because he knew she wasn’t lying.

“My name is Shimura Tomoko, I’m Nana’s granddaughter, and I’m in danger of the man that killed her. Can you please contact your friend Toshinori?”

He gapped at her.

She looked him straight in the eyes.

“ Please. ”

“I-”

“We don’t have much time. I don’t know if he already has been keeping an eye on me.”

He blinked, quickly.

“You have to explain a few things.”

“This isn’t a trap, and I want to explain this with him present,” she said, flatly.

He swallowed.

“Alright. Alright. I’ll contact Toshinori.”

She releases a breath. Maybe she wasn’t utterly fucked after all.

Chapter Two

He strides in, confident and tall.

All-Might.

He isn’t the shadow she knew him as from her memories- not shrunken in, half-dead corpse. This is the man, the symbol, the peace that even someone from the year 2022 cannot comprehend. It is a touch depressing, how similar the world outside is to her own time period, but comforting at the same time. One man is enough to hold back the hoard of crime, since his official achievement of number one, crime statistics had drastically lowered. Even before she had made the connection to her nebulous memories, the law student in her had been so awed by him. Adored him no matter how many times she got smacked around for it.

He looks over. His blue eyes are steel.

She clutches at her quirk-suppressing choker like a lifeline. It was the only thing they had on hand that would fit her, actually a bracelet for a much larger arm. But it was a relief to be able to be out of her winter wear. She had gratefully taken a shower in the precinct locker rooms, and gladly taken a crisp, clean-smelling dress, underwear, and little sandals, fit for summer. Officer Nanahara Naoko had been kind enough to do a quick run to a nearby mall, and Tomoko couldn’t afford to be proud.

He stares her down.

She stares back. 

“... You have Nana’s gaze,” his voice is a whisper. But deep. Deep and warm and there is wounded breathiness to it.

She breathes. Her eyes are red. But her eye shape is similar to her father- and she supposes- her grandmother.

“My name is Shimura Tomoko, I’m Nana’s granddaughter, and I’m in danger of the man that killed her. Of the All for One. And- And I know things. I know that you were once quirkless until Shimura Nana passed on the One for All to you- I know that Detective Tsukauchi Naomasa is a human lie detector and your trusted friend. I know my- my quirk is decay. I know who will succeed you in the future- ”

“It’s all true,” says Detective Tsukauchi. His eyes are wide.

She breathes.

“Young Shimura-”

“I know that the All for One means to make me his successor in his quest to take back his brother’s quirk and to kill you. I’m scared. I’m scared of what he wants for me. I’m scared about what’s he’s gonna do to my family-”

He reaches for her. Doesn’t even hesitate to touch her. Careful and soft. Hand on her messy, dry blue-tinted hair.

“Never fear, I am here. ”

Tomoko breathes.

Chapter Three

“Protective custody?” she whispers.

She is clutching at the suppressor. It is a comfort.

She can’t deny that.

“With me,” says All-Might, voice firm.

His eyes shine. Does he remember her grandmother? Remember her, and think her an appropriate parallel? All For One had certainly that of her male counterpart.

“... And my sister?”

“With someone else… We’ll keep her safe, but its best if your both kept separate for now. Your father is now in jail for the obvious abuse against you, and so is your mother for neglect. Their trails are pending.”

She licks her dry lips.

“All I care about Hana and her dog… And I guess myself.”

He blinked at her. His brows furrowed.

“Hana will be safe. I promise. As well as the dog. And so will you, Young Shumura”

Tomoko breathes. And than she breathes again.

“ Thank you. ”

Chapter Text

Summary: When Mr. Darcy is introduced to Miss Elizabeth Bennet, she makes a quick observation, and offers a kind hand. Or in which Elizabeth’s habit of studying characters makes her see not an arrogant, proud man of unpleasant disposition, but instead a tired, awkward young man that really needs to better his social skills. 

Chapter I

Peach Chuerbs

“Are you unwell?” muttered the lady, and it is kindly said, her brows furrowing. Eyes looking forward.

She mummers it underneath her breath, and it is only because she is right next to him that he hears her. Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberly jumps. Turns to the lady to realize that it is Miss Elizabeth Bennet. Their introduction had been stilted. As most of them are to me. He thinks her mother had been coarse to plead a partner to dance for her own grown daughter. He has seen it enough in town, it had been an annoying if regular occurrence. His brisk demeanor had been enough to close the topic and the conversation. 

 Yet the young woman is still talking to him.

"I beg your pardon, Miss Elizabeth?"

Fine eyes looked at him, and he realizes that perhaps the mention of the Bennet sisters, at least the elder, being the beauties of the county were not exaggerated. Her eyes are a light shade of green. They are deep for all their lightness, strands of emerald and sea-green making the depths of her eyes luminous. He had thought the young woman of a pretty sort, but not stunning. Her eyes are stunning, however. Her finest feature, he would think. There is a lesser quality to the shape of her face, in comparison of her eldest sister, but he thinks her eyes are far more then that of the eldest Miss Bennet. Quick as he can tell, he had only noted them to be a fetching blue, but he had been yet to study them like Miss Elizabeth’s.

“Ser, am I right to say that you traveled promptly from London just today?”

His brow furrowed. He had no reason to ignore her, no feasible manner of not engaging her conversation. He bit back a sigh.

“Yes.”

Perhaps if he was curt, she would be dissuaded from much conversation. A single brow arched. Not finely shaped as her sister’s. Blunter, thicker, but all the better to frame her eyes, perhaps.

“That is nearly twenty miles- Did you take a carriage?”

He blinked. Curiosity taking the better of him. Perhaps the young woman was simply curious herself. Had she never traveled to London?

“Part of the way,” he answered truthfully,  “I prefer horseback when I can get away with it.”

She blinked her fetching green eyes. Her lashes were quite long. Delicate.

“You have ridden nearly fifteen miles than, without rest? And spent the rest of the time in carriage?”

“I- Well yes?”

How on earth had she guessed it? She pursed her lips.

“There is an alcove sir, that is just off of the Hall, five doors down, partially hidden by a screen that does the hall much ill. It is ideal to sit and rest if you are fatigued. And perhaps,” her lips quirked into a pleasant smile now, not prettier than her sister by half, but lovelier in its mischievous nature, “There is a novel or two stowed beneath the benches of the built-in lounge, for when a lady is fatigued from the lack of dance partners. In all my years of living here, I have yet to be caught in it. But, as a gesture of goodwill and welcome, you can escape mothers begging for partners for their daughters?”

He stared. Felt his own lips quirk into a smile.

“Five doors down out of the Hall?”

“Ghastly screen, painted with what I am certain are supposed to be cherubs, but I cannot tell.”

He suppressed a chuckle. And surprised himself at the bringing of her humor.

“Cannot?”

“They are rather muddled. Possibly peaches instead? Sorry, sir, for having been set upon the Loughnborn scene with no true rest. Country manners. We know each other too well and are too eager to know of others. I hope you can escape us for just a moment.”

She smiled again. 

She seemed to do that much too often. But Darcy acknowledged that it was much like Bingley's frequent smiles.

"I believe, then, I should trust you, Madam."

She inclined her head.

"Mr. Darcy."

"Miss. Elizabeth. "

Chapter II

Chapter Text

Summary: Growing uneased by the growing determination displayed by her Mother to see the five of her daughters married by the time the year is out, a restless Miss Elizabeth Bennet feels more trapped than she can care to admit. She knows it is only the most ardent, passionate of love that could convince her to marry, and feels stifled in the wake of her Mother’s and society’s expectations. She is compelled to accept her Aunt and Uncle Garner’s invitation to their tour of the Lakes District and leaves Loughborne behind if only for a moment. 

By chance, upon a tour of the great estate named Pemberley, she stumbles across Miss Georgianna Darcy and receives a most spirited friend.

Or at just fifteen, young Georgianna Darcy feels alone in the wake of her cousin’s and brother’s departure from Pemberly. Not yet out, nor very inclined for the company of those locally acquainted with her family and with only a late summer trip to Ramsgate to look forward to and to make more friends... For she has no true friends. Imagine her surprise when she meets an older woman named Miss Elizabeth Bennet who is sweet and spirited and has no knowledge of who her brother is. Meeting Miss Elizabeth gains her a most spirited friend, and confidence she knew not possible.

I: A Much Needed Departure

The Summer of 1912

“I must inquire that you write to me. Most often, Lizzy,” said Jane Bennet, softly, clasping Elizabeth Bennet’s hands in a delicate grip. Her hands, her hands curled gently onto Elizabeth’s, but there was a firmness there nonetheless- the plead emphasized by the ardent way her elder sister was looking at her.

Her face was honest and slightly distressed, her pale, blue eyes wide and beautifully earnest. There was little of Jane that was not delicate, nor beautiful, that was plain to anyone with eyes, even with the obvious distress she was displaying. Elizabeth, thought perhaps if she and her sister were any less affectionate and if she cared for such things, she would have been violently jealous of her sister’s beauty. But there was nothing to feel envy for, for Jane was all that was good in the world and the most wonderful of sister beyond that. The fact that she would was as beautiful as she was inside as she was out was only fitting in Elizabeth’s eyes.

Poor Jane was looking at her, smiling yes, but with worry in her wonderful eyes. She was the most reserved of displaying her emotions, and it showed how much Jane would miss Lizzy. It made part of her own heartache in response. If she could fit Jane within her small purse, she would.

“I shall hardly past a mile without lifting my pen.”

Jane gave a smile, small, careful as she was always of the extent of her emotions, and Elizabeth could see how much the comment gladded her. Even if it was ridiculous. But that is why Elizabeth said it.

“Do not tease me so, Lizzy, you will be gone for months.”

Elizabeth gave her sister’s hand a careful squeeze.

“Yes. But you could dash up the stairs, pack your trunk and come with us. It would take you but a few minutes.”

Jane laughed, softly, shaking her head.

“I would love nothing more. But I cannot deny that Mother will need help with the little ones.”

The Garner cousins were indeed all very small, all very numerous and with Lydia and Kitty to handle, Lizzy had no doubt that their Mother would be run ragged. Her Father would seldom been seen outside of the library if at all in the coming months, with only Jane left for some measure of sense in the household. And Jane did indeed have the sweetest and easiest temper when it came to the children and would be ideal to stay behind. Their mother and father could hardly spare both Elizabeth and Jane… Jane, the angel that she had readily volunteered to stay home. With no inclination to try and persuade their parents to allow the both leave. Elizabeth wished her sister would be a little selfish in this endeavor, and come with her Aunt and Uncle Gardner to the Lakes regardless, but had accepted the opportunity for a quiet turn about Lakes.

“Your sense of responsibility is heartening to see, but how I wish you were less dutiful Jane.”

A slight upturn of her lips, a tad wrier then her sweet smile was what Jane gave Elizabeth in response.

“I cannot seldom be less dutiful then you clever, dear Lizzy.”

“Indeed, sweet Jane. Miss me, keep Papa sane as I go about the moors and hills.”

A kiss to the cheek was Jane’s response, and Elizabeth returned it with an embrace for good measure. She gave her farewell to her sister and went down the line for her other sisters. Giving her mother a careful hug, before she moved to her father. Mr. Bennet gave her a careful, stern look, that was altogether ruined by the gleam in his clever green eyes.  

“Do not disappear into the Lakes forever Lizzy, I will be quite upset with you if decided to live wild,” he said, pointedly, slipping what looked like a small purse into hands. She carefully received the money he was giving, surprised at the extra pocket money. She knew he had given a larger sum to her Uncle Gardiner for the trip. 

“I shall promise to try and return,” she said so simply, “But if I do disappear into the wilds, know that I shall be happy. For what are men to woods and hills?”

Her father chuckled.

“Of that, I have no doubt. But keep in mind your mother’s poor nerves- if you truly leave us without a husband as an excuse, I will never hear the end of it.”

Lizzy suppressed her laughter at her father’s expression.

"I promise, Papa."

"Be well my Lizzy, and enjoy yourself."

"Bring me back a good gift Lizzy," said Lydia, loudly, hands on her hips.

Kitty tittered in arrangement, "Yes, a good gift."

Her mother gave her a pursed set of lips.

"Could you not go with your Uncle when he is in Town? Instead of such a dreary tour of the lakes, you could spend the season with them. And Jane with you?"

Lizzy, despite herself, suppressed a smile at the suggestion. She would not mind it, and neither would Jane, but she knew her father would hardly tolerate it. Not just for the expense, but for the thought of being apart from them for so long. She shook her head.

“Perhaps another time, Mama.”

Chapter Text

Plot Summary: Drabble. AU. Slow burn. Ben Solo- knight of the New Jedi Order. Despite what his surname is, no one said that he was a good pilot. Really, he blames Uncle Luke for thinking he could fly a derelict ship without accidentally killing himself. He’s on an unknown planet, there’s sand everywhere, and now there’s a girl attacking him with a stick! STRICTLY MOVIE VERSE. FAN BOYS Beware/Can Bite Me.

Chapter One:

Piloting Skills Are Not Hereditary

Ben Solo is starting to think that the remains of the Starwalker family has some sort of curse that demands a disaster at least once a year. Last year, his mother had managed to get a rare form of spacial flu because his father forgot to take his shots before he came back from a smuggling job. The year before that Uncle Luke had fallen down all four flights of the Jedi’s Academy's stairs in order to protect a new padawan. And the year before that his father had been arrested for grand-larceny across two systems(he managed to wiggle out of being formally charged on a technicality, but still, all the stupid press had been horrible ). It’s the only thing, that he can think, to justify,  on why he had been sent on this completely mundane solo-training mission:

“You need some time off, Ben, you’ve been more morsoe then normal. And you’ve done such a good job as a liaison between the Jedi Order and the Senate,” his mother had said, looking concerned and stately, even through the viewing screen.

To his horror, his uncle had only nodded sagely, beside him, absently running his fingers through his scraggly beard.

“Just a couple days, son,” here, his Uncle ruffled his long, black hair, much to the twenty-three-year-old’s embarrassment, “Fly to this system, train and meditate. Come back with a clear head.”

“Think of it as a vacation, son!”

Despite his age, Ben had felt something akin to panic and childish dismay. He isn’t having a vacation, it's a time-out. None of the other knights had had this time off forced on them.

“But I like working hard! I’ve finally made knighthood!”

After years of not being good enough, his uncle had finally allowed him to shed his apprentice braid. He had quickly submitted himself into becoming the newest liaison, the second the previous one had stepped down, and had been surprised to be accepted so quickly.  Part of him wonders if it's only because of nepotism, for he is Chancelor Leia Organa’s son, he is General Han Solo’s son, he is Jedi Luke Skywalker’s nephew, heroes of the Rebellion, legends in life(even if they had only been Mom, Dad, and Uncle to him). Before he squashed that thought down fiercely.

“We know, Ben,” his Uncle had soothed, “But you’re working too hard. Just a couple days.”

“I hate flying the Academy ship,” was his last protest. Because he really did.

Uncle Luke had shrugged, rolling his eyes.

“You’re not that bad, Ben! You just overthink things.”

To top off the humiliation of his Mother interfering with his life as a Jedi Knight, he had managed to crash his stupid antique hunk of rust that the Academy deemed safe enough to cross systems, completely proving the fact that somehow, Ben had been the only Skywalker, and Solo for that matter, to ever suck at flying. Or at least flying shit ships that had seen better days.

Overthink things my left foot. Apparently, this year is my year, he thinks miserably, as he scrambles out of the ancient cruiser, coughing and hacking at the smoke coming from the internal systems.

He blinks at the sheer heat that comes over him like a dense weight. He swallows, throat dry from the smoke as he moves forward. Sunlight, intense and bright, falls over him. He breathes, thanking the Force that he had been able to land on a planet nearby with a suitable atmosphere. Pulling his rough-spun hood over his face, cursing at the feeling of a line of sweat already slipping down the nape of his neck. 

Suddenly, he wishes he had caved into his Uncle’s desire to shave his head. He, after finally being granted knighthood, had let it grown wild and to his shoulders. And because he can hide his large ears better this way. But now, it sticks to the back of his neck, it hangs heavily with sweat and grim in his face. And he has no hair tie readily available.

In front of him, all he can see in front of him is sand. Sand and more sand and even more sand. A desert planet, perfect, I can see Uncle Luke cackling over all his mandatory survival training on Tatooine, he is never going to let me live this down without gloating like a five-year-old.

Please, Force, don’t let him jump on my back again. He’s been eating more sweet rolls then before and I just know he has gained at least twenty pounds since I was fifteen.

Dismayed, he turned back to the curisoer, trying to assess the damage.

Ben Solo can also readily admit that beyond not being the best pilot, he is not a mechanic. Machines, much to his mother’s glee and his father’s and uncles’ horror, had just never peaked his interest. Politics, ethics, Jedi Philosophy- he has it. A ship hyperdrive? Well, he would just kill everyone if he touched it. Which is why he can safely say as he stares at the remains of his ship, that he is royally screwed. He’s in the middle of a far away system, on a desert planet, with limited supplies and he has no idea if there are even any people living on this planet let alone a starport.

Yeah, I’m going to die. Mother, Uncle Luke… Father, if you can hear me, I am coming back as a Force-Ghost and haunting all three of you. 

Out of spite.

AN: 

Right, I’ve been sitting on this story for quite a bit. I’ve been reluctant to publish it because I have a lot of other stories I’m working on… And then I realized I had nearly forty pages written for this and decided not to keep this to myself. This will update every Sunday! Maybe. IDK. 

Chapter Two:

Sand Everywhere

Ben is going to die. He knows it even as the sun sets- he’s lost a lot of water, trying his best, despite his lackluster skills at fixing the engine(he’s much better at breaking things). But no, he's useless, and he can't do anything. Even the communication system is shot, so he can’t even send off an SOS message, and the navigation system insists he’s on Hoth, so he’s pretty sure that’s a bust. The only positive thing he can say at the moment of hours working in the hot sun, that the heat is leaving, the sun is finally setting. 

But he’s still going to die.

He is so haunting his father first for not being more patient and trying to teach him more tech stuff. Than his Uncle Luke for not being better at survival training in the desert. Than his mother for insisting on this ‘mission’. Than Uncle Chewy for the hell of it. Hell, when they all died, he might even go after 3CPO and R2-D2 to keep his spite going. He was feeling vengeful at the moment, the steadily and drastically dropping temperature assuring him that if he didn’t die of thirst he was going to die of hypothermia. He huddled inside of the shuttle’s tiny cockpit, shivering and debating the merit of setting something on fire for the warmth. But beyond a spare cloak that he’s wrapped himself in, he doesn’t have anything to keep a steady blaze. So he tries to slip into a meditative trance, to remove himself from his body for a bit to calm himself, to get better perspective.

A Jedi’s mind is placid and calm-

That’s when he heard the something scratching at the outside of his ship, in the middle of his half-hearted attempt at meditation.

He froze, gritting his teeth as he went for his lightsaber.

He was not, at all, above slashing his ill feelings away. Fuck the meditation, he was stranded, annoyed, thirsty, and from his stunt outside, covered in sand in places he didn’t think he had. He was absolutely done with this. He leapt out of the ship with a roar, so he is more then startled when he nearly cleaves a pre-teen girl clean in half. Luckily for her, he hesitates, and luckily for him, she has excellent reflexes. There is a single moment of stunned surprise between the both of him, where Ben notices that the girl is small, thin, completely waifish to the extreme. Starved, but fairly tall for her age, a comically large staff in hand. She is tanned and freckled, had brown hair, with large, hazel eyes that were mostly green and a mixture of brown. For that single moment all he can be is surprised and feel his anger drain away in confusion and straight up alarm for the fact that such a young girl is out alone in the desert night.

In the next moment, the girl gives a war cry worthy of Chewy and swings her large staff straight at his stupidly large nose. 

Chapter Three:

The Girl On Jakku

The girl breaks his nose . 

The girl is bloody quick, and that alerts Ben that she more than likely has some force sensitivity, but mostly he is too busy swearing as he staggers back, lightsaber clicking off automatically as he grabs for his nose. Bleeding, now crocked he thinks morosely, his mother has always tried to sooth him with the fact that he had ‘strong’ features, but he knew that politician speak that he had ridiculously large nose and ears. Not classically handsome like either his mother or his father, too strong, too large, too uneven features that don’t quite fit. He doubts making it crocked will improve his less than stellar looks.

“It’s mine!” growls the girl, gesturing to the ship raising her very heavy metal staff threatenly, her voice, he is surprised, afflicted with a slight accent that reminded him of Construct, “Mine! My Scavenge, I got here first!”

He stares at her, taking in, once again, how skinny she is, how her cheeks, which should be rounded with the last vestiges of youth smoothing into adolescence, are sunken in.

“This is my ship,” he says, frowning at her, tightening his fingers on the bridge of his nose before snapping it back into place with a quick motion. He nearly snarls the next bit at the flash of pain, “I crashed just the afternoon.”

The girl blinks at him, eyes widening.

“You… You crashed?”

“Yes… Is there A New Republic Outpost near here?”

The girl stares at him, mouth falling open slightly before she shakes her head.

“No. You’re in the Outer-Rim. The closest you get to that is maybe a lost freighter that parks in the market,” says the young girl, brow furrowing.

Ben sighs, already have guessed that, but seeing this humanoid assures him that the planet is not uninhabited. That’s a start… The girl is staring at him, narrowed eyes, before her eyes flicker to his lightsaber.

“Are you a Jedi Knight?”

He stares, before he nods. The girl’s eyes widen, a soft awe crossing her face. Unbidden, Ben Solo straightens up, trying to appear much more impressive than a young man filled with sweat, sand, lankly and stiffly hanging hair, and thirsty beyond belief, and with a blood dripping into his mouth from his nose.

“Yeah, kid,” he says, and he tries not to wince at how much he sounds like his Father, “I’m Ben Solo, Jedi Knight of the New Republic.”

The girl beams, swinging her staff expretly across her shoulders, vibrating with excitement.

“I’m Rey! Do… Do you need help repairing your ship?”

In that moment, Ben thinks that maybe he isn’t going to die at all. 

Chapter Four:

An Expert Opinion

The girl moved with eerie quickness, further amfirming Ben’s thought that little Rey is force sensitive, powerfully so. She is jumping from panel to panel inside the engine part of the ship with ease and practice, a space that is much too small for him to fit, but she had rolled her eyes at the size of the small hatch and dropped in. Even her hips, the widest part of her, had slipped into the tiny square the length of about quarter of a meter by quarter of a meter. She’s really skinny. She had caught herself, a rigging at her waist and attached to the lip of the hatch, at two points for counter balance, and she swung and climbed about within the relatively deep engine space, crawling in some places. She went about in the engine space with ease and… Knowledge. Knowing of what she was looking for. Smart, knows her way about a ship.

Ben envies her, for a brief moment, before he pushes that dark laced thought with a deep breath through his nose, wincing at the sting of that the break has caused. That is not the Jedi way, he reminds himself, watching her carefully. The girl sighs, before she pushes herself out of the hatch, automatically he extends a hand to pull her out. The girl doesn’t take it, a strange, reluctant look in her bright eyes as she scrambles out by heaving herself out of the hatch. She is strong, heaving her body weight and heavy tools without so much as grunt.

Skittish, and part of Ben mourns that a girl so young would distrust someone so much. It was telling of a harsh life, almost as much as her thin cheeks.

“Do you want the good news or the bad news?” The girl, Rey asks, and she’s biting her lip.

He sighs.

“Bad news first.”

“You really messed up the engine. Melted key equipment. I think you over shot them when you broke the atmosphere, caused them to overheat and melt a few major components. I doubt that you can get this thing to ever fly again.”

Dread fills Ben. Fuck.

“Good?” he asks, tentatively, shoulders slumping.

The girl gives a shy smile. Bright, batha spit she has dimples. A sweet and shy smile that dims much too quickly.

“The communication relay isn’t shot. Just a few wires misaligned and a few twisted circuits. I can fix it.”

“Why haven’t you?” he asks, curious.

Rey shrugs.

“I have my scavenging equipment on me, but not what I need to fix this. Too heavy. We need to get to my speeder.”

“Okay,” something in his chest eases. He can communicate soon.

He isn’t going to die.

Rey smiles again, reaching out, not at his hands, but at his wrists. A nervous gesture that shows that the girl is all about reaching out by her own power, not the other way. The girl did not, however, know that the way he observed the Force was much more clear with touch. It was the reason he wore gloves no matter the heat, because sometimes he was overwhelmed by it. Sensitive, his mother had always crooned. He blinked, rapidly, at the… The sheer light that is this girl. She is a star- not the harsh sun beating across him earlier, but rather instead that of something that generously gives light, that gives life. The Force adores this girl, in a way he thought not possible by it. 

He breaths, dark eyes blinking rapidly.

“Coming?” 

He shakes his head, just slightly, to clear his head.

“Yes, of course.”  

Chapter Five:

The Jedi

Rey is vibrating with excitement. She tries to push it down, try to appear mature and in control- but the man walking next to her, hand on his lightsaber, is a Jedi. A Jedi has crashed, on all things, here on Jakku and Rey was the one to nearly smash his face in. Part of her feels really bad about that- but she is more excited about the fact that a Jedi is here on Jakku. He’s tall and pale, unlike her, with long dark hair and darker eyes. He has a strong face- big features and part of her wants to giggle at the sight of his ears when she passes a leather thong to keep his hair off of his neck. 

It’s cool night, refreshing after such a hot day, but the man, Ben Solo( something of that name pricks something in the back of her mind, distant, familiar, but she can’t quite place it ), barely seems to stand it. Lips cracked, eyes dry, more then likely not due to the desert heat at all, even as much as it had dropped with the loss of the sun. He is taking measured sips of a water canteen on his hip, large, and part of her is shaking her head at the blatant lack of sense in drinking what she assumes is a limited supplies. But she doesn’t comment nor offer up her own water in response. Number One Rule of Jakku, always keep your own supply of water yours.

They make it to her speeder without incident, the man licking his lips and squinting at her large, round thing that could take down most of the animals in the area with a single ram. She had built it that way on purpose, as well as faster then any lizard or anything else any of the other Scavengers could have. Number Two Rule of Jakku, be there first.

“Where did you get this thing?” he asked, voice quiet, not quite deep, but something about it grabbed your attention like no other.

“I built it,” she chirped, smiling proudly. It had taken her a better time of two years to scrape together the speeder, beating back Scavengers wanting to pick it clean for some extra rations.

“By yourself?” he sounds curious, absently observing it with a mild look of appreciation in his eyes.

Rey can only shrug absently, even as she feels her back straighten automatically in defense.

“Who else is there?”

Dark eyes look at her, and dark brows furrow.

“You alone, kid?”

She licks her lips, absently, looking away and climbing her speeder for her tools.

“So?”

“You can’t be more than eleven!”

Rey looks at him, at his dark eyes staring at her in disbelief.

“That doesn’t matter here on Jakku. And I’m thirteen. Now get on, let’s get  back to your ship.”

Chapter Six:

The Princess and the Master

When Chancellor Leia Organa got a flag for a call from Luke, she was not terribly concerned. She had accepted the conference call without hesitation, always happy to talk to her brother.

“Speak, Master Skywalker,” she said, raising her accent to be something of a crisp, one she used for the sake of the most old fashioned of diplomats, a formality she only employed in case Luke was not alone and because he was more then likely calling on official business.

Her face was formed into a polite, cool smile, serenity coming off of her. That serenity instantly disappeared on the look on Luke’s face, drawn tight, pale, eyes really red.

“Luke?”

“Leia...I-... Sit down.”

Leia never took to being coddled well. She was Chancellor Leia Organa, killer of Jaba the Hut, Heroine of the New Republic, she could still shoot a laser gun with precision, no matter the fact that she was nearing her late forties and had little need to shot one, and she had married a professional smuggler for the Force’s sake.

“Just tell me damn it!” she hissed, irate.

“It’s Ben. He was scheduled to return yesterday.”

Her heart just about stopped. But automatically, she reached, hands starting to tremble as she tried to focus on her connection to the Force, to Ben . Her hands stilled when she realized the connection was still there. Strong. True.

“He’s alive,” she said, without pause.

Luke nods.

“I know,” he says, warily, “I can feel him through our bond as well, but I thought it best to inform you regardless.”

Leia closes her eyes, briefly, before she breathes sharply through her nose.

“Well then,” she said, carefully, “Excuse me, Luke, I have a nerfherder to call.”

Faintly, a smile crossed his lips. And vaguely, Leia could see the blonde, blue-eyed boy who had so admentally wanted to rescue a princess in distress. She wondered, as she closed the call where all those years had gone.

And whether or not she should tell Mara that Luke needed to lay off of the sweet rolls.  

Chapter Seven:

I Know

Leia is the first to admit that her marriage to her husband is a bit unorthodox. He, being what he was and unable to change even after he had become so much more in the Rebellion, had always put a strain on their relationship, on her. But she loved him. It was not an easy love, but Leia had never been the type of girl nor woman to have an unrealistic, fantastical look on love. Life was not a song, nor was it a fairy tail. It was hard and full of compromises. And Han Solo was a hard man that lived on compromises, and while their life wasn’t idyllic, wasn’t perfect and they saw each other very rarely… It was theirs. He was her Balance - she was order and control, he the wild and freedom. It worked for them, it was theirs . Giving birth to Ben had only really cemented her love for her scoundrel of a husband. Despite his flaws, and her own.

It was theirs and that was all that mattered, to hell with everyone else.

“He’s… Missing?” his voice had not changed, no matter how much they had aged. Deep, confident thing with a constant edge of arrogance. He was pale, beneath his deep tan and he was absently picking at the scar on his chin. She hated when he did that- it was a sign of unease in her husband and her cocky nerfherder was rarely ill at ease.

“Yes. I feel him, through our bond-” she ignored the face that Han made, knowing that her husband never understood the Force nor was never comfortable with it, “So he isn’t dead. But you get your hide out of whatever your scheming and you bring him home.”

Chewy gave a confirmation growl, hand on Han’s shoulder in comfort. Her husband shook it off after a few seconds, gruff and macho idiot that he was.

“Alright. Keep your hair on,” he said, still picking at that stupid scar, “Coordinates?”

“Already sent to the Falcon, as well as his projected trip from the Outer Rim and breathable planets in the area,” she replied, calmly.

Thin lips twitched, cocky smirk on his face that still made her knees go weak no matter how much time had past.

“Thank you, princess.”

Warmth, true and deep. He still called her that, despite the fact that she had lost her planet, her status long ago in face of her place in the New Republic.

“Just bring him home… And be safe.”

Again, that smirk, just for her, tempered slightly, softer, wider, fuller.

“Will do.”

“I love you.”

Those eyes softened furthered and Chewy looked politely away.

“I know.”

Chapter Eight:

The Bad and the Good

“Do you want the bad news or the good news?” asked Rey, head tilting up.

Ben Solo shifted uneasily, inpatient and uneasy at the fact that he couldn’t do anything to help the girl.

“Bad news.”

“This ship’s communications was replaced with a less powerful one in order to save on energy- Direct Video conference across systems is not feasible.”

Ben forced himself not grimace.

“Good?”

“It’s working again. The furthest out you have is a couple light years, no where near anything out of the Outer Rim. So maybe a general S.O.S., on a constant loop? I mean, they would look for you, right?”

Unbidden, the paragons of youth, come to his mind… Even his father, with whom he had the most loose, dubiously distant relationship with would break systems for him if need be. He nearly misses the frightfully convinced look that comes to the girl’s young and horribly gaunt face.

“Yes. I will be looked for.”

The girl nods, face tight. Something is there. Something young and scared that is pushed down by her stubbornness.

“Then set the message, I’m going to work on stripping all other parts of the ship of their power.”

Ben licks lips.

“Strip the ship physically as well. It might be a few days before anyone thinks to check this frequency. You have to buy your food with bartering right?”

The girl nods, curtly, face still stiff. Something tightens at the thought of someone so young rationing her life, her thinness making something curl in sheer disgust in his stomach. But he doesn’t let it show on his face, because this girl does not want his pity. Cannot understand his sympathy. He simply follows behind, at her disposal. 

Chapter Nine:

A Story Untold

 Ben curls into the girl’s apparent home, after a grueling day helping her move bits of his ship she couldn't physically lift herself onto her homemade speeder, the remains of the still functioning communication relay is next to him, hauled into the old hull of the AT-AT the girl used as a home. It was… Slightly horrifying really, to see the remains of the Empire that his family had tried so hard to defeat. Especially as it is clearly something that the girl relishes the convenient shelter. He ignores the way she walks over to a wall, lined with thin scratches, uniform straight lines, a tally of some sort. She picks up a knife, before she adds another line with a slight huff. 

Her fingertips trace the lines, eyes green and brown mixed together, are distant and lost in something he can never name. Something about this little ritual makes something in his chest squeeze, unsettles him. For there was this young girl , someone who is waiting. He doesn’t know what, or for who, but knows it has to do with the fact that she is just thirteen or so and alone. She puts the knife down, making her way to a small compartment of the AT-AT, rifling through it.  

“Hungry?” she asks, carefully, turning towards him. She is lifting up to flat disks in cheap plastic , thin cheeks standing out to him.

He swallows the bile rising in his throat at the meager things he recognizes as dehydrated bread, the cheapest form of food, hardly nutritional, but could work in a bind. He has no doubt that this is her main source of nutrition. It was no wonder her cheeks were so sunken in.

“I have some rations still,” he mentions quietly, pointing his chin towards the few boxes of rations, “Help yourself, Rey.”

The girl hesitates, chewing at her lower lip, before she cautiously makes her way over, bread disks still in hand.

“Save your own.”

She stops stares at him with those eyes, pretty and wide, what should be innocent. But they aren’t. They’re a horrible mixture of old and terribly young at the same time. Even without touching he can feel the way the Force vibrates around her, around her thin form in her sudden influx of emotion.

“A trade,” she replies, voice hardening.

She is so stubborn!

His temper simmers. He wishes to give this to her, no, he needs to give this to her.

“Rey,” he nearly snarls, “The less we use your rations the better. They’re limited and come at a price. Just take from my ship’s rations!”

“I’ll get a few months worth from your ship tomorrow. So just think of it as an advance from that.”

She is so… loud. He senses the lie between them. It makes some part of him seethe, before he forces it down. His temper was his weakest aspect.

“Don’t lie to me. I can sense that,” he forces calm, bites fury of the unfairness of the galaxy and pity down like hot drink down to the pit of his stomach.

Green and brown eyes blink.

“Really?” her hard tone changes, softening in awe.

But Ben’s temper is still simmering, low and deep.

“Yes. Now get two meals from my rations. No more arguing.”

Her jaw sets, but she seems to shake herself, before going to his rations. They eat their meal in silence.

Chapter Ten:

A Dream

Ben woke to the sweltering heat. 

It came back with a vengeance, making his dark and heavy Jedi robes stick to his pale skin. The tie that had been used to push back his long, black hair had been lost sometime in the night, the stiff, sweat-filled strands jabbing him in his tender nose. He groans, annoyed and wishing for a fresher as he shucks his outer robe in a violent motion. He is surprised by the squeak he hears, and realizes in his haste, he had thrust his robe onto Rey, who had been sleeping, curled up below the hammock that she had insisted he uses as ‘she was used to hard surfaces’. He had only relented when he saw that the small bundle of blankets she had made as her bed looked more comfortable than the hammock and that the only space really big enough for his enormous frame was the hammock.

“Sorry,” he grunted, flushing as he looked down at her.

Green and brown eyes peeked at him and she pulled back his robes. She blinks, rapidly, looks up at him, plump mouth falling open.

“Oh. It’s okay. Good… Good Morning.”

She projected surprise and slight confusion. Did she forget?

“Morning,” he grumbled. He tried to smile. 

But he was not the best morning person without tea or caff, and due to the scarcity of water, he doubted he would get any of those anytime soon. So it was a more of a pained grimace.

“I thought you were a dream.”

Ben felt uncomfortable at her small voice, at the way she looked up at him. But at the same time, there was a certain smugness to the entire thing, at being so automatically seen as a hero.

“Well, you're the dream, sweetheart, I think I would be dead if it weren’t for you trying to steal my ship.”

Little Rey beams, chest puffing out, the smile so wide it shows how thin and emaciated her cheeks are. Ben himself fights a wince at how much he sounds like his father.

“Hungry?” she asks, curiously, untangling herself from both blankets and robe, scrambling towards the small kitchen area she had set up.

Her hair is a riot around her head, tangled and standing almost defiantly against gravity. She pays it no mind. And Ben pushes down the laughter that is threatening to pop out of his throat.

“A little.”

“I’ll make breakfast!”

Any reserve is fading away, he notes, and he wonders how lonely the kid is to be so ready to latch onto anyone that comes her way. It cements a nagging possibility he had had the second he had met the girl.

He wasn’t leaving going to leave Jakku alone. 

He was taking Rey with him.

Chapter Eleven:

Hungry

Rey tries not to drool as she prepares Jedi Ben's rations, the exotic scents of actual spice, things she can't name because she has never tasted, or because she was too young to remember the names. Her hands tremble as she reached for a fork, and trembles even harder when she brings the food to her mouth.

It’s too much.

It tastes too good. She can’t finish it, and Rey has always finished her portion of food. It settles strangely in her stomach… Makes it turn and she wants more but can't physically have more.

“Is it too much for you?” Jedi Ben’s voice is deep, and soft.

Rey looks up, her cheeks hot at the concerned way he was looking at her. She swallows another bit of food.

“Don’t force yourself. You might throw up if your body can’t handle the food.”

“...But it’s bad to waste food.”

Jedi Ben carefully put a hand on her hand, the one holding her fork. Squeezed.

“There’s plenty of food. It’s okay, Rey.”

Something trembled in her chest. 

"Okay."

Chapter Twelve:

Rescue Team

Fucking Jakku.  What is with my family getting stuck on backwater sand planets. Or backwater planets in general. First it was fucking Hoth with Luke and-

Chewy lets out a growl.

"No, I don't know why Ben is on that cesspool!" 

Han pressed angrily at the controls, quick and easy as breathing, annoyed as hell and worried. And even more annoyed because he was worried. 

All powerful jedi my ass. Play with your dumb space mumbo-jumbo all ya want but you always end up in the most damned places -

Another growl.

"He's fine! Look, he managed to send out a message."

Chewy gave a snort and a dismissive howl.

"What?! Ben could totally do that! That kid learned from the best."

Chewy dared laugh. Han scowled.

"Laugh it up, Furball! I'm a good teacher! The greatest!"

Chewy only laughed harder.

Chapter Thirteen:

  The Market

It was a backwater, shit planet in the outer rim. With people surviving on scraps and forced labor and always on the brink of starvation. 

That was what Ben thought as he trailed behind little Rey. She was bouncing. Skipping nearly. Her heavy staff across her shoulders. But she walked proud, despite the fact that she was starving. She was just so happy for the prospect of food and someone to be with her . It sickened him, and made his anger simmer just beneath his skin. He forced himself to breath and to tampar down his rage.

Rage was always the most difficult emotion to grasp. To temper…

His rage shimmered to nothing at the familiar sounds of an engine. And Ben laughed at the quickness that which everyone in the market scattered at the arrival of his father's infamous junk ship.

Towns people scattered, and it was only Ben reaching forward to grasp Rey's shoulder that kept her from bolting.

"That's our rescue team!"

She looked at him, eyes wide.

"HEY KID!

Ben sighed. And winced at how it smarted his healing nose in the dry desert air.

Chapter Fourteen:

Hero

Rey was still tense, noted Ben, as his father and Chewy made their way down the ramp.

Still and ready to bolt. But she stuck stubbornly next to him. Knuckle white grip on her heavy staff.

"Hey, dad," he said moursely.

"What the hell is wrong with your nose?"

Rey twitched.

"You gave it to me."

Chewy gave a gruff huff of laughter. His father scowled.

"I didn't give it to you like that. "

A tug at his sleeve, trembling fingertips touching at his wrist sent a jolt of awareness.

"... I didn't mean to break it, I'm sorry," heartbreakingly timid, emotions pulsed.

Fear. Embarrassment. Fear.

Ben swallowed. Flipped his hand to grip hers. Felt sad at the loss of the connection, but relished the hold of her small hand in his own.

"You did mean to break it, and I'm glad you could. Besides, who would've saved my life out there if you hadn't broken my nose?"

A tiny smile. Hazel eyes went from dark to a start of a shine. Ben Solo went for the killing blow.

"You're my hero kid, broken nose or not."

A tiny smile turned blinding. Ben felt her pride and happiness breath across his very skin. His soul.

Chapter Fifthteen:

Echo

Han Solo stared at his son.

He was a grown man. Where had my sulky little boy gone? Already a Jedi Knight, just like his uncle, just like his mother was despite her disinclination towards it. Standing there with a mop of hair that suited him.

Standing tall and calm.

Able to hold the hand of a starving little girl without a flinch. Without a worry of-

"You look," good, "Like hell kid."

Han grinned. Ben rolled his eyes. And there was his sullen son. Hidden beneath the man, beneath this knight of a mystical nonsense that his wife and brother-in-law were stuck in. He looked at the girl still holding onto his son. And he is struck by her. Because it was a strange mirror to what he had been, once upon a time.

Hunger and wariness.

Distrust and readiness.

And that fact that she looked half starved was an echo of a boy without a name. Of a girl who had done anything to never starve again.. He stared. Girl, was scared. He knew that from being just like her, but she stared back without flinching. Without shying away even as he stared her down. Chin lifted up, hazel eyes looking at him.

Han liked her.

Instantly, without much thought of it.

"So Kid, who's your friend?"

Another little jut of a chin. Shining hazel eyes.

"My name is Rey, " answered the girl. Her voice was an echo of Leia's "princess voice".

Han felt his smile grow wider.

Chapter Fifteen:

Kidnapping

“Right,” said his father, voice firm, rough and roguish, “Do you need to go get your stuff anywhere?”

Ben snorts. And holds back a swear on how much that stings. Because he has a thirteen year-old-girl clinging onto his hand and that would be a bad example.

Especially because he is damn sure he’s gonna get her as a padawan.

More like beg and bribe Uncle Luke until she is my padawan. 

“Got everything important, as far as I know.”

He turns to Rey of Jakku.

“What about you, sweetheart? Anything you want back at your AT-AT before we go?”

He expects, and feels as she tenses. As she also jumps about five feet in the air in response. Let’s go of his hand. Wide hazel eyes.

“I- What?” she blurts, and her eyes go even wider.

It breaks his heart to see that it is disbelief that is in her eyes. Ben swallows thickly. And carefully drops his hulking frame to his knees so he was in the eye-level of the waifish girl. Tries not to let his anger get the best of him when she flinches at the action.

“Rey, I want you to come with us.”

A trembling lip. Bright eyes and still more disbelief in her face.

“I- I’m waiting for-” a furrowed brow, something crosses her eyes, “I’m waiting for my family.”

He tries not to say that she’s been abandoned. But the mounting evidence of her young age and the sheer amount of ticks she has lining the home she has made for herself in the outreaches of the little town. He reaches out a single hand.

“I know. But I want you to come with us anyway. Because- Because I know you’ll be safe with us. And, when it comes down to it, we’ll try to find your family.”

Chapter Sixteen:

Letting Go

Rey wants to follow Jedi Ben with a certainty that scares her.

She knows she should stay. She has waited for so long-

“Come on, kid,” says Jedi Ben, hand still outstretched.

His eyes, brown and deep, and are steady. She swallows thickly.

She wants her family.

Wants them with something deep and hungry that she does not think will ever go away until she sees them again. But Jedi Ben is here . 

Rey takes Ben Solo’s hand.

Chapter Seventeen:

“Could I get things from my AT-AT?” she asks, and her eyes flicker to him.

Han tries not to coo. Its a strange combination of his own persona and the fact that Chewy would never let him live it down that makes him stop himself. The girl reminds him of himself at that age.

Nicer.

Definitely more polite. 

But it was hard not to see an abandoned child and not remember his own early life.

“Sure, sweetheart,” he tells her, easily.

She shifts.

Squints at him.

“Why’d you break my son’s nose again?”

She blushes all the way to the roots of her hair. And Han tries very hard not to find it all sorts of adorable.

Chapter Eighteen:

Chapter Nineteen:

Chapter Twenty:  

Chapter Text

Summary: Rose Tyler knew there wasn’t something quite right with Susan Forman, but well, there wasn’t something quite right with her, either. A liberal mixing of classic Who and elements of the revival.

Characters: First Doctor, Rose Tyler, Bad Wolf, Susan Foreman, Captain Jack Harkness,

Barbra Wright, Ian Chesterson, 

Pairings: Doctor/Rose Tyler, Barbra Wright/Ian Chesterson

An Unearthly Child I:

 Rose

Rose Tyler watched with amusement as Susan Foreman, constant regular to the dinner where she worked, hid by the jukebox. She rushed inside, not even glancing her way, and dropped on all fours to make her way to the machine. Squeezed herself into the space right next to it and the long counter, bringing in her thin legs to make herself as small as possible, ducking her head. She spied a trio of girls, posh by the looks of things, expensive-looking shoes, and dress, nar a bookbag in sight despite the fact that school had just been let out. The petite girl was not all that good at hiding, Rose found, knowing if any of the girls would bother to step in the dinner, she would be spotted.

“Susan,” she whispered and smiled knowingly as the girl’s head whipped up, dark eyes wide.

Rose opened the little door leading behind the counter, and the girl scrambled behind it, dragging her large bag behind her.

“Hide in the kitchen, for now, sweetheart,” she said under her breath, even as she internally winced about how much she sounded like her mother, “Jack won’t breathe a word.”

God, I miss her.

Susan bolted to the kitchen, tossing a grateful smile her way. The door hadn't even shut by the time one of the posh girls entered the dinner, a frown on her face as she looked about. She spotted Rose, standing as calm as can be behind the counter, whipping it down with a rag. She sauntered up, her hips swaying something fierce. Rose admired the cut of her dress and the voluminous nature of her perfectly styled black hair. Even being the daughter of a hairdresser had made it hard to imitate the looks she saw on magazines, not for a lack of trying, mind. It had taken her a lot of trial and error, and lot’s of hairspray to get her own dark blonde hair into something seen as normal. She thought she looked pretty fab, but the girl had it perfect at what looked like fifteen.

“Have you seen a girl my age?” her voice was prime, direct, “Short, dark hair? Wearing some drab blue dress?”

Rose gave her best customer service smile. Even as part of her rolled her eyes at the girl’s description.

“Sorry miss,” she replied, laying her accent thick, even as she let the rag go, hand coming up to fiddle with her large hoops, “Can’t say ‘ve had. School’s just ended, right? No one’s come this way. Would know- waiting for the evenin’ rush and all.”

The girl’s nose wrinkled.

Her foundation had been laid down a little thickly and was the wrong color, and it was made evident in the way lines appeared ‘round her little nose and showed the much paler, cooler color underneath. Tanning is starting to be all the rage. The girl sniffed, her hair still and stiff as Rose’s own, but her large plastic earrings dangled massively in the movement as she shook her head.

“Right, well, thank you anyway,” she drawled, not sounding quite thankful at all.

She stormed off, muttering under her breath, and Rose was amused that she said something about anyone being hired somewhere decent and something about proper speech. Some things never change. She left with her friends, and Rose watched until she was around the corner.

“That’s not nice,” said Susan, appearing with perfect timing at Rose's elbow, she was frowning, her brow crumpled, “I think the way you speak is utterly charming.”

Rose laughed. Susan was so refreshingly sweet, and an honest girl.

“Suppose it may seem that way, Susan, but some parts of London are seen as better. Don’ worry about it. Been hearing stuff like tha’ all my life.”

Susan surprised her by scowling, hand clinging to the strap of her bag. She was a sweet girl, really. She wasn’t reserved or really shy, and not really the type to cower despite her ducking inside to avoid the girls. She just found confrontation to be ridiculous. She was smart- genius smart, Rose reckoned, and those three girls felt insecure about that. They had a habit of lobbying things at Susan during class, and it seemed it was escalating because of Susan’s non-responsive. Rose wished she had her confidence at her age. No, fifteen-year-old me was all false bravado, and stars in my eyes, ready to take the music world by storm, and what did I get?

“It’s just- It’s just ridiculous. You are one of the kindest people I have ever met!”

“Thanks, sweetheart. Now, do you need to go home?”

The girl hesitated, fidgeting slightly.

“I should go,” she said reluctantly.

Rose smiled.

“ ‘Ve got a spot of tea and some biscuits with you’re name on them, and they’ve just added a new vinyl to the jukebox.”

Susan beamed.

“Oh, well, Grandfather would understand?” she said, tentatively.

Rose winked.

“Play on Miss Foreman, I’ll put the kettle on.”

Susan dropped her bag behind the counter, even as she slammed expertly at the jukebox. Lesley Gore’s version of ‘ It’s my Party ’ began to play. It had been that had caught Rose’s attention the first time she had seen Susan Foreman, the way she had taken one look at the machine and tapped it just so to play a song for free. How she managed to figure out how to do it, Rose had no idea. But she had asked the girl for her trick, and now she often found herself smacking the machine to sing songs as she worked her shift. She went to the kitchen, gave the cook, Jack a fond smile, when she spotted the kettle already on the stove, with one of the plastic trays for food set with her and Susan’s favorite biscuits, and all of the tea things she kept in the dinner’s office. 

“All set, dollface,” said Jack, his American accent clear and full of swagger, “I’ll give you a shout when it’s boiled.”

Rose gave him a smile. He was a sweet bloke, ‘round his mid-forties, if ridiculously well preserved, and he owned the Harkness Dinner, and he had been kind enough to hire her on the spot while she tried for her degree at the London Uni, literature. Mum would be so proud. He had apparently been ‘round for the second World War and had decided he liked England more then America. He was a vicious flirt, and undeniably one of the kindest bosses she had ever had. It didn’t help that he was horrendously fit despite his age, with one of the best bums Rose had ever seen. She gave him a passing kiss on the cheek.

“Thanks, Jack,” she said and remembered fondly when he had laughed in her face when she had called him ‘Mr. Harkness.’

“It’s Captain, actually, Rosie, but Jack will do just fine from you.”

“Anything for my best girl.”

She laughed fondly, even as she brought the tray out to Susan. He always called her that, his girl, and he always filtered outrageously. Strangely, it never seemed sleazy nor overzealous, nor truly interested. And while some part of Rose felt she should be annoyed, Captain Jack Harkness always put her at ease. Ever since she had met him near two years ago, when she had been getting her ready for Uni.

Susan was at the counter, spinning in one of the spinning barstools, bobbing her head in tune with the song. Rose felt her lips lift into a smile. Putting the trey in front of the girl, Rose started to follow along with the song. Susan beamed and started to sing as well. Her voice was sweet, a little raspy, but well enough in tune. Rose sang with the girl gleefully. Rare that it was for her to sing. Wanting to sing had cost her so much…

But it was easier now.

Hard not to sing when it was still so… Fun .

“You sing so beautifully, Rose,” said Susan, as the song trilled off to something else. Rose gave a careful shrug.

“‘Suppose. Used to want to be a singer, me,” she said, easily, as she reached for a homemade biscuit. 

Jack’s snickerdoodles were to die for. She took a luxurious bite. Perfection.

“But I thought you were a literature student?”

“I am. Love books. Books are pretty much-” Constat, unchanging, well, mostly, “My life now. I almost gave up Uni to run off with a band, but, well, ended up not working out.”

More like ruined my bloody life. Rose tried not to think a lot of Jimmy Stone, and his band, or their shitty choice in meet-up spots, but every once in a while the thought of them brought her both anger and sadness. Anger, for what they had made her life, for taking this starry-eyed girl of fifteen and dragging her away from her mum’s home. Sadness, because she remembered finding Jimmy’s guitar case that night, knowing with dead certainty that Jimmy and the ‘The Bad Wolf Experience’ had been caught up just like her. She had tried to track them down, but the best she could find was a couple of mentions in newspapers. Nothing concrete, and most guest work that she could have projected to be them. Jimmy had been a mistake, she knows, but everyone else in the band had been kind. And no one had deserved that.

“What made you go to books?”

“Well, you do know I was a ward of the state, right? My mum went missing when I was fifteen. Got caught wandering around on the streets for a while. When I was taken into protective custody, there was a book in the waiting room. Same book that my mum had last been reading. A Christmas Carol. Funny didn’t much like reading, but that book- that book being the same as what my mum had made me cry like a baby. Because at that moment, mum could be reading the same book, and it would be the same. Been hooked ever since.”

Rose sighed slightly as Susan looked besotted.

“I'm awfully sorry. Has there been any news of her?”  

Rose fiddled with her hoop. An old nervous tick that she had yet to break.

"No," She said simply.

Susan's sweet face crumpled. It wasn't a lie. But it wasn't the whole truth either, and Rose felt a touch of guilt. 

You’d think I'd be used to this.

“Nothing at all?”

“Nothing at all… It’s ‘right. I’ve got my school, got my job here at the dinner. Not a bad life.”

And it wasn’t. It might’ve been worse if she had managed to run away with Jimmy Stone in the first place.

“I hope you find her,” said Susan, sadly.

Rose hummed.

“I will,” she said back confidently.

Because she would.

Was only a matter of time before she found Jackie Tyler again. And Rose had learned wisdom and patience, if anything, throughout her experience. When two more customers entered, Rose attended to the man and woman with a cherry, practiced smile.

An Unearthly Child II:

Junk-Yard

The girl known as Susan Foreman felt odd being brought ‘home’ by her curious human friend. My only friend. But Rose Tyler, the pretty human girl, had insisted. Because the world was dangerous for a girl alone, and the story of the girl’s mother disappearing made Susan feel very sure that Rose felt keenly responsible for her safety. And after a few feeble protests, Susan found her walking side by side with Rose on the way back to where the TARDIS was parked.

She felt odd, honestly.

She was older than Rose by nearly half of a century, but she certainly didn't feel it when she spoke to her. She was only human, nearly nineteen, but she didn't feel like that to Susan. She felt- Well, Older . Perhaps it was her own budding adolescence that led her to feel this for the young human. Rose walked with a careful grace, and Susan quietly admired how she walked with her short white leather boots, in a Victorian style, if Susan wasn't mistaken. Rose was dressed in a fetching pink dress that matched the current era, a simple tent with soft abstract patterns in white, mini-skirt length that showed off her long legs, with a beautiful, vintage-looking purse that hit her side as she walked. It looked Victorian too, at least to Susan. The late 1860s, if she were to guess the period. It was a heavily beaded belt purse, embroidered with golden roses that gleamed in dim street lights. It had much longer straps, however, allowing Rose to sling it across her body. Susan had never seen her out of her dinner uniform, and she realized that Rose was stylish as she was kind. Fashionable, with a unique twist. 

She stared at her purse with admiration.

"Friend made it," she said conversationally, patting at the shimmering material fondly.

"It's beautiful, " said Susan, "Is it made of silk?"

"Something similar, I 'suppose. Couldn't ask. It was just sent to me in the mail. "

"Bad Wolf," read Susan, realizing it was embossed in swirling cursive, along with the metal clasp, "What they put that for?"

" 'S my nickname. That's why I knew it was made by a friend. And why it was safe. Hardly anyone knows me by that. Only the right sort."

Rose smiled wistfully.

"Bad Wolf? That's a touch odd."

"Why's that?"

Susan blushed.

"Doesn't really fit you. You aren't bad."

Rose laughed. Golden eyes gleaming. Susan never knew humans could get such a pretty color.

"Not about that. It's about a girl getting her own teeth and claws without the need of a woodsman. In some interpretations, Red Riding Hood is the Wolf all along, My nickname came from that."

Susan blinked.

"Well, that's wonderful, then."

Rose smiled. And her tongue poked between her teeth.

"Yeah, it is."

They walked. Calmly. Silently. The only sound is Rose’s boots heels. The steady click against the stones.

"Susan?"

"Yes?"

"Sweetheart, why are we heading for a scrapyard?”

Susan faltered a step. Blinked rapidly. She was really pants at lying- And she didn’t want to lie to her human friend either. She felt her two hearts beat in near double time.

“Rose, I-”

"Susan!"

She winced as her grandfather stormed past the scrapyard gates. And felt completely touched when Rose Tyler immediately stood in front of her hands extended in defense. Her jaw set, her golden eyes gleaming.

“Right, tell me this is your grandfather, Susan?” asked Rose, voice growing a touch hard.

“Yes, Rose this is my grandfather.”

Rose’s tense posture relaxes. Her face shifts. And a smile blooms.

“Oh, good. Hello there, I’m Rose Tyler! I just wanted to make sure your granddaughter made it home safe,” She extended a hand out for a grandfather to shake, even as she side-stepped again to be next to Susan.

Her grandfather pursed his lips.

“Head inside, Susan.”

Susan frowned at his brisk tone. But braving herself, gave Rose a quick hug with her arm.

“Thank you, Rose. Have a lovely night!”

Rose kept her smile as Susan raced past the junkyard gates.

“Right, young lady,” said her Grandfather, briskly, lips importantly pursed.

Rose felt the odd urge to giggle. Because she really wasn’t.

“Mr. Foreman?”

“My name is the Doctor,” replied the man, irritable.

Rose gave a slow blink. Just the Doctor? She tilted her head to the side.

“Doctor? I apologize. I made an assumption. Tell me, Doctor, then, why is it that you and your granddaughter live in a junkyard?”

“I-”

“That’s something I’d like to know as well!” called out a female voice, flustered, a young woman emerged from the dark fog like a specter.

Rose shivered, even as she moved slightly in front of the Doctor. If she hadn’t been aware of them following behind her and Susan, she would have probably surged forward. Since they didn’t seem to be hostile other than following a teenage girl in the dark, she was giving them the benefit of the doubt. Her whole body was tense, however, and she felt her heartbeat pick up. Another figure, taller, male, stepped right on the woman’s heels. I wondered when they would come out. 

“Maybe you can explain why your chasin’ after me and Susan in the dark instead, yeah?” she responded back, eyes narrowed, “You’ve been followin’ us.”

“You- They follow my granddaughter!”

“ ‘S why I walked her home. These two were behind her in the Harkness Dinner and kept lookin’ over. When I noticed they were set to follow her, ‘M made sure she wouldn’ be alone, yeah?”

"Very good of you, young lady, now, why indeed have you lot been following behind me granddaughter, hmm?" he demanded, sharply.

The young woman blushed. The young man stepped forward with a slight noise, clearing his throat.

"My name is Ian Chesterton, this is Barabra Wright, we're Susan's teachers."

“Funny, never had any of my teachers follow me home,” said Rose, crossing her arms.

“Well,” Ian sniffed, “We were just concerned because-”

“The address is very strange. I meant to discuss some things with Susan’s guardian, ah, are you, her grandfather?” asked Barabra.

The thought of sweet Gwen, first to call her properly the Bad Wolf. The dazed look that had taken over her friend’s eyes had been acute, the fear almost more so. But than it had relaxed into a look of surprise, slowly morphing to one of utter awe at the strange girl knicking things from Mr. Sneed’s pantry.

God, I miss Gwynth.

“This is not the path you should take. We have given. You cannot only take,” she said, softly, her eyes gleaming.

She stepped forward, body vibrating.

The Doctor’s eyes were wide as saucers. Susan gasped.

Ian reached for her arm-

“ I am the Bad Wolf, ” she crooned.

Rose Tyler felt parts of herself unravel. She felt cosmic dust at her lips, spill easily. Rose felt wind about her face, felt her eyes start to shine. The man and woman of the cave flinched. Barbara gasped.

“ Let us go ,” she told them, “ Make you’re own fire. Keep your bonds and try not to kill anyone if you can manage. That’s not nice. ”

“Right, feel like I should clarify a few bits. My name ‘s Rose Tyler, I was born in the year 1986, and when I was fifteen I decided to run away from home to join a band. Didn’t right expect to be touched by something called a Weeping Angel, and be shoved off to the year 1865 in Cardiff of all places,” she grinned, “Needless to say, you could say that I went through a ‘couple o’ things. Got mixed up with something like a Cosmic Rift and- well. I got changed up ‘cause of it. Hence all the glowy mess.”

Ian and Baraba gaped at her. Susan’s eyes were wide.

“Your net purse! Your boots- They not only period-accurate, but they’re also historical!”

Rose grinned.

“I’m trying to keep my clothes as good as can be. Most of my Victorian stuff was given to me by Gwythn Miller, er well, Gwynth Cooper by the time she married the butcher Thomas. They were right sweethearts. Miss them to bits. They died during the Great Depression, old as can be. Within days of each other. Hurt my heart to pieces to see her go, especially. She was my best mate.”

“You- That’s-”

“You look so young,” said Barabra, softly, her brows furrowed, “You mean to tell me your what, over a hundred years old?”

Rose blinked. Shrugged helplessly.

“ ‘Round that, I’d guess. Closer to like, A hundred and fifteen, I think? It… It sort of blends together. Much as I’d figured, I stoped ageing when I was ‘bout nineteen. That’s when the rift stuff happened, met Charles Dickens!” 

The Doctor sputtered.

“You did?!”

“Good ol’ Charlie boy. Sweet as can be. Poor thing died not a few months later. He was kind enough to give me and Gwynth a nice little inheritance so we could stop being maids to nasty Sneed. She was there when the Rift stuff happened too. She also took in this ‘wild’ half naked girl from the year 2000 right in stride. Helped a lot that she was physic enough to see what had happened and didn’t think I was ravin’.”

“Weeping Angels. The gentle assians,” said the Doctor, voice soft, “They eat potential timelines.”

“And all their victims die of old age before their time. Or least, most of them do. Most of my band mates were sent back even further then I was. Least, as much as I can research. Can’t be sure.”

“How… How have you lived?” asked Susan, worried little Susan with wide dark eyes.

Rose smiled to her.

“I can make myself look younger if need be by make-up and shorter hair, and binding back my breast, ‘cause its easier to stay in one place when they think I’m young. Most I’ve stayed in the same place after Gwynth died has been ‘bout five years. Been traveling around for the most part otherwise. Figured I might as well see my planet before I see my mum again. Came back after the Second Great War from America, and have been going up and down England since. I got caught a few years back, figured it be a good time as any to just… You know, get a degree. For my mum. Would make her proud,” Rose sighed, “Doesn’t help that things are being more formal now a days, better records and stuff like that after the Second World War. Once computers become a thing again, I’m totally screwed when it comes to offical stuff. Gonna be hard to get a passport and shit like that legally. But, I’d figured I be able to just slip back into my life back in 2000s, maybe come in 2005, so looking like a 19 year-old won’t freak my mum out. I thought it be good as bet as any.” 

Chapter Text

Summary:  The aftermath of Until Dawn.

Sam was picking at what was left of her manicure. Rapidly, she was chipping away at it with the opposite hand, foot-tapping rapidly. Every noise made her jump. Every little flash of light seemed to be their eyes looming from the darkness, reflecting back. She tried to calm down. Tried to trigger her breathing that yoga classes had given her- all she doing is breathing rapidly, shivering underneath the blanket that the Rangers had given her. But it wouldn’t go away, that cold, set so deeply in her bones that she wondered if she would ever be warm again. Her teeth were chattering hard, and even as she chipped away the baby blue and white polish, her fingertips chapped and red and cracked, trembled.

Fuck, I’m cold.

“Miss, um, Giddings?” its one of the rangers, young, and Sam notes that he is only a few years older then her, with a small scar on his eyebrow, “Are you alright?”

She flinches at his voice, but nods. She bites her lips, chipping away at the snowflake that her manicurist had painfully drawn on her thumb. She tries not to think how much she would freakout at the state of her nails. Annie was always a stickler for nail care- it was just how her step-mother was. But she couldn’t really do anything else.

“Yeah,” she says, her voice is hoarse, so she swallows quickly in an attempt to clear it, “Yes, I’m fine.”

She’s lying. She knows it, because she does not feel any remotely okay. But she just needs to say something, anything. She can’t say what she’s really feeling- She doesn’t know what to say. How does anyone say anything?

“Um, ma’am, since you and your friends traveled so far out, we have to take you down to the station until further notice if you’re cleared from the hospital.”

She licks her lips, nods. Minor burns. Not severe, bruises and even scratched. She was the one with the least injuries, the least physical marks.

“Can I call my parents?” she asks. Her voice is small, like a kid, scared and uneven.

The young Ranger, Tomas, she notes from his name tag, shakes his head, ruefully.

“ ‘Fraid not, ma’am,” its so surreal to be called a ma’am, makes her start,“The storm is preventing calls with phones. Just raidio working. Now, follow me.”

She nods, follows, shivering again. He eyes her from the corner of his eyes and smiles sympathetically.

“Cold?”

She nods again. The man takes off his jacket, a thick insulated thing and draps it over her own jacket, taking the blanket away for a fraction of a second as she puts her hands through his large jacket. Carefully, giving her a smile he places the blanket over her again, a comforting… Human gesture.

“Sam!” it’s Mike, rushing over, another Ranger and nurse at his heels.

Some tension that she hadn’t know was in her relaxes. She gasps at the sight of him.

“Mike,” she says, and she moves forward. She doesn’t touch him- she just needs to be closer.

He seems to have the same thought, coming over to hover over her. She tries to ignore his hand or the myriad of bruises on his face. It’s okay though, because even though she’s not as bad off as Mike she knows that she isn’t actually much better either. She reaches out, hand on his arm. His muscles are tense, but relax slightly underneath her arm. She relaxes further. All she wants to do is collapse into his arms, but she can’t really find it in her to do it quite yet.

“Did… Did you get hurt?”

“Scraps and bruises… Some burns and the like from the explosion.”

She tries to ignore the fact that she’s still shivering, even inside the warmth of the hospital. Even with the blanket and the young ranger’s jacket.

“Broken ribs, burns, cut and… My hand. We might be able to save my fingers...”

“You kept them?”

“I… Just couldn’t leave them behind to let the be…Gnawed on.”

She nods, understanding without having to finish his sentence. She doesn’t know what to say anyway. They don’t know what to say. The truth? A convenient lie? She wants to say the truth, but even after the last twenty-four hours she isn’t sure if the truth was the truth. She remembers, when she was five, before her mother had died, that she had come into her bedroom after hearing her crying. About a monster under her bed. The woman had climbed into her tiny bed, held her close and whispered, “ Monsters aren’t real, honey. ” But she knows the truth.

Monsters are real.

And Hannah had turned into one.

“That was smart,” she says.

“Packed them in snow,” he says, and his hand, the one with all of his fingers, comes over to settle over her’s.

“Shouldn’t you get them reattached?”

“She’s right Mister Monroe,” and its the nurse, sounding stern and firm.

“I just had to see everyone first,” he responds, before he nods to her and squeezes her hand.

“Everyone else?”

“Josh is sedated,” deep anger there, his voice hardening and disgusted, “Chris has a concusion from the expolsion and Amy has a couple burns… Emily has a broken arm and Mike needs some stitches… Jess… Jess is at risk of infection from the cuts on her face.”

His voice breaks, his eyes misty. Sam swallows, and its her turn to squeeze his hand.

“Go get your fingers back.”

They part reluctantly. They’re aren’t on the Mountain anymore- All of them are alive. Even poor Josh, who last she saw was still babbling. But it's hard not wanting to stay together. To have something hard and ready to attack in their hands. But they do go their separate ways, the young ranger escorting her to the station. She gets a cot in someone’s office, the only one of the nine of them well enough to leave the hospital.

She’s on all sorts of antibiotics and painkillers, full of crisp white bandages that make her feel like a mummy… She’s exhausted. But she can’t sleep. Even with the drugs. She just stares at the ceiling, Hannah’s howls in her ears.

Everyone was alive.

But Hannah was dead now, having turned into a monster out of desperation. She remembers the day she had met the twins, fourth-grade. New in town and suffering the loss of her mother.

Brave Beth reaching out and sweet Hannah right behind her.

Sam is crying.

She knows she is.

Chapter Text

TAGS:

Hermione Granger/Viktor Krum, AU, Veela Lore, World Building

It’s her hair that he sees first.

As a Seeker, Viktor Krum has the most excellent vision. You have to, to be able to see something as minscule as the golden snitch with as many distractions as a professional Quidditch match can have. Well, to be completely fair, he doesn't completely see her at first. And the match technically didn't start when he makes an ass out of himself.

He's a professional.

It's the glint from the top box that distracts him first. Who on Earth decided to make that thing gold its keeps getting my damned attention. It's the hint of brown, in the golden box, that further grabs his attention. A mass riot of brown, curls, he realizes with a faint blink, that belong to a witch sitting in the front row, amongst a sea of  redheads, and next to a black haired boy.

Without his mean, at the sight of those curls, before the match can even begin, he's mounting his broom and flying towards the box. He does not hear the calls of his teammates. He does not hear the curious mummer of the crowd. He stops, his thighs skimming the edge of the golden box, right in front of her.

Viktor feels as if he's been hit by a bludger.

The curls belong to a girl.

She's a pretty thing.

Not gorgeous. But pretty. With a sweet heart-shaped face, large brown eyes that are wide and clear, skin smooth and soft brown, and a cluster of freckles across her small nose. She does not wear robes. She is in a soft green jumper and dark jeans, supporting the Irish, he has no doubt. She's young, how young he cannot say, but she's pretty and Viktor feels as if his heart is about to explode.

 She blinks, in surprise, her mouth falling open with a slight adorable noise. It sounds like a squeaking kitten.

"Erm, hello?" Her voice is prim, as she speaks English, and Viktor feels his stomach plummet.

He is terrible at English. He can more or less understand it, but his accent is thick and clumsy. Not an auspicious way to meet a pretty girl. He swallows, nervously.

" 'allo," he winces at how rough his voice sounds.

The pretty witch's brows furrow. She gives a faint smile, however, and Viktor feels a flush of heat to his face at the sight.

"Did…. Did you need something? You're minster perhaps?" Her eyes flicker to his Bulgarian uniform.

Smart… She is observant.

Viktor shakes his head.

" 'air," he responds, oh so stupidly, "I spotted yer 'air from the changing rooms."

The girl blinks self-consciously and reaches up to press her hand against the mass of curls that go beyond her shoulders. She flushes.

"What's wrong with her hair?" says the boy next to her, the black-haired boy. He is as young as her, with striking green eyes and he is frowning at Viktor. 

The red-headed boy next to him elbows him. Hard. 

"Oi mate, that's Viktor Krum," hisses the red headed boy. He flashes Viktor a nervous smile.

"I don't care if he's Merlin. What's he on about her hair?" Hissed the boy back.

The pretty witch reaches out a hand and places it on the black-haired boy’s upper arm. Viktor feels his gaze locked onto the casual touch. Something in his stomach falls and boils at the sight.

"I'm sure you don't mean anything bad," said the witch, diplomatically, but that furrowed brow and the pretty flush in her cheeks is telling him he's insulted her.

"It's just very visible," he told her.

What the hell is wrong with me.

The black-haired boy bristled again. Even the redhead boy looked offended.

"Oi," calls another redhead, older about Viktor's age, next to him yet another redhead, looks identical, identically murderous, "Leave her alone!"

What am I even doing? I should go back down and wait for the match to begin.

Viktor doesn't move.

“Erm, thank you?” she said, very kindly, thought Viktor.

He stares at her, and the silence feels heavy and awkward. He watches as a man in a beater’s uniform that doesn’t quite fit look at them, eyes sparkling. A wand in his hand, it looks like he might be the announcer in this match. What had Alexi said his name was? Bagman? Viktor scowled, willing him to stay away.  He turned back to the pretty witch, still scowling.

“I-” say something clever, Viktor , he thought furiously, “I will catch the golden snitch! For you!”

The pretty witch blinked, mouth falling slightly open. 

Feeling as red as his Drumstrang robes, Viktor turned his broom and flew as fast as he could back to the changing rooms. His vela cousins there to represent Bulgaria at his request, and his teammates, stood waiting for him, all various expressions of annoyed, confused, and furious. Viktor marched, squarely, shoulders hunched to retrieve the last bit of his equipment from his bags.

“ Viktor, ” called his cousin, Mila, voice sweet, her blue eyes flashed dangerously, “ What in the name of Grandfather Ivan was that? ”

Viktor shrugged.

“ Baba Marta! VIKTOR! ” scowled, Mila, stomping her foot.

Viktor hunched his shoulders further.

“ She is so pretty. ”

Another cousin, Anna, coos.

“ Is our baby fletching preening for a lady? ”

Viktor felt his face flush.

“ It is not his place too preen for a girl. She must preen for him! ”

" She's a witch. They do not preen," was his mumbled reply, " I would preen for her-"

His cousins stare. And they start laughing.

Viktor feels himself flush, a heat all across his face.

“ That is not how that works, Viktor. ”

Chapter Text

TAGS: Aiko Is So Done, PTSD, Trauma, With Capital T, Everyone Has it, Seriously, Mature, ‘Cause Naruto Verse, Gore, Violence, Always A Girl Sasuke, Female Sasuke!, Massive Amounts of Swearing, Mostly Aiko’s Inner Monologue, Shisui is a Choas Gremlin, Uchiha Family Drama, Mikoto Is Goddess, Futugato Needs A Chill Pill, Itachi Is A Teddy Bear, But A Murder Teddy Bear, CLAN ELDERS SUX,  Kakashi Get’s Dragged In Early, He is an Honorary Uchiha, Aiko has declared it so, Naruto Is Ball of Sunshine, Also Honorary Uchiha, Or Aiko Therapy-No-Justu Everyone She Can Get Her Hands On, Or Aiko Decides To Cute Her Way to Sanity, It’s Not Quite Working, Obito needs a punch to the face, he gets cuddles instead, Zestu? More like Plant Mulch, Screw the Moon, Danzo Needs to Die, Aiko has no Duck-Butt Hair, Mouten User Sasuke, Cause Srew it, Aiko talks to the trees, Their saner than the people, Just barely,

Relationships: Uchiha Sasuke & Uchiha Itachi, Uchiha Sasuke & Uchiha Shisui, Uchiha Sasuke & Uchiha Mikto, Uchiha Sasuke & Uchiha Fugato, Uchiha Sasuke/Sanity, Uchiha Sasuke & Uzumaki Naruto, Uchiha Sasuke & Hakate Kakashi,   

“I love you, Aiko,” his voice is soft and careful. High, but somehow even and cultured. He touched her head with an almost frightening reverence. As if the slightest touch would ruin her.

His name is Itachi. And apparently, the four-year-old who watched her like a hawk when he is home, with the most perfect poker face is her older brother- His chubby cheeks are adorable. But he touches her as if she is precious, loved, and everything to him. As if he can’t even. Considering how handsome and beautiful her parents are, Aiko, newly born, can only guess that she is a beautiful baby.

Win for her.

She wasn’t vain per say,  and she hadn’t been hideous as Amelia Soto, relatively pretty she would say, but one look at her biological mother in this life, her Oka-san, and she couldn’t help but be excited to be that beautiful, graceful looking. It was stilling, stunning sort of beauty. If Akio had gained a fraction of her genes, she would be very happy.

Aiko’s little heart goes pitter-patter, furious as she figures out her brother’s words, mentally both translating his words and also getting used to hearing only Japanese. Unbidden, tears come to her infant eyes. Her body chemistry is no joke, and even the slightest bit of emotion has her sobbing or laughing like an insane person. Itachi finds it cute, so she figures something is okay in that, his eyes going wide when she cries, and his adorable face going soft when she giggles like a loon. She reaches out and grips tight on her older brother’s hand.

“Itachi!” she says, as clear as she can, drolling a smile at him. She doesn’t quite have her salivary gland under control.

His dark eyes go wide, like when she cries. Like she just pole-axed him over the head.

She had practiced his name underneath her breath for the better part of a month to get it right. She’s a little young to be speaking, but really, Aiko, formally Amelia Soto, always a beloved child, at least in my name, doesn’t really give a flying fuck. With a clumsy tongue, without a lot of teeth, she’s going to say her brother’s name if it freaking kills her. She’ll just be super articulate- It’s gonna take a bit to convince her new biological family to allow her to track down her former biological family.  Because she wants to say them again, at least to tell them she is alive and thriving in her new life…

The acting super advance will be enough to convince them. Hopefully. Or get her hospitalized. She’ll cross that bridge when she’s in her toddler age, probably.

They are super traditional sort, she has realized, and is thankful that her infant's brain was picking up Japanese as quick as it was. She had tried learning the language back in her other life, but she hadn’t gotten that far.

Lack of discipline. 

She thinks she must be somewhere in the countryside. It would explain the super traditional house- maybe an Inn? It’s big enough, even if she doesn’t hear any guests. But again. It’s big enough for her not to hear the guests. Her father and mother are often busy, as is her brother. Taking turns to care for her. In shifts. She finds it as adorable as it is frustrating. Part of her wishes she could have a second alone… It seems too lonely for a house of a family of four. Either that or they are super fucking rich. 

Jaring to think.

She hadn’t been dirt poor, as Ameilia, but she hadn’t been rolling in money either. She hasn’t been let out of her small room, really, to confirm either way. She’s hoping they're a family of innkeepers. She can’t contemplate being rich.

Could you be spoiled in your second life? She really hoped not.

“Imouto?” Itachi breathes out so reverently. 

It would give her a brother complex. Or a superiority complex, being treated this way. Or both. She beams at him with a gummy mouth.

“Itachi!” she repeated, hands making grabby gestures.

He leans closer.

A small hand reaches for her. Hesitates in the air in front of her. Aiko doesn’t hesitate. She grips that tiny hand in her even smaller hand.

Oh, it feels calloused. Bit weird. But she grips him tight. Her brother must be into sports. Maybe he’s older then he looks? She would have pegged him for a four-year-old. Maybe he was just small.

“Itachi, Itachi, I love you!” stilted Japanese. Her pronunciation is a touch off, her ‘suki-desu’ just a little wrong emphasis on the wrong sounds, but he get’s her meaning well enough.

His eyes, his eyes flash fucking red.

She jolts.

His red eyes, his fucking pupil swirl-

What the actual fuck.

“Say it again, Imouto,” he mummers, his face morphing into awe and demand.

 Blinking, all Aiko can do is repeat her words. Itachi’s smile is blinding. 

And she is a little freaked out by the demon's red eyes- With swirling pupils.

Who is in the face of her ‘four-year-old’ brother who name is Itachi, who has really calloused hands-

Nope. Wait. Abort, abort, don’t- Couldn’t fucking possibly be-

“Uchiwa?” her voice is hesitant. She curses her lack of teeth with the flub.

Itachi’s smile goes a touch wider.

“That is right, Imouto, we are Uchiha.”

His red eyes swirl. It is visceral disturbing.

Fucking fuckety FUCK.

WHAT.

Aiko cannot help it.

She bursts into tears.

Because what the actual fuck.

“She spoke, Itachi?” her mother’s voice is warm and soft.

Automatically, it seems, Aiko feels her two-month-old body relax.

Chapter Text

TAGS: Aiko Is So Done, PTSD, Trauma, With Capital T, Mature, ‘Cause Naruto Verse, Gore, Violence, Mentions of Abuse, REVOLUTION,  Kakashi Get’s Dragged In Early, Naruto Is Ball of Sunshine, Female Sasuke!, Always A Girl Sasuke, Massive Amounts of Swearing, Mostly Aiko, Pack Mentality, Mouten! User Sasuke, ‘Cause TREES,  Shino is on Team Seven, Pray for him, DANZO DIES, Sarutobi is fumbling back against the machinations of a seven-year-old, And loosing, 

“... You will start attending the Academy the day after tomorrow-”

Uchiha Aiko needs a moment not to laugh aloud. Her body had just undergone massive physiological trauma, and these assholes wanted her to go back to school without so much as a fucking mental exam. She blinked stupidly. She wished she could say having ‘no’ memories of the incident was a fucking factor as to why she was being thrust into a familiar environment to help her, but she isn’t sure. Her male counterpart, dick that he was, had probably been subjected to it all the same. 

She grimaced.

“... Thank you, Hokage-s-sama,” she tried not to stumble over the honorific. It was hard. Japanese wasn’t her native language, and even though her body spoke it fluently, after ‘waking’ up, she felt certain customs to be odd to her American mindset.

She was a weeb, but she had never felt comfortable addressing people like that herself. Some of her friends had, but she hadn’t been one of them. She sighed, and carefully pushed back her long black hair. It was a jarring thing. In her old body, she had had bright ginger hair, and pain in the ass princess-curls. Now she had long as hell black hair, straight as a pin. At the very least she didn’t have the sticking up spikes of her male counterpart. Part of her still wasn’t sure if she was a body snatcher, or she had simply remembered her past life as Amelia Soto when Itachi had essentially mind raped her for her own good, but she knew for a fact that this shit was uncomfortable. Distressing and like wearing a too-small coat. She didn’t feel right. From the size of her hands to her fucking hair color. It doesn’t help she had been a twenty-five, grown-ass woman and suddenly felt like she had woken up in a seven-year-old body.

At least I didn’t wake up with a dick. I mean, I would have made it work, but it would have not been pleasant. And the Duck-Butt hair. I cannot even with the thought of having the Duck-Butt hair. Almost as traumatic as having a penis. I have enough body dysmorphia without the dangling bits.

That she was happy to live without. Even if she was going to go through puberty again . My kingdom for some birth control. Hopefully, there’s the ninja equivalent. Tsunade of the massive tits don’t fail me now.

“Now that the compound has been cleaned we have managed to clear it with the council for you to be-”

You have to be fucking kidding me. She tries not to think about how many of those bodies had been mutilated for the crazy eye fetishist.

“I’m not staying there,” she snapped, shivering at the mere thought, she might have been ‘confused’ and not really remember what the fuck happened, but the manga and anime had filled enough blanks for her. The thought of being surrounded by that much death and stillness even by proxy turned her stomach, “I have enough money right, being the sole surviving Uchiha? I’m going to look for a new house in the village. Or an apartment if a suitable house near the Academy can’t be found.”

She grimaced harder. They wanted her to live on the outskirts of the village, where she had ‘witnessed’ Obito-the-fucking-brainwashed-maniac and her brother Itachi slaughter all of her clan? Yeah, so not happening. She would rather start camping in a park.

Maybe she should camp either way.  

She liked trees.

The former botanist in her was kinda fascinated at the thought of the trees made by the first Hokage- with his chakra. Did that mean they had a faint impression of him? Wasn’t charka some sort of energy that was specifically drawn from the soul/the physical? Wouldn’t that be so fucking- The Hokage raised a brow. His dark eyes crinkling in concern. But sharp and assessing.

Calculating .

 She resisted the urge to spit in his face. Mother-fucker had been complicit in the massacre. He may have been manipulated in the circumstances around it, may have been lied to, but he still allowed it to fucking happen because it was easier than to do even a little bit of investigation as to why the Uchiha were planning on a rebellion. Hundreds of otherwise loyal people were dead because of this man, even if had never been his intention. At least the eye-fetishist Danzo was crazy and power-hungry enough to commit the genocide with intent. The Uchiha blood on Sarutobi’s hands was there because he couldn’t logically see how people he had an emotional attachment to were manipulating him. It was disgusting. In his false ignorance, so much suffering happened.

So fuck this man.

Fuck him straight with his own Bo staff.

She hated him.

Even if she wasn’t really sure if she was really Aiko, even if she felt completely off, seeing him as a person complicit in so much wasteful, wanton death made her seethe. Especially because he was acting like a grandfatherly figure who was being benevolent to her, as if he didn’t approve or look away when his crazy fucker of a friend gave the order for her thirteen-year-old brother to commit genocide .

She breathed.

Don’t let him see. Follow the Ice Queen. Conceal, don’t feel.

“If you feel more comfortable, of course, Aiko-chan. We can find suitable housing.”

God. They’re really fucking making a child live on their own. I’m what, seven, eight? This is such fucking bull shit.

At least she could cook. She hoped she could find somewhere with low countertops. She was a titchy little thing.

“I also will preside over the funerals of my Clan within the next two days.”

The Third jolted.

She stared at him. She raised a brow.

“Their eyes must be destroyed by a specialized kunai,” that will react in a specific way for Sharagan users, fucking try to wiggle your way out of that, Danzo mother-fucker, “And their bodies burned. That is the Uchiha way.”

“I was given to understand that you do not remember any of your Clan’s rights.”

She felt her lips curl, just a touch, and she forces away from the sneer that is forming.

“I have been reading, Lord Hokage. The nurses were kind enough to give me Academy textbooks. As a founding clan of Konoha, some of our practices were explicitly stated. Funeral rites were one of them.”

She stares at him. He flinches when she says ‘founding clan’. She swallowed down her vicious victory in her head.

“I have to be the one to set the flame. Inspect their eyes.”

She shivered.

“Now Aiko-chan-”

“If anyone else dares to do so it is a violation of clan law,” she said simply, “Which gives me the right to either petition against the Konoha council or leave the Village Hidden in the Leaf as Clan  Head.”

She may or may not have been reading up on Konoha charters as well. She has Nurse Momoko wrapped around her fingers. And she will viciously use that. Even if it gets her killed.

Aiko has already died.

She is not afraid to die again. And she cannot just let shit lie. She is going to shake things up. Let Danzo the eye-fetish fucking just do it. The Third stares at her.

She looks at him with wide, innocent doe eyes.

“Has anything been done to my Clan’s remains, Hokage-sama?”

“No,” He said, eyes a touch wide, “They reside in the Konoha morgue.”

She tilts her head.

“Any returning shinobi?”

He actually jumps.

“What?”

“Am I to understand that on the day of the Massacre, not a single Uchiha shinobi was absent from the Clan compound?”

“Yes, Aiko-chan. It… Your brother calculated it most artfully.”

More like your dick of a friend. Fuckers. Fucking fuckers.

“Then I require Sharingan no Kakashi to attend the funeral rites as the only other shinobi connected to the Uchiha family.”

“Aiko-”

“I was seeing if there were any outstanding shinobi that would be able to take an S-Class mission to bring in the traitor Uchiha Itachi to justice. Imagine my surprise when I realized that someone within the village possessed my Clan Dojustu. I am happy for Kakashi-ni-kun to be considered a member of the Uchiha clan, considering his Sharagin was officially ordered as not a Dojustu Theft by you, Hokage-sama.”

It was funny watching him grow stiller and stiller, face paler and paler.

Aiko is sure if he stabs her in the throat, she will gurgle a laugh in death, and call him a destroyer of Konoha in the same last, agonizing breathe.

She dares him mentally.

She just dares him.

Her eyes, she knew, blazing with emotion.

“Cat,” his voice is clipped.

Cat Anbu appears. Aiko stares at him, and vaguely feels a stilted surprise.

“Fetch Hakate Kakashi, on the grounds of utmost importance. He cannot be late. Drag him in, if you must Cat.”

She feels herself smile.

She is struck by how young Kakashi is when he jumps in through the window. Even though she can only see a fraction of his face, she can see he still has lingering baby fat. He was only just out of his teenage years. She wondered morbidly if Rin was dead yet. It had to be. Why else would Tobito slaughter the Uchiha? The timeline was so slap dash she doubts even her newly edictic memory would have been able to piece it together without the context clues.

He feels like a storm, like a lightning strike. His chakra is a welcome change from the cold of Saratobi, the muted touch of all twelve anbu around her.

“Good morning, Kakashi-ni-kun,” she chirps.

He stumbles in the window sill. She feels her smile grow, sharp and feral.

“I greet the only other member of the Uchiha clan.”

He stares. Charcoal grey eyes wide. He turns to the Hokage.

“As clan head, I am requiring your presence at the Uchiha Clan funeral rites.”

“What- What?” his voice breaks. Not like he was afraid, but for how high pitched it goes. Like a surprised dog. In fannon the whole Hakate clan had had doggish or wolfish traits.

She shouldn’t find the thought adorable, considering the circumstances. She also really wants to meet Pakkun in a very distressing urgency. 

Ninja support animal. HEH.

“As the sole rightful posser of an active Sharingan, you are an official member of my Clan, Kakashi-ni-kun. However, as I am of the main Uchiha branch, you are not clan head. I am calling you to an official Clan Meeting, with the Hokage in attendance.”

She looks to Saratobi. He looks a touch pole axed. She waits.

“Acknowledged, Uchiha-sama,” he finally says, after a moment, “I as the standing Hokage presides over this meeting.”

She nods. Jerks her head to Kakashi.

"Do you acknowledge your possession of the Sharingan?"

"...Yes."

"Were you not on specific instructions of one Uchiha Obito, to be allowed this Dojutsu?"

He swallowed thickly.

"Yes."

"Then, Hakate Kakashi, of Clan Hatake, you are also Clan Uchiha. You are ordered on the behalf of your head to attend the rites or our Kin. Acknowledge."

He stared at her. She glared back. He stares. She burns with her emotions. Feels her tears start to form. Maybe being stoic was the wrong move. But she feared bursting into tears will make him think of Obito. And cause a complete shut down. He tends to run at ninja speed, away from his memories.

Trauma and all that jazz.

She bares her teeth.

"I said acknowledge. "

"Acknowledged, Uchiha-sama."

She nods. Sharp jerk of her head.

"Our Kin is in the morgue. Take me now."

Chapter Text

Pairings: Rosalie/Emmett, Bella/Edward

Relationships: Rosalie & Bella 

TAGS: Spite Fic? Road Trip! Bromance of Epic Proportions… Eventually. Friendship! But Not At First. Female Empowerment. Female Bonding! Looking at Your Life Choices. Edward Cullen’s A+ Parenting. Edward Cullens A+ Relationship. Bella Swan’s Beautiful Logic. Rosalie is a Boss Bitch. Bella is a Whiny Teenager. Bella is a Pregnant Teenager. Gore. Pro-Choice, No Matter What That Is! Emmett’s Fabulous Ass! This is NOT a Romance.

Chapter One

Rosalie McCarthy did not like Bella Cullen nee Swan. 

She didn’t like her because of her choices, or really, her lack of being able to make a better choice to the endless possibilities she had in front of her.  But it seemed despite her dislike, Bella herself respected Rosalie. More than she had ever realized, despite her lack of interaction with the girl. And she knew exactly how to push her buttons.

"Please, Rosalie. He's gonna kill my baby. He doesn't understand," a shaky voice, softer then a whisper, just in case she would be overheard, “And I know you would . Please .”

Rosalie did understand.

And she also knew, despite what she personally felt for anyone, she would never let any woman’s choice be taken away.

Chapter Two

The second  Bella was past the gate, she started sobbing. Because it distracted Edward, and because she honestly could not hold in her tears anymore.

“It’s almost over, Bella, it’s almost over,” his voice was honey-sweet, but he was stiff and he was so angry.

She trembled because she knew, Edward my love, this is just beginning.

Her hands, which had been clutching desperately at Edward’s arm, let go. Because I have to. You don’t understand yet. Somehow, she didn’t trip, as she rushed into Rosalie’s arm. Golden eyes looked down at her, firm, serious, and ready. Her mouth was a stern line, and despite how much they actually didn’t like each other, Rosalie’s hands were infinitely gentle on her.

Bella knew the plan and knew the exact moment Edward knew it too.

But she had already made her choice, and this was bigger than her husband, more than herself.

“ NO !” He roared, inhuman and angry.

But Emmett was already moving, already in front of him, and Rosalie was scoping her up.

Chapter Three

Rosalie was many things.

Athletic was not one of them, and out of all of her family, beyond Esme, she was probably the least physically inclined. She was not fast, she was not abnormally strong for a vampire. She had no special power to make her special amongst the others.

But she was smart.

She may not have been a military man like Jasper, but she had been a social-climbing girl in the Depression. She had been strategic, she had been careful in how she presented herself. And Emmett was all she needed to make this work, her beloved husband quiet and serious with determination. His arms were shackled around Edward even as he screamed out shrilly, and Bella, despite the obvious awkwardness of being not very well acquainted, quickly swung around Rosalie to rest comfortably on her back.

It was frightening, to have the complete trust of someone you barely knew.

But Rosalie was nothing if not adaptable. 

“Hold on.”

Frail arms, soft and too warm, and so breakable, were tight around Rosalie’s throat. Snot and tears ran down her neck, searing and uncomfortable, but she ignored that.

“BELLA!”

“I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, Edward,” a broken whisper, but Rosalie knew that he could hear it even over his own screams. 

Rosalie was running, at a human speed for appearance's sake. And so was her family, and that was what she needed. She made sure to use the crowd of the Seattle Airport to block Carlisle and Esme and Jasper and Alice alike. And as soon as they were out of sight, she was turning direction on her heel to head the gate she needed. In her head, she was flashing memories of her time with Emmett to distract Edward. It was simple, and somehow Alice had not seen her plan in motion, or simply had decided to allow this to happen.

Either way, both she and Bella were checking in to their flight.

Chapter Four

She was still crying, Rosalie noticed as she curled into the seat.

Rosalie felt a twinge of… Pity, as she looked at Bella.

“Is something the matter?” a steward, probably trying to be helpful. Or maybe debating whether or not he would have trouble on the long flight with a sobbing teenager.

“Sorry, she’s a nervous flier,” Rosalie made sure to flash a beautiful, soft smile, “She’ll be fine once her pill hits. But would it be alright if we had a little time alone?”

His heartbeat fluttered, his pupils dilated. Rosalie barely blinked at the warming of his scent, even as he smiled too.

“Of course.”

She smiled as he left.

“I’m sorry,” Bella’s voice was small.

“Don’t apologize for being upset. You just ran away from your husband. You’re allowed to be upset.”

Bella winced. Her eyes, big and brown were red, and more tears were already leaving her eyes. Rosalie bite back a sigh.

“I’m sorry.”

“Bella, stop apologizing.”

“I’m-” she took a deep breath, blinked rapidly, “... Okay. I’m just being stupid and maybe that whole thing about being hormonal is true.”

Rosalie thought it was a poor joke, and thought it was even sadder when Bella tossed her a very timid smile. Rosalie tried to remember how often she had seen Bela smile, and realized it had only been a handful of times, and rarely pointed in her direction.

It was out of pity, but she did giggle just a little bit, “Well, I guess we’ll find out.” 

Chapter Five

“How… How does it feel?” asked Rosalie.

Because she is a masochist.

She had finally stopped crying, Bella that was, and after what seemed like the briefest of naps, she was staring forlornly out of the plane window. Rosalie spoke more to distract, rather than to actually engage the teenager.

But when Bella blinked, turned, and gave a smile, it was different. Less timid than before, less afraid. Her face flushed, her eyes went misty.

“It feels wonderful. It's hard to explain, but… I can feel my baby, you know?”

Hands danced before they settled on the barely visible bump.

Something in Rose ached. Definitely a masochist.

But then she realized how visible the bump was.

That is not normal.

Chapter Six

“How far along do you think you are?”

Bella blinked. Unconsciously touched her stomach nervously.

“Well, I got really emotional at Edward about two weeks into my Honeymoon.”

“That soon? But- But you still look too far along.”

“I suspected that. I know it's too soon to be showing.”

Possibilities and scenarios danced through Rosalie's mind… She felt like Alice, without the helpful supernatural aspects. Her mind was dancing on the possibilities.

Chapter Text

The Avengers:

The Craving of A Dirty Vanilla-Chai Latte

04 May 2012

Penelope Powell was faced with an utterly nerve-racking decision.

Helplessly, she pressed the phone receiver more firmly to her face. The pressure of the receiver centered her, a trick to help her anxiety, making her focus away from the brimming unease to the physical sensation of the phone against her cheek. She shifted in her bare feet, curling her delicately painted toes, jet black, sexy, I told myself when I had applied the polish, not the painful attempts of trying to be more mature than I am , into the plush carpet. She took a careful breath, and reminded herself of the lessons instilled in her. She held her breath and counted slowly to ten in her head.

...Nine Mississippi, ten Mississippi.

She exhaled, slowly. That helped settle her nerves more, just a little, her rapidly heaving breath easing just a touch.

“So Bobby is home with a cold?” her voice reflected her desperation despite her breathing exercise. It creaked slightly with disappointment, slightly with a whine that grated on her own ears. She took another breath, and cleared her throat, “And John’s shift ended?”

You are twenty-years-old, and it’s no big deal.

Except it was so a big deal, but Penelope had no choice in the matter. On the other side of the line, Sonya Ivanov gave a tired sigh that was emphasized by the whistle caused by the gap in her teeth. Penelope frowned at the noise, as Sonya was a woman of infinite patience. But it was nine o’clock in the morning and it was no doubt packed at the So Delish Cafe & Bakery. And here Penelope was interrupting her in the middle of one of the busiest prep-time of the day, just before lunch and just early enough for the more affluent people to be out for brunch. The fact that Bobby or John hadn’t answered Penelope’s call should have clued her into the fact that the deliveries at the So Delish were on hold. Calling Sonya at this time was incredibly rude, but of course, Penelope needed confirmation before she risked leaving her apartment.    

“Yes, Miss Powell,” Sonya was always polite, unfailing so in the course of their relationship. 

She always treated her with the most cordial respect no matter what hour Penelope called. She was Penelope’s supplier of obsessive indulgence of too expensive coffee every morning and baked goods since she was eighteen and begged her Nana to order religiously from the Bakery in Midtown. Sonya had been well, amazingly patient for her faithful client and done the unnecessary thing to deliver to them despite being technically out of her delivery radius. It was only on occasion, Penelope would have to physically pick up the order herself.

It was Penelope’s time to sigh, a great massive one.

“Well, I pick up my regular order. Sorry for bothering you, Sonya, I know you’re busy at this time.”

“No problem Miss. Powell, I apologize for the inconvenience. I’ll see you soon.”

Delicately, Penelope deliberately did not slam her antique phone down onto its cradle, careful of the short cord. The phone was older than her, and it would probably be a hassle and a half to find a replacement. She was pleased as hell that she managed to not rattle the dials and that the phone made a soft click as it docked into its cradle. For a moment, she stared at the rotary dial phone, taking in the soft gloss of burnished bronze, all with the increasing unease of a trip outside, so soon... Her palms twitched towards the phone, towards the numbers to dial in the So Delish’s number again to cancel her order. Sonya would be annoyed as hell, but Penelope would feel-

Like shit. Because I want a fucking extra-large, dirty vanilla-chai with extra fucking cream with a goddamn perfect slice of blueberry and elderberry pound cake. I dreamed of that vanilla-chai. I can already taste it on my tongue.

Penelope gave another sigh, her hands clenched into fists. Then, with deliberation, she uncoiled them and smoothed down the non-existent wrinkles on her overly large t-shirt. With the determination of a soldier, she marched herself to her bedroom and set to work. She dressed quickly in a long sleeve dress that snitched perfectly on her waist and exposed the entirety of her back, the bra built into the dress holding up her meager breasts to an impressive degree, giving her a needed push. The navy cotton fabric was fetching against the alabaster of her skin, falling against the backs of her calves in a lovely swishy movement. She slipped into high-heeled wedges that matched the dress, her black varnish plain to see. She put in a couple of smiley-face studs into her ears, three sets onto each ear, all different sizes, the yellow popping in contrast to her black hair. She then placed a simple silver hoop earring into the helix on her left ear. She smiled slightly at her only teenage rebellion, of piercing her ears more than once. 

Her Nana Rose had been startlingly horrfied and pleased at her actions. Horrified, because “ You look like a hoodlum! ” and pleased because Penelope had wanted the piercings, had decided that what she wanted for her body and done it. Well, Sharon, her building’s manager's granddaughter had done it, but it still had been done to her body. She had made the choice, and that had been a large step of her recovery. She carefully adjusted the delicate metal cuff on her wrist, a simple twist of thrones and the soft budding roses made of steel, something she could never take off. “ It’s… I had hoped if it was pretty you would feel like it’s less of a chain, sweetheart. It’s only a precaution… I just want you safe. ”

She then armored herself in make-up: perfectly applied foundation, soft flaring wings for eyeliner, and a soft blend of browns for eyeshadow. She painted her lips a perfect red, firm, and classic. She took in her appearance in her vanity, critically arranging her dress against the large curve of her hips. She licked her thumb to carefully remove a spot of mascara she had accidentally placed on her cheek. She looked good, well put-together, the cut of the dress doing wonders for her nonexistent breast and the heels making her legs look long.

It was a little too much, to be so well put together for a simple walk to the bakery. But Penelope always presented herself to others like this, always trying for the best impression.

“ A woman must always be put together, sweetheart, it’s not about making yourself beautiful for others. It’s about showing a face that no one could dare to fault. A woman is always at a disadvantage no matter what she is, because society deems it so. It’s your job to never give anyone the satisfaction, ” her Nana Rose smiled with pride, the crinkled lines of her face softly moving as she perfectly applied Penlope’s red, red lipstick.

“Isn’t red too strong for me?” she asked back. Red, this shade of red was too… Not her. Penelope thought that she should be wearing pastel pink or no lipstick at all. Her face was too small, too soft to wear red, especially this color red.

She bet she would look like a kid wearing mom’s makeup- playing dress-up. Nana Rose snorted before she clicked her tongue.

“Red is never too strong for any woman.”

Penelope gave a sigh.

“Look at yourself, sweetheart and tell me that it doesn’t suit you.”

Penelope looked into the big mirror above her Nana’s vanity as she stepped aside. Nana Rose had painstakingly buffed and polished Penelope for the last few hours, mostly taming her hair from its riot of curls to soft smooth curls in a vintage updo that “Had been all the rage, sweetheart!”. It framed Penelope’s softly made-up face, all-natural neutrals, except for the dark red lipstick. She didn’t look like a twelve-year-old anymore, the curse of her baby face eased away with the careful application of foundation, mascara, and eyeshadow. She looked like a sixteen-year-old girl. She looked like a mature sixteen-year-old young woman and it was a strange contrast to her usual appearance.

“See, sweetheart? Red is perfect for every woman.”

The memory of her Nana’s lesson echoed in her head, and part of her heart ached. It felt surreal to think that Nana Rose had been gone for more than two years, and some part of Penelope always expected to wake up in the apartment they used to share with her Nana sitting at the table reading the morning newspaper, cigarette held in one hand. But each morning it isn’t so, and she has to fetch the newspaper and the rest of her mail herself from Eddie, her building’s manager, who lived on the floor directly below her in the morning. 

Penelope sighed, shaking her head before she set to carefully tame her mane of massive black curls that were just beyond her shoulders blades. She settled on damage control with the frizz, using hot iron curlers to shape her hair with practiced ease. Satisfied with the curl of her hair, she then grabbed a compact backpack, made of simple brown leather to use as a purse. She quickly deposited her wallet, make-up bag, her ‘toiletry’ things as Nana Rose had put it, lotion, lip balm, antibacterial gel, tissues, and breath mints into the backpack, a pair of socks and tennis shoes if her wedges became too much, a book in case she was delayed at the So Delish , and the cell-phone she reluctantly kept by the front door. 

It sat on a delicate antique end-table, right at the front door made of rich laurel wood that her Nana had favored for all her furniture. It sat innocently next to the ceramic bowl where she kept spare change and her keys. Like always, the smartphone is deconstructed on the table. Its battery enclosed in a protective case. Its sim card and the back casing of the phone are carefully arranged around the box with the battery for easy access. She places its battery and the sim card back, closing up the back of the phone with ease of doing this a hundred times before. She then placed the cell phone in the same heavy protective box, putting that into her purse with the knowledge it was just a precaution, and she was required to have it on her if she left the apartment. 

It was the same reason she always wore the cuff, or why she was putting on soft leather gloves on her hands, or large, face-covering sunglasses, “Just like Jackie-O, sweetheart” . They were just regular things in her odd life that she had long gotten used to. The heavy door of the apartment was in front of her, and as she reached for her keys, Penelope once again debated staying within the apartment. I can call Eddie. He wouldn't mind picking up my order. Then she squared her shoulders and left her apartment, locking the door behind her before putting away her keys.

The difference was immediate.

Penelope took a deep breath, her hands twitching, as things came alive around her. It was humming underneath her skin, and as she closed her eyes, Penelope tried to sort through everything in a quick, effective matter. Just like I was taught. But the outside world was just so full, and she felt lost in the wake of that. Always. At first, she felt her knees shake at the sudden influx of additional sensory information. 

She felt everyone in the building- over two-hundred people. All of them were unique, all pressing into her skin and clamoring for her attention. The seventy-something-year-old artist on the first floor, their energy constantly wavering in anxiety and self-doubt. The forty-five-year-old widow who was always touched with sadness at the suddenness of her wife’s death. She felt all of their pets too, from the large English mastiff named Puck that belonged to Eddie, to the small beta-fish one of her tenants kept in their parlor. Even a flock of pigeons on the roof. She felt the soft hum of everyone’s house plants, but still so present that she felt dizzy and small in the wake of them. She even felt all of their advanced electronics: a steady low hum that irritated her senses, the buzzing of electricity, modern electricity lines that lined the rest of the building a clumsily, ugly note to the rest of the energy.

Penelope took a breath.

She focused on Eddie, the familiar hum of his body was soothing, warm, and calm, like taking a drink of hot chocolate on the coldest of days. Comfortable and steadying. She felt her heart speed up, and something in the pit of her stomach gnawed before she shook it off. She opened her eyes, blinking at the stars before she made her way down the short hallway, taking the stairs with careful small steps, hand on the banister. Like always as soon as she reached the only door on this floor, Eddie popped out of his apartment. His white hair was perfectly combed and striding confidently towards her, leaving his door ajar.

“Going somewhere, love?” he said it carefully, his British accent plain and ringing in her ears. It was crisp and deep, centering her further. 

He was rolling down the white sleeves of his starched white button-up, despite it being Spring in New York, Eddie never wore anything less casual than a three-piece suit outside the house, and the remains of it within the house. The lack of vest and jacket indicated to her that he had been doing housework. She gave a smile. It wasn’t even forced, just small in the wake of her, well, processing everything. He didn’t comment on how fast she was breathing or the way her eyes glazed over every once and a while as something caught her attention- the energy of the baby on the first floor was low again. She would have to have Eddie arrange some sort of accident that would cause some needed repair work in the apartment suite so she could help boast little Mia’s immune system… Poor thing was so delicate and had an immunity disorder that Penelope couldn’t pronounce. Penelope tried to help as much as she could but unfortunately couldn’t do much beyond regularly boasting Mia’s chances by feeding the child little bits of energy. 

“Bobby and John aren’t on shift. I want my late morning chai-latte. And we are out of pound cake because you ate the last piece.”

He hummed slightly, a frown crossing his face. The blueberry and elderberry pound cake from the So Delish was a staple of breakfast that they usually shared. Earlier, when they had breakfast at a prompt five o’clock, there had been a scuffle for the last piece between their forks. Eddie had won, much to Penelope’s displeasure.

“I could have gotten it, Duckie.”

The nickname always brought a smile to her face. Always made her remember that despite the relative isolation that her powers brought, they were people out there in the world that loved and cared for her.  

“I want to get it myself. It’s just up in Midtown, Eddie, I know I can handle it.”

The pride on his face made something in her heart soar, or perhaps that was the spike of his energy. The warm chocolate sensation grows slightly stronger in the wake of his positive emotions. It settled around her like a warm blanket. Knowing Eddie for ten years had made his energy familiar to her and made the minutiae of his emotions easier to interpret. With her Nana Rose gone, he was one of the few people that managed to always center her in the wake of the overwhelming amount of information coming at her from all sides. She isolated herself out of relative need, being able to feel the energy that every living being gave off, not to mention the energy that every modern device tended to give off these days within her sensing range...

Sensory overload was the nice term of what it felt like whenever she escaped the safe, lined walls of her apartment. Emotionally draining was another and so was nerve-racking. 

Penelope’s power had been officially designated Quintekinesis, or the ability to manipulate energy, specifically and more accurately the energy of living things. She could to some lesser extent control the energy of non-living things, like electronics, but it was never something she liked to do. There was a price to such inorganic energy, she had to internally convert the energy to something that was usable to her… Energy converse came at a cost; the law of energy conservation stated that energy could neither be created nor destroyed; rather, it can only be transformed or transferred from one form to another. Conversation claimed a part of the energy to fuel it. That always made her feel sick as a result of it, the worst sort of nausea and the worst sort of headache, like a severe case of food poisoning. Living things were brimming with energy and manipulating that energy was as easy as breathing with little to no cost on Penelope’s to use it. It was why her Nana Rose had insisted on using Quintekinesis as her official power name, “ You aren’t a fucking battery, sweetheart. ”

“Need some company?”

The silent question if she needed him to steady her for the journey was plain for Penelope. She debated it before she gave Eddie another smile.

“I got this. I will also bring back your favorite apple-cinnamon scones.”

“You are a treasure, Duckie.”

Eddie leaned forward and pressed a chaste kiss to each of her cheeks, and she giggled at the affectionate gesture from the London-born man. He, in his own words, had been influenced by his very French wife and had grown to be immensely physically affectionate. Or at least that was his excuse to reach out and be physically affectionate. Like always, despite the brief nature of the contact, each press against her skin gave her a fleeting flash of the effectiveness of Eddie’s energy and it was like for that second that she felt Eddie’s body as an extension of her own. She felt every bit of him, from the beat of his heart to the way his synapses were firing. His energy was surprisingly strong for a man in his late eighties and functioned with the ease of someone at least three decades his junior. However...

“You’ve been eating too much sugar. I guess no scones, Eddie.”

His face was the picture of regret, his warm brown eyes creasing in distress.

“Ah love, that’s just not fair! Just help me process it a bit better-”

“No short-cuts, you said so yourself, Eddie. Speaking of which, please try and make some mess in Ms. Lincoln's apartment, Mia’s energy is low again.”

“She’s going to sue the apartments for all these repairs she has to have done.”

“It’s not like I can’t afford it, Eddie. I’ll see if Sonya has sugar-free confections as a replacement for the scones.”

“Safe travels, then Duckie.”

She waved, and made her way down the last five flights of stairs, ignoring the elevator that only serviced the first four floors. Her apartment complex, The Rosewood, was settled on the edge of Morning Dale Heights and the Upper West Side of Manhattan, just off of Central Park. It was a beacon of old-world grace, having been built in the early days of the city by her maternal family as an estate. It was a ridiculously big building for one family at seven stories(the last four stories a later addition to the old building around a hundred years after its initial creation) but was achingly beautiful to look at. Its bricked walls were weathered, and most of the windows had some sort of addition of stained glass, mostly a simplified version of the Lorianne family crest red field with a white eagle. It was towered by the other, slightly younger buildings, but it was still beautiful.  

After World War II, her Nana Rose having returned from overseas in the war and painfully aware of how alone she was within the old mansion, had done the outrageous thing to most of her financial peers and converted the old family estate into an apartment complex. Generally, it was four apartments per floor, with the exception of the last two floors allotted to being a single apartment complex for her Nana, and the building’s manager. She had, in her loneliness, inadvertently created her highest form of income and managed to keep her ancestral home despite the rising cost of real-estate in Manhattan.

The only visible modern addition to the building on the outside was the partial removal of the roof in the back of the building- ten years ago upon the circumstances of Penelope ending up underneath her Nana’s care, the older woman had taken upon herself to see to her grandaughter’s comfort by converting the attic into an enormous greenhouse for her benefit.

“I… This,” Penelope felt the familiar, stinging heat of tears, and turned towards her Nana with wide, disbelieving eyes.

“I noticed, sweetheart, that you were either most at ease in the gardens, or when you were in the green-house,” her Nana smiled, softly, and part of Penelope could only stare at the woman that was a relative stranger, “When you were with plants. I thought, with the apartment needing to be altered for you, I could take it a step further and give you a place where you could still feel life.”

“But- This must have cost a fortune. You already spent so much with the remodeling of the apartment. I’m only going to be here in the Summer until I graduate-”

Nana Rose hummed, softly, walking carefully to the place where title and wooden beams once stood. The roof was only partially removed, and some of the remaining architecture of the previous shape of the attic was evident, but to Penelope wasn’t stupid. To support the sheer mass of the soil, not to mention the simplistic water system, the entire attic must have been either reinforced or replaced with more modern materials that could support the weight. The entire building as well, and Penelope had no idea what to feel about the extent that her Nana had gone to. 

Nana Rose placed a perfectly manicured, withered hand against the glass. In that moment she was silhouetted by the sun, her hair, soft and white gleamed in the sun’s rays.

“It doesn’t matter how much I spent. When you came to be under my care, Penelope, I made a vow to do it to the best of my ability. I know we are strangers, and for that, I am sorry to not have made an effort despite how fractured my relationship was with your mother. But you have been through something terrible and you are above all, family, sweetheart. I can at least give you a safe space after everything that has happened. The Rosewood is your home now, and one must always feel the safest at home.”

“I don’t deserve this,” the words were whispered, and when her Nana turned sharply to her, Penelope wished she had never said them at all.

Old eyes, light blue and piercing, looked at her with such sadness. Penelope had never felt smaller.

“Of course you do. It wasn’t your fault you lived, Penelope.”

At that, Penelope just looked away, scrubbing furiously at her eyes.

“The Professor said that too, but it’s… It’s hard to believe. I- I should be dead. And it’s only because of a lucky trick of my genes that I didn’t. It’s not fair .”

“It's more than a lucky trick, sweetheart. Now,” Nana Rose clapped her hands firmly, “What sort of plants are you going to grow? I had no idea what you wanted-” 

Plants… Plants were so damn soothing to Penelope. Unlike people, and unlike animals, their energy was the calmest, least intrusive against her. In her self-study, Penelope had speculated that her aversion or extreme awareness to humans and animals had something to do with their advanced nervous systems and the massive amount of energy that entitled. Plants didn’t have true nervous systems and their energy production was relatively low in comparison. While it was inaccurate to call them less complex creatures, flora was just easier to deal with than any sort of fauna when it came to being around them.

Making quick work of the path to the secured gate that surrounded The Rosewood, Penelope was struck again by the sheer ridiculousness of the fact that she owned the building and the small grounds around it. The Rosewood was everything to her. Home and refuge just as her Nana had wished. She waved at the guard at the gate and he gave a careful wave back, tipping his hat in respect before he buzzed her out. 

It was a pleasantly warm day, which was odd for so early in the Spring but Penelope wasn’t going to question it much. She had forgone a jacket and was glad she had. The sun felt divine on her back and on her face. It was a beautiful, Friday morning and Central Park West was crowded with tourists and New Yorkers alike enjoying the early day. All that energy pressed against her, calling her attention, but Penelope gritted her teeth and instead focused on the warmth of the sun on her skin, the slight breeze that was passing through, the steady thrum of the grass and trees in Central Park. On putting one foot after another as she headed to Midtown.

It never failed to feel ironic to her to the fact that her Nana Rose had insisted that Penelope live in New York despite the nature of her powers forcing her aversion to large numbers of people. But that was Nana Rose in a nut-shell. She was the type of person to tackle a problem head-on and that was something she tried to instill in Penelope before her passing.

Penelope pushed such thoughts away, focusing on getting to the So Delish. She knew that it would take her forty minutes to reach the So Delish in Midtown at a crisp walk. She also knew Sonya would just be putting in her order for the pound cake into the oven twenty minutes after she had ordered, and wouldn’t start her coffee until she arrived. Penelope felt confident she would have her cup of coffee just after her pound cake had cooled enough. She would eat the slice she had missed that morning and drink coffee while she ordered half a dozen sugar-free scones for Eddie. She thought, whimsically, if she could even stand it, she would go shopping, down to that old vintage shop across the So Delish, and even the bookstore she desperately wished would have an online catalog. She would have to call Eddie to tell him of her possible plans. She was sure Sonya would let her use the So Delish’s phone to avoid using her cell phone...

The walk to the So Delish was unremarkable, and as she crossed the familiar threshold she felt her shoulders straighten out from the automatic hunch they had gained from being outside. The So Delish’s interior was relatively small and cramped as most of the seating was outside, but was warm and cozy chic. Penelope ordered the sugar-free scones for Eddie before she paid in crisp bills for her newest order and her first one. She went to her customary booth in the very back, relatively tucked away from the windows and everyone else in the bakery. It was also the furthest corner from the kitchen and Penelope was glad.

 She had accidentally ruined enough electronics when she was younger and even now when she was careless. The nature of her powers caused her to have an innate energy field that disrupted electronics, especially when she was emotional, sucking in energy with the spikes of her unrest. She would have a tough time explaining to Sonya why she would insist on paying for her suddenly fried oven or industrial mixer. And she thinks some part of her would die at the lack of access to the So Delish’s coffee if she destroyed the espresso machine. 

She was relieved when Sonya herself came out of the kitchen, barked an order to the barista who Penelope didn’t recognize to prioritize her order of coffee. Sonya gave her a crisp nod and Penelope gave a friendly wave. The woman then returned to the kitchen and knowing that she would be in for a slight wait, Penelope took out her book and began to read. She was engrossed in the witticisms of Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy for a while before a familiar box and enormous to-go coffee cup was placed in front of her. Balanced on top of her cake box was a small plate with a clean cut of pound cake, fork, and all. 

Penelope smiled, lifting her sunglasses onto the top of her head as she turned up to the presenter of her much sought out coffee.

“You’re a treasure, Sonya,” she said simply, reaching for a coffee eagerly.

Sonya Ivanov was a relatively tall, curvaceous woman who shaved her head and had large plump lips that were always painted a daring color, today a pretty lavender. She also wore her customary five hooped earrings in each of her ears and had shamelessly been Penelope’s inspiration when she had been fourteen. She looked at her with crisp emerald eyes lined thickly with lavender eyeliner, a startling contrast to her deep mocha skin. 

“You’ve been hanging around Eddie too much, Miss Powell,” she, flashing the small gap in her teeth in a smile.

“Ten years, and you’re bound to pick up some mannerisms.”

Sonya hummed.

“I haven’t seen you for nearly six months, you both have only been ordering in.”

Penelope shifted uncomfortably. Underneath her professional face, Sonya’s emerald eyes showed real concern. Their relationship wasn’t exactly friends, not quite. But to Penelope it was plain that the older woman wanted that. The fact that she still called her Miss Powell despite the nine years of knowing each other was a sign to Penelope that Sonya sensed Penelope’s reluctance. It wasn’t that keeping her powers a secret had a strict rule for her to make little connections to people who didn’t know how strange the world was. 

The world at large was getting better at understanding that, what with giant green people and the likes of Tony Stark’s Iron Man… But there were some things she knew the world wasn’t ready to know about yet. The nature of how little she could tell people about her life had always been a difficult wall for Penelope to climb. 

The fact that her powers were especially taxing in the wake of people had only made her prone to long stints within her apartment.

At the best of times, she could handle leaving the apartment about every two weeks, for six hours at a time. But her average of leaving the apartment was every five weeks and for three hours before it became too much. Her large trip upstate every year had come twice, “ To push yourself, my dear. If it becomes too much, you are at liberty to leave. ”

“I had another trip upstate and I got really sick as a result,” she muttered. 

The typical lie bandied about to her few relationships outside of those in the know was that she was sickly. Sonya’s brow furrowed.

“Don’t you usually go upstate during the summer, you know, help with the summer classes with all those kids?”

“The School asked if I could teach another cession,” she said simply.

Sonya shifted, still frowning.

“Alright. Enjoy your coffee, Miss Powell.”

She left the table, and part of Penelope wanted to call out and ask her to call her Penelope. Like always, the request was heavy and frozen on her tongue. Penelope sighed before she took a measured sip of her coffee. The taste exploded on her tongue, fragrant and perfectly spicy chai, the slight bit of bitterness from the double espresso shot, and the soothing taste of vanilla. She nearly moaned in contentment, heart fluttering as she put down her coffee to reach for her fork. She doesn’t get to it, for suddenly the floor beneath her feet starts to quiver, and the precariously balanced fork clatters to the ground. Her coffee, the one she had braved her nerves for, is soon to follow spilling all over her feet, along with the perfectly made cake. 

Penelope swore, scrambling away from the hot liquid, before thirteen years of living on the west coast compelled her to dive under the table. She grips the booth’s stand with one arm, while tissues in the other hand whip furiously at the martial of her wedges. Fuck I just bought thes- The quake continues for a very long time, rocking the So Delish violently.

It’s then that she realizes, crammed underneath the booth as the rest of the shop starts to exclaim at spilled coffee on clothes and start to cling at the furniture for balance, that something is very wrong. The shaking is lasting much too long, not even pausing or going out in waves as it should, and some part of Penelope feels a change in the air, an electrification of energy spreading over her sensitive skin. The sensitive hair on her arms and on the back of her neck rise. The ground stopped shaking, and the startled partons started to straighten up, whispering and talking in a loud cacophony of confusion.

“What the hell are those ?!” Cries a man in a tracksuit, pointing.

Cautiously peeking out from underneath the booth, Penelope watches with strangled breath as things much too large, much too strange fly past the window. People who had been sitting outside are running, some into the So Delish, some froze in place, some just away . Penelope does not crawl out from under the booth, heart-pounding too hard for her to even breathe quite right, even as some of the braver patrons near the large storefront window. 

“Get down!” and that’s Sonya, screaming in uncharectiztacally panicked voice as one of the heads of the flying things straight into the window of the So Delish ’s storefront.

The two patrons that are directly in its path, a pretty brunette with shoes that cost more than Penelope’s entire outfit, and the man in the tracksuit are thrown back. The pretty brunette's neck snapped on impact, and it takes a sputtering minute until her energy fades to nothing. Some part of Penelope howled at the loss of life, her heart stuttering in horror and loss . The man in the tracksuit is impaled by the thing that crashed through the window. The thing, holding the man’s still struggling body up by his strange, spear-like weapon, makes an odd chirping sound before it jerks its arm back. The spear within the man’s body glows a vivid blue before it causes the man to blast off the end of the spear.

His body, energy fading at the impact of the blue laser flops unceremoniously to the ground with a sickening thud.

Then the screaming started. Everyone scrambled. Penelope, eyes wide, automatically pushes herself back, making herself as small as possible in the booth. The Thing, looking like an enormous lizard-man thing straight out of Lovecraft but much more compact, shoots wildly at everything in the So Delish, chirping a guttural roar until all falls silent in the cafe. Penelope covers her mouth to quiet her breathing and blindly gropes for Sonya’s energy in a panic. Sonya was like the chirp of a bird, a quick rhythmic pulse of beats that was currently oscillating wildly in her sheer panic. But she was alive, and so were several people who had scrambled into the kitchen or fled outside the back alley emergency exit. The Thing, after a few more shots, steered its strange hovercraft with an eerie grace and the dust and silence descended over the remains of the So Delish. Four people were dead, and more of those things were still flying past the windows.

It had been less then a minute.

“ Penelope !” hissed Sonya, peeking her head out of the kitchen.

She was on her knees and hands, emerald eyes wild. Careful of the still-hot liquid of her spilled coffee, Penelope crawled forward and peaked across the ruined remains of the bakery at the other woman.

“Sonya?” she called out, voice trembling.

“Penelope are you okay?”

Penelope stared at her.

“Yeah, just… Just scared. What’s happening?”

“My cellphone gave out an Amber Alert. This is happening all over fucking Midtown and spreading out all over the island. But they’re closing off the island for national security and we can’t evacuate . We are advised to stay indoors but to get the hell out of Midtown-”

Penelope’s breath stuttered.

“Sonya, do you know the way to The Rosewood ?”

“Yes?”

“Then get the hell out of Midtown,” Penelope fished for her keys, and tossed them to the baker, “The basement is a fallout shelter. It will be safe and far away from here. Tell Danny at the front gate to let everyone he can off the street.”

The basement was more than a fallout shelter. It was twice as large as the house and had enough food to last more than ten years. It could comfortably hold hundreds of people and it was a testament to her Nana Rose and Eddie’s paranoia.  

“Why can’t you tell him yourself?!”

Penelope thought that was a very good question and swallowed thickly.

“Because I’m going to be directing everyone I fucking can there?”

“Are you crazy?”

Yes. But I can help. I’m not thirteen and helpless anymore.

“I have to do something .”

Emerald eyes stared at her, wide and so sacred.

“Don’t. Just come with me back to your building. We can tell everyone we can on the way-”

“I have to Sonya.”

And I do. The reality of it settled in Penelope’s stomach. An alien invasion was happening outside and Penelope was uniquely equipped to deal with this sort of thing. She could run. The smart thing to do was to run. But Penelope felt a frightful conviction of her need to go outside and try to help as much as she could. Mourning their loss, she kicked off her wedges and reached for her worn black converses, lacing them up quickly. She tore out all of her earrings, tossing them into her backpack before she simply grabbed the box holding her cellphone. She put on her backpack, firmly on her shoulders.

“Take the back alleys if you can, and try to stay low,” she barked at Sonya, easing her way out of the booth.

“Be safe, Penelope.”

Penelope gave her a rueful, lop-sided grin.

“Be safe, Sonya.”

Penelope made the executive decision to tie the long material of her dress into a heavy knot on the side before she also pulled her hair back in a severe bun. She rushed into the street. Chaos was a mild way to put it. It was hell on earth, and she wondered what the fuck she was going to do in this mess. Overturned cars, chunks of buildings, ashes lining the air…  The Things flew, people screamed and ran and the very air of the city vibrated with the sheer mass fear, pain and adrenaline spiked all around her in a vicious and overwhelming cocktail. The entirety of her sensing range was clogged with this, and it was made smaller by the pressure of another energy. It was electrical in nature, inorganic, and made Penelope’s stomach turn.

Penelope deliberately removed her gloves, stuffed them and her sunglasses into her backpack as well, her chest heaving as she followed her senses, trying to find the source. She followed the energy, knowing like most energy waves it had a center. Everything had a source. Penelope pushed her senses to the limit, instead of suppressing actively using. She followed the trails of energy with pressure, sweat on her brow as she blocked out all the other energy.

She gaped at the sight of Stark Tower.

It was the source of this chaos, what looked like a mother-fucking worm-whole pulsing from the very top of the modern marvel. A giant tower of insane energy flowing upwards and opening the gate from what she suspected was deep space. Small flecks of what looked like the hovercrafts those things used made her certain that those things were aliens coming to invade New York City. A mother fucking alien invasion over New York City. She licked at her painted lips before squaring her shoulders and taking off at a run, heading directly for the Tower. She took out her phone, tossing the protective box behind her. She called Eddie, who answered before the first ring had finished.

“Penelope, are you still in Midtown?” his voice was tight and hoarse. But calm, a startling contrast to the mess around her.

She took solace in that, found comfort in the steady nature of Eddie, even over the phone. 

“Yes. I’m heading to the center, Stark Tower is the source of this.”

“You- You’re not heading home?”

Penelope swallowed thickly, spying some running businesswoman, faces and energy terrified.

“HEAD UP CENTRAL PARK, LOOK FOR THE ROSEWOOD APARTMENTS, THERE’S A FALLOUT SHELTER!” she called out to them, rattling off directions, they all looked at her, and nodded quickly, running past her, “OR STAY INSIDE!”

She kept running, eyes on the Tower.

“Penelope?” 

“Eddie I need you to bring as many people into the basement as you can. Take everyone off the streets. I’m directing as many people as I can that way.”

He was silent as she did just that, hordes of people she passed nodding gratefully or looking at her as if she was nuts as she directed them to The Rosewood.

“You can’t be serious,” he said after a moment, voice shaky.

That frightened her. When she was thirteen, he had taken one look at her, this unstable child that soaked up organic energy like a sponge and simply gave her a calm, collected smile. Offering to shake her hand without a mind of what she could do. He had been calm when her Nana Rose had died, and calm when Sharon had decided to follow in his footsteps, and even calmer when his sister had fallen ill. But this, this shook him.

“Eddie, I’m trusting you with this-”

“Come home! You’re stint at Xavier's School for the Gifted an X-Men does not make!”

“I’m not claiming to be an X-Men, Eddie,” she said firmly, out of breath as she ran furiously forward, dodging through back alleys and avoiding the line of sight of the Things in the air, “But I can’t hide in the basement when I can help-”

“Duckie, please-”

Penelope frowned, blinking back tears in the pleading in his tone.

“Eddie. I have to help. I can’t-”

She pushed too far, the phone sputtering off as she accidentally drained it.

“NO!” she screeched as she threw it aside.

I’m sorry. I’m so damn sorry Eddie.

But Penelope could do nothing to contact him again with her cellphone shot. Nothing but to keep moving, keep directing people to The Rosewood. And keep her gaze on the large, impossibly beacon that was the wormhole above Stark Tower.

I never wanted to be like this.

And Penelope hadn’t. Eddie’s words over her interaction with Xaiver’s School for the Gifted had been right on the money. She had trained, she had more or less gotten her powers under control to function within society. When the Professor had offered her a place among the X-Men she had declined, too emotionally raw at the thought of putting herself out on the line like that when she was eighteen. She wasn’t really a fighter and she didn’t want recognition for a twist of genetics. She wasn’t like Tony Stark’s Iron Man, fighting for justice and whatever sins he thought he held over the company that had been his legacy. 

She just wanted a quiet life, occasionally help at the Mansion a couple sessions a year.

But she can’t.

Faced with a very real, very up front situation, Penelope knew she couldn’t sit back. New York was under attack and here she was with the abilities to help. So she rushed towards the energies that are fighting, bombastic and volatile. Towards the Things that will most certainly aim to kill her.

But Penelope has a purpose, and somehow, that makes her put one foot after another.

The Avengers: 

When Captain America Raised His Mighty Shield

04 May 2012

Steve Rogers had one thing firmly in his mind as he made his way through Midtown, breaking away from Barton and Romanov, lunging forward with his shield in hand.

I think I owe Fury another ten bucks.

He felt a little disoriented if focused on running his around the battlefield that this strange, modern new Midtown had become, tackling aliens with a single-minded urgency. It was a painfully familiar sort of thing. Not the aliens part. No that was something straight out of the sci-fi dime novels that Bucky would eat up with any spare nickel he got- but the running through an active war-zone. I hate how much a part of me feels comforted by that. It was a funny thing, how similar fields of war could look. Be it Italy or someplace in France, the sight of ruined, bombed towns and cities looked awfully alike. 

Looked achingly the same to Steve, no matter how different a place it should have been. All the uniqueness of each city had been gouged out, burned away in tides of fires and explosions. The faces of the people of those people had been much the same. Same hollowed out, look. The same haunted eyes sunken in frightened faces. The same fevered hope that would sometimes line their faces as he and the Commandos made their way through, the same whispered pleas amongst toppled buildings and caved in homes.

It was a twisted sort of hell that it was happening in New York City.

He had desperately wished for this to never happen. Hell, he thought to die just to avoid this. Been pushed nearly seventy years in the future to try and prevent it. Lost everything and everyone to avoid this. Even in Midtown, in Manhattan, where he had little need to come up this way when he had been living in New York before the war, he felt gutted at seeing the same hollowed-out faces in the people of the future. On the faces of the people of his City. Things are unfamiliar around him, and though he has a vague notion of where he’s going, the fact that Steve had little point to come up to Manhattan... 

Things had been a little expensive for his liking, restaurants, and cinemas in Brooklyn much more his speed and forgiving for his thin, frayed wallet. Maybe on occasion, he could do a double date with Bucky and whatever gal he was stuck on at the time, and the poor girl his best friend had scrounge up for him. They saw a show once, one of them broadway shows with glittering lights and dancing chorus girls with painted lips and big featherhead pieces. Bucky had thought it a riot and a half and Steve had felt like a mook by ignoring his date in favor of pulling out his sketchbook and some pencils to try and capture the movement of the bodies of the dancers.

That old Theater was gone and the broadway show he remembered had long stopped production. His only other reason for being in Manhattan had been the Central Library for school and even then that had been few and far between. Most references for the Art College had been sold from the school itself or Steve had managed to borrow them from helpful upperclassmen.

It’s strange now to be sprinting his way in Midtown, tackling aliens and the like. Felt familiar and not to be here, in this place. His critical eye saw some of the framework of familiar streets- some of the same buildings. But that stuff was hard to see, either gone by the way of time or the aliens trying to invade.

Steve threw his shield, gracefully, body moving on both instincts and endless practice. How many times had Buck laughed his ass off when I had managed to get the stupid thing stuck in something, or worse, failed to catch it mid-air? It may have been seventy years since he had done this, apparently, but to Steve, it had been just nine months. Nine months of disorientation, nine months of trying to make sense of the year 2011, and then 2012 and doing a fucking poor job of it.

“Captain, care to make you’re way to the Central Library?” Romanov’s voice is eerily calm, steady, and not at all winded, the only true disturbance to the feed was the slight crackle of the radio, “Hawkeye and I are making our way up, making a long loop to catch up with you. Keeping our hands busy and directing civilians out of the line of fire.”

Steve felt an acute appreciation for the lady for it- he didn’t feel calm, he didn’t feel even remotely alright in this situation. But he had a damn job to do and Romanov’s steadiness is a damn reminder that he isn’t alone. He isn’t alone. Not in the crazy situation of aliens attacking New York City.

“Already heading up that way, ma’am,” he returned, carefully pressing into the earpiece Barton had given to him and taught him to use. A remarkable piece of gadgetry. It was a far cry from the clunky radios of his day- and despite everything, Steve could appreciate the convenience of the technology here in the future, “Just trying to get a couple more civilians off the street as I get there.”

“Well, we have a lot of civilians everywhere and could really use a hand to get them to safety. We’re trying to clear the area of the Chatuari but they’re not coperaprating,” said Barton, voice dry and calm.

“I’ll try and speed this along then.”

“Much appreciated, Cap.”

Steve moved forward with a new purpose, speeding up, throwing his shield with renewed vigor as he made his way. He wouldn’t let down another teammate again, even these people who he hardly knew. Never again. And it’s with the single mindset that he got reckless. Bucky would have called him an idiot for the way he recklessly charged into a small horde of Chatuari alone, without any person at his back. Peggy would have probably berated him in that way of her’s, a single look of disappointment, her beautiful brown eyes narrowed and upset. He thinks Howard would have admired the maneuver. Either way Steve throws his shield in a careful, calculated arc, hitting feet first on a Chaturi, smashing its head in with his boot. It was a horrific combination of sparks and green liquid he suspected served as their blood, bits of flesh, and circuitry. 

Steve ignored it, gun shooting in one hand as the other carefully caught his returning shield. He threw it again, in a fiercer, stronger throw that is both fueled by anger and impatience. Steve miscalculated, he knew it just as his shield left his hand in his reckless throw. His shield lodged itself, after taking down two Chaturi, in a nearby automobile. He ran out of bullets in the same moment and he has nothing but himself as the last Chaturi chirped almost sweetly at him. The Hydra-esque weapon charging up in that familiar blue light that has Steve’s stomach swooping at the sight. 

He managed to dodge a few blasts, hitting back with his empty gun, but it isn’t enough, one of the lasers clipping the gun cleanly out of his hands. One’s coming for him. Why the hell does it have to have such good fucking aim straight for my stupid head- A small cry grabbed his attention. Something barreled straight into him. Knocking Steve cleanly off his feet because he wasn’t expecting it from that side and the person aimed for his legs were his stance was the weakest- right on his knees. The blast meant for his head flew inches from his head, and he watched as it arched over him with wide eyes. He grunted as he hit the floor, looking up just in time to see a small woman, scrambling off of him quickly. He hardly registered the small weight on his legs before she was standing up, her back to him, raising her hands as the Chaturi charged up its weapon once again.

Steve can barely breathe his shock before something remarkable happened.

The tiny woman isn’t killed.

The woman barely flinched as the blast hit her hands. She took that blue energy blast and just… Absorbed it into her hands. Like a fucking sponge. With another tiny war cry the woman pushed her hands forward, the deadly laser returning to its owner in a strange reflection that had it falling like a marionette with its strings cut. It left the Chaturi’s face a crater. A disgusting smoldering crater for a head, that had nearly been Steve’s own fate. The woman, her back still turned to him has her chest heaving, and it surprised him that she hunched forward to throw up. Small hacking noises escaped her as she fell to her knees, small sobs of obvious terror filling his ears. 

“Ma’am?” he asks, in both astonishment and sheer concern.

Steve could only really stare at the still glowing mass of the young woman’s hands. At the little doll of a woman who had just absorbed a laser into her hands and killed a Chaturi before throwing up .  Licking his lips, Steve could only ruefully concluded that he owed Fury twenty bucks. Because. This. Was. Ridiculous. She turned to him, hands still glowing, swiping at her mouth to remove the last of her bile. 

Steve kept staring, mouth slightly parted as he watched some of that lingering Tesseract blue turn to something else on her hands. The glow was a white light that didn’t stay white. Like a light coming from a prism, shimmering over her hands in a slight haze. It shifted between colors, incandescent and all sorts of pretty if fucking alarming. And he felt it’s all the more ridiculous because the young woman was the tiniest damn thing. 

He got to his feet, and it's highlighted even more how small she is as she looked up at him with violet eyes as she scrambled to her own feet. It was a startling eye color on a person, made even more startling by the size of her eyes, round and frightfully innocent looking in midst of all this chaos. She stood a little shorter than he’d been before the serum and probably weighed just as much as he had. She isn’t sickly though, just terribly small sort of dame, maybe in her late teens to early twenties. 

Her face was round and small, with sharp cheekbones and a small delicate chin. Her eyes were lined with some dark pencil with a slight flare to the end and her plump lips painted a deep red. It would have looked nice, but just like him, she was covered head to foot in a layer of white dust, soot and scrapes, and bruises. The dark lining and the brown powder around her eyes were smudged in streaks down her face. Her dress also looked like it had seen better days. It must’ve been longer at some point, the hem ripped mid-thigh with a few odd long strands of the cotton swinging loosely against her calves. Her right dress sleeve was ripped all the way to her shoulder, while the other one was long enough to cover her knuckles. Her hoofers had seen better days, too, covered in grime and looked ripped up. 

She looks like every other civilian caught in this mess. Same half-crazed, frightened look of disbelief. Or she would have if it weren’t for the fact that her hands are still glowing.

“Ma’am, ah-”

“Are you okay? Did any part of the laser touch you?” she asked, and her voice is small, frightfully small in the wake of all this.

He is stunned, and a little surprised, but at her desperate face he can only reassure her, hands lifting in a gesture of peace.

“Yes, I’m fine. It sailed clear over my head.”

The little lady released a breath, a great gust that took all of her body to expel. Her shoulders slumped as she bent over with a slight sob of relief, and placed her glowing hands over her knees. Steve kept staring at her, from the way she is taking deep, even breaths in an attempt to calm down to the way she looked up at him after a moment. She blinked, rapidly, tears streaking through dust and remains of make-up. 

“Do you know that you’re dressed as Captain America?” she asked, and a hysterical sort of giggle escaped her. She waved her glowing hands from his red boots to his cowl-covered face as she straightened, “Of all days you chose to be dressed as a Superhero, you choose to do it on the day aliens invade?”

“Ma’am, I am Captain America.”

She squinted at him, chest still heaving.

“You’re costume is all wrong.”

Despite everything, despite the situation he found himself in, he can’t help but give her a slight grin, wry and full of humor, “I got an upgrade. Old tights were a little worn after seventy years.”

“You’re serious.”

Steve gave her a firm nod.

“Yes, ma’am, I am.”

She gave a small laugh, less hysterical, more centered. She waved those glowing hands in an expressive acceptance.

“Okay. You know what, fine, you’re Captain America. I’ve seen stranger things today,” she extended a glowing hand to Steve without a pause, ''Penelope Powell, nice to meet you, Captain America.”

He hesitated, wary of the energy. But she had already saved his life, and she was offering it freely. So Steve grabbed her hand in a firm shake. The woman, Penelope, returned it with delicate strength and he felt even more surprised. The glow on her hands isn’t hot, doesn’t burn one bit. It just feels… Nice through his thick gloves. A steady comfort. Warm and soothing across his knuckles in a slight heady sensation. He wondered at the fact that the harsh energy that was being used to attack Midtown had turned gentle within her hands, but that could still be deadly if the crater of a face of the Chaturi next to them is any indication.

“Most people call me Steve, ma’am.”

That’s a bit of a lie. Ever since he woke up everyone mostly called him by his rank, voices hushed or spectacle. Captain America. Captain. Cap. Capsticle . Even just Rogers in awed-filled tones that made him feel uncomfortable. He missed the simplicity of being called Steve and he wonders if he’ll hear less and less of it here in the Future. 

He never realized how humanizing it was to be called by your Christian name, and how lonely it could be to not hear it. Eleven months and he had barely heard his first name from anyone.

“God, you’re really him,” she said, softly, those peculiar eyes wide as she let go of his hand, “You’re Steve Rogers, the Captain America?”

He gave her a nod.

“Yes ma’am. And you ah, glow?”

She gave a soft, loop-sided sort of smile.

“Yes, Captain. I believe the official term recognized by the U.S. government is being Enhanced,” the way she says the word is heavy, like a title or designation.

“This… Being Enhanced thing is normal?”

How the hell should I know if it ain’t- Seventy years of history in nine months isn’t really in depth.

“Far from it. But I think normal is changing,” she gestured vaguely with her hands, around them.

Steve noticed with interest that the iridescent glow was dissipating from her hands. Not quite fading, but easing the glow traveling upward until it settled to hover over the majority of her skin, barely visible in the sunlight but something he noticed right away since he had been paying extra attention to it. Steve couldn’t help but laugh at her dry return, in agreement.

“I have to agree with you there.”

They stood in silence for a beat before Steve went to carefully retrieve his shield, tugging it forcefully away from the automobile and resting it on his arm. That too was familiar. Felt comfortable to hold on his arm, the weight of it, and the reassurance that he was armed again.

“... Why did you take the laser?” he asked, turning back to her.

The girl gave him a confused look.

“Because lasers to the head tend to hurt people?”

The sarcasm is gentle said, with a tone of slight confusion, as if she didn’t quite understand the question. The fact that she had stepped in to help on instinct told him something. She’s got moxie, and she wants to help. Can’t say I’ll really turn that down right now.

“Well, it's much-obliged ma’am, can’t say a laser to the head would’ve been all that nice. You planning on sticking around this? Cause I got a request to go toward the Central Library and I can say that some more help would be swell .”

She just stared at him. Her arms going across her chest in a defensive manner. Her own shield against the world. She even hunched slightly and she just looked at him with these large violet eyes and he knows he’s asking something big from her. She just kept looking back at him and he’s struck by how young and small she is before something firmed up on her expression. Her jaw clenched and her hand fist as they go to her side, she let out a real slow breath. She looked like a soft breeze should knock her keel over, but she’s got determination. 

Steve can respect that.

“ Yes . I want to help as much as I can. I can absorb the Things energy. And I have this trick- Well. It’s just easier if I show you,” She stepped forward deliberately, her small hands raised in an inviting fashion, “Do you mind terribly if I touch your face, Steve?”

Steve doesn’t hesitate, not with the open and honest way she’s holding her hands out. She looked at him with expectant, purple eyes and he’s already moving. The fact that she said his name with trust is what really made him not regret his decision. He bent down, and let her settle her hands on his face. It, it felt just like what it felt like through his gloves. Warm. Soothing. But then his face starts to itch and the ribs he had broken at the Helicarrier start to as well.

Steve blinked.

“How the hell are you running around with broken ribs?” Penelope squeaked, hand coming to touch where his two ribs had been broken.

“Practice, ma’am. Did you just take my broken ribs into yourself? ” he asked, sharply, disbelief and horror lacing his voice.

Penelope gave him this sort of look- the sort of look that made him think she thought he was a bit of an idiot.

“No, of course not. I'm feeling what's wrong. It's part of the process of understanding what was wrong with your body.”

As if to show this, she absently flicked a hand, in a careful gesture. The bruise on his face is the first to go. Than his split lip. In fact, he feels like he did before the Helicarer blew up. Even better in fact, more energized. Well hell. Make that thirty bucks.

Steve gave a slow, disbelieving whistle. Never has he ever been more tempted to swear in a lady’s presence.

“That’s mighty impressive, Ma’am,” he told her, seriously.

Penelope gave a soft, embarrassed grin.

“Just a super acceleration of the body’s natural healing process. My body simply can provide the extra the energy needed to speed the process along. I can induce it in others by stimulating their own response and providing the extra energy.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t have done that. I’ma super-soldier who can heal at a rapid rate already. My ribs were almost healed.”

She blushed, a bright pink all over her face.

“Its easier to show someone than explain!” she replied, sheepishly.

Steve shook his head.

“Right, thank you for the demonstration. So let me get this straight, you take energy and can help anyone who’s hurt with the energy? And you can heal yourself?”

“That’s the short and skinny, yeah.”

“Well, that is a neat trick. Let’s head out.”

“Just lead the way, Steve.” She gives a sault, surprisingly good for a civilian, fingers position correctly, the straight snap of her fingertips.

“Stick as close as you can, ma’am,” he tells her seriously before he moved a gloved hand to his ear. He fumbled for a bit, before he activated the miniature radio, just as Barton had taught him, “Team we got a dame, er, a lady here that calls herself Enhanced and she’s set on joining us.” 

“ Making friends, Capsicle? ” that’s the radio in his ear from Stark. His voice sounded the clearest out of all of them, probably due to that helmet of his, the only other noise apart from his voice is a soft whirl of his breathing, “ And here I thought this was an invitation-only type of party. ”

“Something like that, Stark. Romanov and Barton are ahead and I’m heading up with the lady. Took a laser blast to the hands real easy, sort of soaked up the energy. And she has this nifty way of healing you on the spot.”

“ Right, take our new White Mage and put her through the paces, we got to keep this all on lock, ” called Stark.

“ Rogers, are you sure of introducing a new player this late in the game? ” that’s Romanov’s pleasant voice, but like always she’s got a hint of steel. The crackle of her radio is indicating to him that she’s on the move, rapid and quick.

“Ma’am, there’s only about six of us at best that have been called in on this. I think I’ll take my chances and make it a seven. Our odds aren’t that great as is.”

“ I’m with the Captain, Tash. I think we can use everyone we can get. ”

“ On your head, Rogers. ”

“Team?” called Penelope.

He gestured quickly, and they fell side by side as they started to make their way forward. He tried to keep an even, sedate pace on account that she’s a civilian, but the girl is a lot quicker than an average civilian, keeping up with his increasing speed with minimal adjustments. Really the only thing slowing her down is her torn-up canvas shoes and her short legs. The only indication that this is unnatural is the fact that the glow of her skin is slightly stronger around her legs, probably to keep up with him. Feeling a mook, but knowing how urgent it could be with the rest of the team, he pushed himself a little harder. Penelope followed quickly, the glow growing stronger, her breath was even and unrushed.

“Just a couple of people called in to deal with this,” he returned easily, keeping a close eye on her as they move.

“Did you say only six people ?”

“Well, I think it’s seven with you here, Penelope,” he made a point to use her Christain name, nothing like saving someone’s life to get on a first-name basis. The grin he gave her was what Dum-Dum had called his ‘inspiring confidence’ one, meant to soothe whatever ravaged troops they stumbled across in their missions, “Also, I don’t think a single one of us is exactly normal.”

“God, Eddie is going to kill me.”

The male name struck him, as does the familiar way she said it.

“That your fella?” he said, conversationally.

She laughed. A burst of laughter that is large and because she finds the notion of Eddie being her fella ridiculous, he bets.

“My fella? Like a boyfriend? No, he’s the manager of my building, sort of like my grandfather really. I sort of broke my phone in the middle of calling him. He’s gotta be driving himself spare.”

He blinked at the word ‘spare’ a phrase he had never really heard from any American, only from his British friends.

“You live far from here?” he asked because he might as well get to know the unknown element if only a little. 

She sounded American, if with an accent that wasn’t quite New York. Too odd in inflection, not enough attitude. But she did have some words that hinted at British inclinations. Using ‘quite’ a lot, ‘driving himself spare’. Powell was a British surname. But it wouldn’t be odd for her to be one of the many tourists that came to New York, either.

“Just on the edge of Central Park, upper Westside. I was getting coffee and cake from the So Delish when this started.”

Uptown girl. He wondered if she was native to New York, or if she was a migrant. Her accent told him the latter.

“The So Delish has passable baklava,” called a voice, and Romanov landed gently, having just been on the roof of a towering bus, her knees bent just the slightest to absorb the impact. She landed like a cat, with no sound, and bound in a smooth motion to be on Penelope’s other side. 

The girl jumped, nearly a foot high, her skin’s glow growing darker, more visible in what seems in agitation or fright at the sight of Romanov, skitting to a complete stop, small feet wide in a passable if a little ill-practiced defensive stance. With the stronger glow, Steve watched as that almost white glow, touched with that iridescent sheen of every color of the spectrum shifted and flicker in color in a more visible way. The artist in him is awed, the soldier in him is wondering what the hell that could do. The girl’s hands lifted, the glow strongest there, in a seemingly automatic gesture. Steve, at the same time, reached over to touch her shoulder in reassurance. The light, like before, seeped through his glove in that warm way and Steve wondered why it felt so good to touch the light.

“She’s one of the six, ma’am,” he said, simply, before he lowered his arm hastily.

“The So Delish ’s cream-filled doughnuts,” called Barton, from atop the bus, bow in hand, hip slightly cocked to the side, “Are way better than the baklava.”

Romanov looked over at the bowman, lifting just one perfectly arched red brow at his words. In that small gesture, she conveyed that she thought his statement was ludicrous. Steve also noticed that the woman did not look away from Penelope, eyeing her from the corner of her eyes as she relaxed, Romanov’s torso still facing the girl in readiness.

“I like the blueberry and elderberry pound cake, like a civilized person,” replied the girl, wide-eyed at them.

Steve can’t help a slight grin, he said, calmly, “I’ll have to take your word for it until I can have a chance to try it myself.”

Barton snorted, and carefully jumped off the bus. Like Natasha, he landed near silently, but much lower, crouching down nearly completely and bending his knees to take the force better. He stood, blue eyes careful and assessing as he watched the glowing girl in clear assessment. Romanov, headless of whatever possible danger the girl could pose, stalked closer, eyeing her up and down.

“Captain said you were a mutant?” she asked in that calm, assessing way of her. As if the question was only made with curiosity.

Penelope shifted, slightly, the stronger glow fading back to near invisibility, her face much clearer as a result. It was slightly tight, her lips trembling slightly. She crossed her arms again in that defensive way, but unlike before her shoulders didn’t hunch inward. In fact, they pulled back, and she lifted her chin to be parallel to the ground. Her trembling lips formed into a smile that was as cold as ice, teeth all bared.

“I’m a mutant, yes,” her voice implied pride, and she did not look away from Natasha’s intense stare.

Steve wondered at the term, why it had been used instead of the word ‘Enhanced’. The way Romanov had said it had not been loaded in her inflection, but with Penelope’s obvious reaction he figured the word was not exactly complimentary. He remembered, faintly, how people had looked down on him for being a Catholic, for being Irish. No Blacks, no dogs, no Irish.

“I’m a Carney,” said Clint, cheerfully, waving his fingers as Penelope looked over at him in surprise. He raised one hand to touch on the strange device that was not the same as Steve’s own earpiece, “Also legally deaf.”

Penelope’s brows furrowed, as she looked at Clint’s easy smile. He jerked his thumb at Romanov.

“She’s a Soviet-era Russian Spy that defected to the United States. With a mountain of trust issues. He’s a War World Two Veteran. What I’m trying to say is that we all got things that make us different.”

Penelope just looked bewildered at his words.

“Your name,” barked Natasha, brow raised.

Penelope looked over at her, blinking rapidly.

“Um-”

“Best just to come clean about who you are,” said Clint softy, “You’re not escaping this situation as an unknown, kid.”

The girl sighed, a big gust of air. Out of the corner of his eye, Steve saw her eyes tighten and a frown form on her face. But she kept her back straight.

“I’m perfectly aware of that. My name is Penelope Powell,” she gave a slightly wry smile, “Do you need my social security number too?”

Romanov blinked before she nodded. A wry smile appeared on her face.

“No need for that. A complete background check will be done as soon as this is over, Powell.”

“Penelope is fine- um who are you guys?”

“Black Widow.”

“Hawkeye.”

“Okay… And he’s Captain America. So you guys have code names. Cool. Sounds official. So does that mean that you guys know what the hell is happening? With the aliens and all?”

“That’s classified.”

“An alien with daddy issues is bent on taking over the world with an alien army.”

“Hawkeye!”

“C’mon ‘Tasha, do you really think it's best to leave the kid in the dark over what the hell is happening? She is literally in the fucking middle of it.”

“Oh, and we’re just saying our names like nothing?”

“Do you really think S.H.E.I.L.D. is going to let us be the same type of agents with this very public battle in Manhattan? Be realistic, Natasha. All of our covers are blown and it's unlikely that we’ll ever go on a secret op ever again.”

“I know that...  Clinton Barton.”

“Oooh full names, Natasha Romanov?”

Penelope just looked between them, still looking bewildered by the entire exchange. Hawkeye looked over to her and gave her a grin.

“Look, for better or for worse, you’re in this. It’s nice to meet you, Penelope Powell.”

He extended a hand out for a shake. Penelope grabbed it, shook it, and gave him a reasonably genuine smile.

“It’s nice to meet you, Clinton Barton.”

“Clint’s fine. We’re gonna fight aliens together. I think we’re there.”

“I like your bow and arrows,” she offered, and furrowed her brows, “But is that the wisest thing to have in an alien invasion?”

“He has a shield.”

“He’s Captain America,” pointed out Natasha, dryly.

“I don’t know, Barton is pretty handy with that bow.”

“See Tasha, Captain America thinks I’m pretty handy.”

“I think he meant to say a handful .”

The Avengers:

In Which a Tony Baloney Is Alarmed

04 May 2012

This has not been a normal day, Penelope knew.

Aliens. Freaking aliens . Apparently, even aliens had daddy issues, but she was mostly stuck on the alien part. She always knew the universe was weird. She was a mutant. She understood weirdness but that sort of weirdness that was always stuck to the planetary realm. So she was justified in her small internal freak out as she fell behind the self-proclaimed carney, the Soviet-era Russian, and the World War Two vet.

“So,” she said, awkwardly, “Now what?”

“Well,” said a mechanized voice, and she stared at the appearance of Iron Man, gently landing in front of them.

She jumped.

Oh damn, Sharon’s gonna kill me.

“We can get started with who the hell our new White Mage-”

His visor slipped up. Penelope cringed at his flabbergasted face when he turned to her, eyes flickering down to the cuff on her arm. Eyes went wider. The cuff that he had personally designed. Penelope Powell had never met the man in person, and vice versa, but, he knew enough-

“Wait. Woah. Your- You’re Uncle Eddie’s granddaughter!”

A huff from her part.

“I am not!”

“Holy shit, you’re the Hey Penny, the Duckie! ”

Penelope flushed.

“Don’t call me Hey Penny!”

“Sharry Berry is gonna flip her shit! What the fuck are you doing- Mutant girl or not-”

" HEY. THAT ISN'T PC TONY BALONEY!"

The billionaire gaped.

"Fuck. Sorry. Sensitive rhetoric, I get it.  But seriously, don't call me that, Hey Penny."

"I will only call you that until you call me by a reasonable name. Tony Baloney. "

The billionaire grinned, nodding.

"Duckie it is."

“Um, feels like we missed something,” mentioned Clint, offhandedly.

Both Stark and Penelope turned to him. She felt her face heat up another notch. Fukcing cream complexion.

 "He's-"

"Sort of related," said Tony Stark with shrug.

She squinted at Sharon's sort-of-cousin. 

"I just realized we were both quasi-adopted by the Carters."

Tony Baloney blinked. Huffed a laugh.

"They're good at that. How's Uncle Eddie?"

"Too much sugar.”

Tony nodded sagely.

“ So Delish? ”

“Yeah.”

“Um-”

“Aunt Peggy is gonna have kittens,” said Tony, bluntly.

Penelope flinched.

“Shit. She’s gonna tan my hide.”

“ Your’s ?! She’s gonna murder me sweetheart, and that’s all because you came to crash my saving the world party.”

"I didn't crash it. It sort of, well, it crashed on top of me. I live in Manhattan, genius."

“So do I!”

“Not most of the time!”

The Avengers:

Faded Gold Upon Her Left Hand

04 May 2012

“I’m going to ask you again, who the fuck are you?”

The young woman, glowing as she is, shrank back from Nick Fury’s demanding glare. Steve frowned at the harshness of his words and automatically shifted forward until he is standing right next to Penelope. He fought the urge to stand in front of her. He knew she needed to participate in the conversation and his enormous frame would completely cover her if he did. Despite how capable Penelope was, she was just someone caught up in this mess and had thrown herself head first into fighting with them because she thought it had been the right thing to do. And because I asked her. He may not know much about the future or the way S.H.I.E.L.D worked, but he knew that Penelope had been trying to help. She needed someone in her corner.

“Sir, with all do respect, Penelope just help save the city. She’s a civilian that didn’t have to do anything and only pitched in because it was asked of her. I don’t think threatening her for doing the right thing is in your best interests.”

A piercing brown eye squinted at him.

“Cap, it isn’t the fact that Powell helped. Its the fact that we have a high-level Enhanced who is refusing to tell us what her angle is, right after we just got hit by a mother-fucking alien invasion. I don’t have the patience to treat her with the kid-gloves.”

Steve frowned at his language but otherwise doesn’t know what to say to the words. The words aren’t inaccurate. He understood Director Fury’s position, but he doesn’t like the tone he’s using with the young dame.

“Director Fury, just check your tone,” he said with some steel in his voice, “She’s a hero.”

They stared each other down. Steve liked the technically younger man despite the dislike he had for some of his actions regarding the Tesseract. Definitely respected him in the end. But he didn’t like bullies. Never had, never will. The way he was trying to immediate her didn’t sit well with him, at all.

“Um, Director… Fury?” said the girl, voice small, “What agency did you say you were from?”

Fury looked over a frown on his face.

“I didn’t. I am the Director of S.H.E.I.L.D.”

The girl sucked in a startled breath.

“Um, as in the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement, and Logistics Division?”

Steve blinked in surprise. Few people used the Agency’s full name, and even fewer people got it right. Fury turned his complete attention to Penelope, who flinched as the man stared her down.

“That’s right. Now. I ask you. How the hell do you-”

He’s cut off by a voice.

“You’ve gotten yourself into quite the mess, Penelope Rose Powell.”

Steve turned, and he thought part of his heart broke. Because he’s an artist, and though nearly seventy years had passed, he recognized her through the curve of her weathered cheek, through the brilliance of her warm brown eyes and that red set of lips that had thinned with time. He had drawn those, again and again, so much so he thought he could do it with his eyes closed. Peggy Carter stood flanked by several people, agents of S.H.E.I.L.D., and she stood tall, hands behind her back as she stood in a fine suit of elegant blue. She still wore high heels, white deadly things that were at least four inches tall, and she still walked with a crisp sway of her hips. Her now snow-white hair is still perfectly arranged in a severe bun, her lips are that perfect red and though she doesn’t quite look her nearly a hundred years of age, she was an old woman. 

And here he was stupidly young and hopelessly in love with her.

The Man out of Time.

“Peggy!” and that’s Penelope and Steve can only blink as the girl rushed over to the woman he loved. She nearly knocked Fury off his feet as she moved past him.

“When I heard we had an unknown Enhanced that glowed working with the Avengers, I just nearly fell over. Edward told me you intended to help and all I could think that you were in an alien invasion. A partially untrained civilian in the very thick of the most dangerous conflict that has come to Earth in nearly twenty years.”

Peggy shifted her hands to her hips and towered over the girl. Penelope hung her head.

“I just-” the girl stuttered, stuttered and shook, and Steve remembered despite all she had done the girl is just a civilian caught up in this mess, “I couldn’t just- I couldn’t just do nothing. I’m-”

“Rose would have been so proud of you. I know I am.” her voice is nearly the damn same, just slightly hoarser, just slightly deeper. The affection in it is plain, and Steve wonders how Penelope Powell knew Peggy Carter so well.

Penelope stopped talking and gave a wordless sob.

“You’re a glow, Duckie,” the nickname flowed easily from Peggy’s lips and her brown eyes calmly take the young woman in, “And I know you don’t normally let yourself get like this. Will you do me the honor?”

Peggy held out her hands, palms up and Steve felt a swoop in his stomach at the sight of the faded, gleaming gold bands on her left hand. Penelope gave another wordless sob and placed her hands into Peggy’s. And just as she had done for them, Penelope gave . The iridescent glow leached slightly from her skin, no longer an impossibly bright halo but instead a faint shimmer across her skin. And though Peggy hadn’t looked any less to him from her aged appearance, the difference from the energy transfer is plain for him to see. There’s an extra warmth to her slightly weathered skin, and she gave a careful sigh of relief, the slight unnoticeable hunch to her shoulders gone. She smiled with lips that look slightly fuller and she carefully removed her hands from Penelope’s.

“Thank you, Duckie,” her voice is achingly soft and sounded slightly less hoarse.

Penelope swayed. It’s only one of the people behind Peggy, a tall blonde in a dark blue cat-suit that darted forward to steady her that she doesn’t fall. Penelope is eased to the ground by the blonde.

“What?” Penelope’s voice is slurred, and there is a hint of confusion.

“Name and date,” replies the other young woman.

“Um-”

“Name and date.”

Penelope doesn’t answer for a beat, and Steve is startled to see her start rock back in forth. Neither Peggy nor the blonde seemed concerned, only quietly staring at Penelope as she moved back and forth.

“I asked you your name and today’s date.”

“Penelope Rose Powell. Its.. It’s the third, no, the fourth of May, 2012?” her voice wavered, and it sounded vaguely like a question instead of a statement of fact.

“Who am I?”

“Sharon. You’re Sharon.”

“Sharon who?”

“Sharon Carter. Badass… Priecer of ears. Eater of all my strawberries. Sharry Berry.”

The woman’s stoic face broke and she gave a smile.

“That’s right. What did you do this morning?”

“This morning?”

“Yes. What did you do?”

The girl doesn’t answer, only stopped her rocking. She tilted her head, curiously, before looking past Sharon, Agent Thirteen, to angle her head toward Peggy.

“Peggy? Peggy, what are you doing in New York? Sharon, is something wrong?”

Peggy gave a slight frown.

“Nevermind that, what did you do this morning?”

Penelope doesn’t answer for a beat. She simply stared to move her head back and forth, looking at Agent Thirteen and Peggy.

“What did you do this morning?”

“I… I went to the So Delish. I wanted my favorite latte.”

“What else?”

“It… It spilled… When.. When the shaking started. Explosions, these things. They were hurting people,” Penelope’s voice grew in strength and she stood. Her knees visibly wobbled in her ripped dress, but she refused Agent Thirteen’s offered arm, “I… I had to help. I had to help, Peggy, it couldn’t be like before. I couldn’t hide. Why is it so-”

“You just gave me a boost, Duckie.”

Penelope fell silent and gave a careful nod.

“Right. That explains that. It’s coming back, Midtown was under attack and I could help. I sent every civilian I could to The Rosewood, for safety reasons. And I headed towards the main conflict to keep directing people away from Midtown.”

Peggy gave a careful hum, her frown disappearing. She smiled.

“I see. I think you did a marvelous job, Duckie. Rose would have been so proud . I know I am,” she repeated, warmly.

Penelope gave a shaky laugh.

“I think Grandma Rose would have been furious. But proud,” she replied, softly, a slight smile on her lips, “I know for sure some words would have been said about recklessly going into a fight with a dress on. Maybe some praise for the red lipstick.”

Peggy gave a warm laugh in return.

“It is a lovely shade. More daring than I’ve seen on you yet, where did you get it?” 

“Professor Grey gave it to me in this set as a going away present after my last session at the school. Not sure where she bought it, Peggy.”

Peggy gave a careful hum.

“I’ll have to ask Jean about it. I rather like it.”

“I think Daniel would like it. He loves bold colors on you,” said the girl, smiling.

Steve’s heart stuttered again, at the casual mention of the man Peggy had married. He remembered reading it in her file before he had closed it without being able to read more. He remembered breaking at least two punching bags in the aftermath of trying to wrap his heart around it. In his head, he had been happy. Happy that Peggy had found happiness. Happy that she had lived a long, full life. And was still having it, as a very active member of something called the World Security Council, as a consultant, if Nick Fury was able to believe. But he still couldn’t help the jealousy in his heart. The hurt. It was why he had yet to pick up her file since he had closed it all those months ago.    

“Daniel likes anything on me,” Peggy dismissed with a careful wave of her wrinkled hand, “He trusts my judgement.”

“Everyone does,” said Penelope with a smile, “Anyone who doesn’t is an idiot.”

Peggy gave her an assessing look, from the tip of her worn shoes to the top of her curled hair that was riot around the head.

“Quite right, Duckie.”

Penelope gave a helpless sort of sob.

“God, it’s good to see right now Peggy.”

“Penelope, are you alright?”

“Peggy, I just lived through an alien invasion. I’m as alright as you can expect,” Peggy sighed, and carefully came to hug the lady in a quick embrace. It was in her arms that Penelope spoke again, “I met Captain America today.”

Steve shifted, because in that moment Peggy’s gaze lifted off of Penelope, toward him. For the first time in what seems like only a few months, Peggy’s brown eyes look at him over Penelope’s head. A few months have passed for Steve, but over seventy years stood between them. The faded gold of her rings stood between them and Steve felt like the world was still ending.

“Hello Steve,” her voice was warm and gentle. 

That single name spoke of a thousand regrets, but it also spoke of long-held fondness. One that wasn’t the start of love as it had been. His girl moved on. Time kept moving and I wasn’t there to move with it. He couldn’t help but give a rueful smile as Peggy carefully stepped around Penelope. Her passing gesture of comfort by squeezing her clothed shoulder.

“I’m late, I know. Missed our date.”

Seventy years too late. He felt it vividly with Peggy Carter-Sousa in front of him. She gave him a small smile.

“I still owe you a dance, Steve.”

“Stork club was closed down.”

“Nonetheless, I was promised you would step all over my toes.”

Steve laughed.

“That I guarantee will happen.”

She smiled again, larger and despite everything it warmed him. She then lost her smile and turned to Fury. She arched a perfectly formed brow. Feeling that Peggy hadn’t changed too much over the last seventy years, Steve sensed that she was in a dangerous mood.

“Nicholas. You are strangely silent.”

“Margaret. I was simply giving you space with the people you apparently know so well.”

“Quite kind of you.”

“All the courtesies, ma’am,” he replied and it’s the most cordial that Steve has ever heard the Director sound. The fact that he gave Peggy Carter all her due respect eased some of his anger at his treatment of Penelope, and he put it down to the very real stress of the situatio- “Mind telling me what the hell is going on concerned with little Miss Enhanced? Or why the fuck you know about her and I don’t?”

Steve took it all back.

Peggy gave a smile, a dangerous sort of smile that was all teeth. She placed a careful hand on Penelope’s shoulder and Steve noted with interest that she paid mind not to touch her bare skin, her fingers splayed to avoid the holes in the cotton fabric.

“Law of the Enhanced. Subsection four forty-three. All enhanced civilians who do not engage in any conflicts, no matter their power levels are entitled to be off the system if they are monitored by an organization specifically meant for the training and control of Enhanced individuals. If entered into this organization, then the individual is placed into the mass file of the organization, simply noting their Enhanced status. Penelope Powell was discovered to be Enhanced the fourteenth of September, 2002 and entered such an organization in the summer of 2003.”

“Your last standing year as Director, just after those Enhanced laws were reviewed and amended for the privacy of United States citizens. Isn’t it a conflict of duty to play favorites, Margaret?”

“No such restriction exists, Nicholas.”

“Son of a bitch.”

“You could never curb your tongue, Nicholas… When Rose Lorianne came to me telling me that her Grandaughter had just suffered a traumatic loss of her parents and activated a latent power within herself, I could not turn my back on her. The spying on civilians with such abilities is a gross misuse of our resources.”

“This is a gross misuse of resources. And abuse of your sway of you had over S.H.E.I.L.D’s policies.”

“I helped create S.H.E.I.L.D. to defend the world from threats beyond the normal scope of human understanding. But it was also made with the mind that the people with extraordinary abilities are indeed human beings. Penelope was young when her powers activated, her guardian made an informed decision in the wake of that. I have only done what was right to facilitate that decision. And if you wish for a gross misuse of resources, may I remind you of the Marvel incident?”

Nicholas Fury blushed. Legitimately blushed and Steve blinked in sheer surprise.

“Oooh, Marvel incident, that sounds like juicy gossip that I must know,” called Tony Stark, cheerfully. Behind him, what looked like medical personal was hovering behind him, but in his suit Tony was near impossible to hold back and he was striding toward them with a large grin on his face.

Peggy turned to him, eyeing him critically before she gave a beatific smile.

“Tony,” she said, fondly, striding forward, arms extended.

Stark hugged her as if it was completely normal, his metallic arms surrounding her carefully and delicately as he kissed each of her cheeks.

“Aunt Peggy,” he said, simply.

“I am proud of you, love,” she said warmly as she stepped back.

Tony waved a hand dismissively but his smile was less of showmanship, more sincere.

“Whatever. I saved the world. No big deal. I do that on a regular basis.”

“Not from aliens,” pipped up Agent Thirteen, lifting a careful brow. It was a frightful mirror of Peggy and from the bases of the arch of her nose and the way she held herself, Steve realized she was related to her.

His stomach twisted and he wondered if she was her granddaughter. Penelope had referred to her as Carter, and he wouldn’t have put it past Peggy passed her maiden name and  onto her children. In fact, he remembered thinking that as much as he loved the sound of Peggy Rogers, that the sound of Peggy Carter was so much better and that he would have insisted she kept it or she hyphen it.

“Sharry Berry! How’s my favorite not-cousin?”

“Feeling left out. And pissed. You dragged my Duckie into this, Tony.”

“Uh, no I didn’t. The infamous Duckie gate crashed my party, Sharry Berry. I don’t even know it was her until I saw her cuff!”

“No. You let her through the gates and threw her from nearly fifty feet in the air.”

“Attacked. I feel attacked,” mentioned Tony, shaking his head, “And the Capsticel caught her. She was fine. And not to mention the girl flies, Sharon.”

“That’s not the point. And beyond that I am royally pissed you threw yourself through a wormhole with a nuclear bomb. ”

Tony blinked.

“Um, your welcome for saving New York?”

“I hope Pepper dumps your ass.”

“Now children,” mummered Peggy, a smile on her face, “As lovely as your antics can be, I believe we have much to settle in the aftermath of these attacks. So I believe the order of the day is for both of you to stop your needless bickering until after we have this mess sorted.”

Both Agent Thirteen and Tony stopped and gave Peggy sheepish grins.

“Yes, Aunt Peggy,” they chorused.

Steve felt tension leave him and then immediately felt like a crumb. Peggy had every right to have children and grandchildren, every right to have those rings on her left hand. His girl deserved all the happiness she could get in his absence and he didn’t resent her for it, honestly. Just the situation. The worst thing was that he didn’t think he would dare change his decision. Putting down that plane had saved the United States. Being in the ice had made him be present and physically fit to help in this mess. 

Not your girl, Rogers, he reminded himself, sternly.

“That’s the ticket! Now, Penelope dear, would you check on my reckless godson?”

Readily, Penelope stepped forward, hands extended.

“Mister Stark?”

“Oh no, Tinkerbell, we’re all but extended family. I’ve heard stories of you and Sharon’s antics, every phone call from Aunt Peggy, Aunt Rose, and Uncle Eddie. You call me Tony and I’ll even clap and say I believe in fairies and everything. Knock yourself out.”

The suit gave Stark about half a foot of extra height and he lowered his head to give the very petite Penelope his bare face. She smiled and closed her eyes placing her hands on each side of his face. Furrowing her brows, the cut on Stark’s brow slowly disappeared as did the massive bruise on his cheek. Quickly, as if burned, she removed her hands, rapidly going to her chest. She rubbed it, her hands fisting what was left of the material of her dress.

“Duckie?”

“That’s a massive internal injury, Tony. Was that metal around your chest?”

“Shrapnel and a personal medical device installed.”

“It keeps the metal out… And also acts as pace-maker and pump helping run your heart?”

“Bingo, Tinkerbell.”

“Whoa.”

“Yeah, whoa.”

“It might kill me to undo all that damage. Next time warn a girl before you let them touch you,” she said and she sounded shaken, “I don’t have the best control.”

Stark stared at her.

“You could undo all the damage?” he didn’t… Sound hopeful, just curious, brown eyes narrowing, "How so,” asked Stark, leaning forward, eyes gleaming.

Penelope shifted, a thoughtful look on her face.

“There is a significant amount of damage from the removal of part of your sternum, and the surrounding scarring on your lungs and your heart. The metal from the reactor and the shrapnel are also foreign objects that would be forcibly expelled out and- Well, both of us could go into shock or have a heart attack when healing all that.”

“Interesting. Both of us would go into shock?” 

“Yes. Echoing effect… Rapid regeneration of massive wounds can do that. Plus, I think the metal would physically push out of you causing more damage overall.”

“Do you have to do something this massive in one shot, or could it be done slowly?”

“Pacing myself is hard, but if I’m familiar with a person it’s easier. Think of it like knowing how an engine works. Most of the functions are the relatively same but every model is unique that needs to be carefully learned. I also noticed that my powers automatically seek to heal everything they can. It… It can be dangerous when I touch someone with a long-standing serious illness or injury.”

Tony Stark leaned forward even more, dangerously close to the girl’s personal space with an eager look

“What-”

“Tony, please enough with the interrogation. Duckie, send him all of your notes over your powers, it will ease his curiosity until he can tear them apart,” said Peggy with a slight roll of her eyes.

Penelope gave a sheepish smile towards Stark.

“Um, are photocopies okay? I could fax you copies.”

“Fax. Fax?!” squawked Stark, “You’re too young to even know what the hell a fax is, email me information like a goddamn human being.”

“Email is totally hackable.”

Stark gave a sigh.

“Fine. Just give me a PDF of them, on a usb.”

“Um, they’re all written by hand? Hence the photocopies. Most electronics… Sort of die on me the longer they’re around me. I think I’ve gone through five laptops this year alone. Hence the fax.”

Stark stared and gave out a strangled sound.

“Aunt Peggy, you never told me that Queen Penelope had to live like a savage. Alright, that’s it, I’m dragging you to civilization. First step a damn laptop that can stand to live around you.”

“Good luck? I sort of give off-”

“A low energy field that could interfere with many instruments. I strongly suggest you first address basic functions of the Tower, Mister Stark before you endeavor to do any sort of thing with that would benefit Miss Powell,” called out a voice, overhead, crisp British accent, “Like the elevator, perhaps? I would hate to see an accident in the future. I strongly suspect that Miss Powell will become a frequent visitor.”

“Thank you, J.A.R.V.I.S.”

“That sounds frightfully like Edwin,” said Peggy with a soft voice, looking at Tony with a raised brow. But there was something gentle in her eyes.

Stark shifted, shrugging his metal clad shoulders. His eyes were blazing with something Steve couldn’t name.

“My voice was specifically modeled over voice recordings of the late Edwin Jarivs, with some modification to distinguish my identity, Ms. Carter-Sousa. I believe Mr. Stark’s intent was for a tribute to the man. I hope I live up to my name-sake in your eyes, Ms. Carter-Sousa.”

“Call me, Peggy love,” called Peggy with an amused twist to her lips, “And if the rumors are true, you have already done that, J.A.R.V.I.S.”  

The Avengers: 

Shawarma Is Had

04 May 2012

He thinks that it is very telling that the girl seemed to stay away from Thor.

She had mentioned how his energy had been the strangest thing she ever felt and he thought it has something to do with the fact that he is an alien. She does not overtly show it, but he has the thought that Thor unsettled her delicate, supernatural senses. Steve might be hanging by the seat of his pants at the guess, but he has the thought that they all sort of feel weird to her. The fact that she seemed to gravitate to the more mundane people on the Team has him thinking it. She tended to stand next to him, or Romanov, and Barton. She has kept her distance from Stark as soon as she had touched him and had shivered in the wake of Doctor Banner.  

Now, she settled herself directly next to Romanov, and next to Steve with a tentative smile. With those she fought alongside the most. He returned it, and tried to ignore the way he kept looking for bits of Rose Loraine within her face. He thought perhaps her lips, and maybe the way she held her head is a remnansciant of the flirtatious Private, and maybe the careful arch of her eyebrows. Her eyes are the wrong color, and so was her hair. It was also currently pulled back in a haphazard bun at the top of her head, threatened constantly to fall out of the tie. She swam in her borrowed black t-shirt, hanging off her shoulders and matching horribly with the remains of her blue-dress. She also sat on the edge of her seat, exhaustion in every curve of her body, in the way she leaned on the table in front of her and placed her chin on her forearms.

Those violet eyes open and they flicker to the door, where Agent Thirteen stood, small pistol in hand as she kept a perimeter. He knew that they are relatively safe for now and that they have the entire agency to thank for this brief chance of reprieve. 

“Call Gramps,” called Agent Thirteen, tossing a phone in the young girl’s direction, “He’s been calling non-stop since I texted him that you were fine.”

Its Agent Romanov who catches it, more absent-minded then anything.

“Oh geez. Did he say how the Rosewood was affected in the attacks?”

“The building suffered little to no damage, Duckie. But there seems to be a shit-ton of people who went there during the attack.”

“I did tell a lot of people to head there.”

Affection became clear on Agent Thirteen’s face, and Steve saw a lot of Peggy in her in the way she smiled.

“If you say so.”

Romanov handed her the phone.

The Avengers:

Breaking and Entry

20 May 2012

Steve felt strange, making his way to the home of a relative stranger, with nothing in his hands to show an apology at such an imposition.

It was customary, in a more formal setting, in his mind, to bring some sort of gift to their hostess. It didn’t have to be big, maybe some sort of dish, or some sort of home gift. Hell, he would’ve felt better for a casual bouquet of flowers, but Natasha had assured him that wasn’t done anymore, and the fact that they were dropping by, even in mass, was not that strange. Steve still didn’t like it, but from the look, Stark had sent him at his readiness to protest this fact, Steve had let it go. It wasn’t normal anymore, and it was strange enough they were essential storming Penelope’s home with little to no warning.

A casual Tony Stark walked with him, hand in expensive suit pockets, contrasted by the ratty, oil-stained t-shirt he was wearing beneath the suit jacket and chucks on his feet, tinted sunglasses perched on his nose. He was the one that had herded them up, gathered them from their respected rooms in the Stark Mansion and declared that they were off to impose on their wayward teammate. 

Natasha walked on his other side dressed in an attractive mix of feminine clothes, fitted jeans and a flowing blouse, sunglasses perched on her nose and a scarf around her head like a starlet and a strongly contrasting leather jacket that fit her like a glove. Clint walked next to her, an even stronger contrast with his violet tactical gear, a bow and a quiver perched on both of his shoulders. Doctor Bruce was in walking in his lab coat, rumpled hair and a flask of tea in one hand. Thor, whistling, was dressed in a bizarrely bright lime-green shirt with ‘shock-sibs for life’ written in bright pink, soft fleece pants and was casually swinging his hammer in hand. Steve himself was dressed in only a pair of khakis and a white shirt and no jacket, his hands still wrapped from the gym. Stark had herded them all out the door before anyone but Natasha could get properly dressed, going from her comfortable sweater and tightly fitted exercise pants to her current attire in less than a minute, make-up perfectly applied. 

He knew they made a strange group, as people kept staring and pointing.

“People are staring,” muttered Banner, hand in his pockets. Unlike Tony, however, he was hunched, trying to make himself as small as possible as he walked next to the Billionaire.

“Are they?” said Stark, in that casual arrogance that still rubbed Steve the wrong way.

“Is it because of how we're dressed?” asked Clint, dryly, gesturing dramatically with his bow.

“It is, my shield-brothers and sister, the awe of seeing their heroes among them. ‘Tis normal, my friends,” Thor said cheerfully, waving casually with his hammer at a pair of teenagers who were taking what Steve suspected were photographs with their cellular-phones.

“It’s Sunday. She’ll be in the Garden,” said Edward Carter, arms crossed, “Its best not to disturb her on Garden day.”

Tony gave a charming smile that touched on the obvious.

“Come on, Uncle Eddie. I got the whole band together.”

Edward looked at them all, brown eyes flickering back and forth before he gave a sigh.

“Alright. I will allow you to impose on Penelope today. Lord knows she needs to learn more from your perspective about the Battle of Midtown. Worrying herself half to death over everything… Come along, then, follow me.”

They followed,  making there way up the stairs at the end of the hallway. Edward walked forward, keys in his hand as he opened the lovely oak door to the only apartment on the landing. The room that met Steve’s gaze was an instance of comfort. It looked rich, expensive certainly, but the styles of the decor were distinct to his taste. None of the minimalism that dominated Stark Tower. Tony made a nose on the back of his throat, something of a protest. 

“Why the hell is Tinkerbell living in a Noir movie?” he said, voice scathing.

Edward gave Tony an amused look.

“I believe it was to Rose’s taste, Anthony. Penelope just grew to love it and refused to modernize when it came time to be her choice.”

“Please don’t tell me that’s her phone? Who even owns a land-line these days?”

A soft record played- Steve knew it was a record because his enhanced hearing could catch the faint scratch as the needle went around the ridges of the record. It wasn’t something he recognized, but the faint throaty voice of the woman garnered his approval, as did the faint melody of guitars.

“ Oh, dreamboat Annie, ship of dreams... ”

It was a beautiful, unique place. Lush and incredibly strange to see in the attic of such an expensive home. The strange glint that Steve had caught on the top of the building made sense- part of the roof had been replaced by glass, as well as part of the walls. It let in a startling amount of light. 

“Duckie, love where are you?” called Edward, over the music, voice strong and even.

“With the berries, Eddie!” came the faint yell, “The rest of you better remove your shoes, the grass doesn’t like shoes!”

The Team looked at each other in bemusement, before they all went to remove their shoes.

It was obvious to Steve, as Eddie Carter watched Penelope Powell for a moment, that the older man( younger technically ),  was very fond of the young woman in front of him. His brown eyes, painfully like his older sister’s, were warm and he lit up as he found her amongst berry bushes, her hands glowing as she weaved in a beautiful dance of graceful arms. Penelope eased her glow before she turned back to them.

“It’s Garden Day, Edward Carter,” she told him, plainly, raising a delicate brow.

Her face was bare of makeup, her hair was arranged in whimsical double buns atop her head, and she was dressed in the shortest pair of high-waisted demin shorts, he had ever seen, and a loose flowing top that did not quite cover her middle in a bright blue. The only jewelry she wore was a thorn, rose cuff on her left arm. Clean of starches and bruises, not an ounce of ash or dust on her, Steve realized how young the woman he had willingly dragged into battle, how small and out of place she had been. This was where she belonged, amongst vibrant greens and fruitful bushes, vivid flowers. Vaguely, he remembers his Ma’s tales of Ireland’s lush, rolling hills and the fae folk that lived there, if it weren’t for the modern clothing and her sliver bracelet, it was as she had stepped right out of them.

“I am well aware, Penelope. However, I consent that your guests are not the type to turn away.”

The girl gave a faint smile, rubbing her hands in her shirt before she went to the beautiful phonograph and removed the needle with care, letting the record spin silently to a stop. 

“Welcome to the Rosewood, Avengers,” she said, carefully walking forward, going to a small tap on the wall to rinse her dirt-covered hands.

“Tinkerbell, ” said Stark in greeting, grinning as he perched his sunglasses in the collar of his shirt, “What’s the significance of the fact that you’re living like Murder, She Wrote? I mean, a phonograph, really?”

She gave a faint shrug.

“Less electronic components. Mostly magnets. It hasn’t broken since I moved here, Tony.”

“J.A.R.V.I.S, make a note of that download a comparative list of similar technology to see what we can cook up. Also, Queen Penelope has a taste of the seventies with Heart . Another upgrade, get her to listen to some stronger stuff.”

“Already noted, sir,” responded a broach on his jacket.

Steve wondered if the man never went anywhere without the A.I.

“I’m making you a stereo system. As soon as I can make you a smartphone and a laptop.”

She gave him a bemused smile.

“The list keeps growing. Is my lack of technology such a personal affront to you?”

“Physically giving me ulcers as we speak.”

“What’s wrong with Heart ?”

“Nothing. But obviously we can improve your taste to lean towards some AC/DC. Black Sabbath. That kind of stuff.”

“You are such a guy mullet head.”

Tony actually smiled. Wide. Genuine at her response.

“Look at that. Tinkerbell has a spunk.”

Iron Man 3:

Thor 2:

Winter Soldier: 

In The Light

“Wait, please wait,” called out the Second Objective.

It shouldn’t have made him stopped him. But somehow the soft cry made him stop and half turn. She had the Target’s head in her lap, and was clinging around him, her chest heaving. She was lit, just like his mission briefing had described, her hand pressed into the Target’s cheek. Healing him, making him able, fit to comply. 

It looks like she’s on fire.

The thought was his own, unfiltered and coming from the back of his mind. His hand half twitched and he wanted to reach for his gun to neutralize her. She had the caplities to wake the Target. And then he would have to fight him. Complete his mission. If he shot her in the shoulder, she would be pushed back, and possibly delayed with her own injury while he finished the most prioritized part of his Mission. Than he would take her, complete the Second Objective of bringing her back to his handler. The Asset turned completely towards them, the Target and his Second Objective, metal arm reaching for the gun still slung on his back. 

Till the end of the line.

The Asset blinked, fiercely confused, head pounding. I don’t want to kill him. Another stab of pain shot through his head. His orders were clear. But he was unable to comply. I don’t want to. His breathing accelerated, and he froze stiff, looking at the Second Objective as she stared back at him.

“I… You saved him?”

The Asset stared before he gave her a firm nod. He could give that confirmation. The Second Objective bit at her lip, before letting out a shaky breath. Carefully, keeping her gaze focused on her, the Second Objective hand left the Target’s face and she eased his head gently onto the ground. Than she extended her hands out in a gesture of submission and got to her feet in slow, careful movements.

“ ‘Till the end of the line,” the words slip out, and the Asset’s head throbs.

“Thank you, Sergeant Barnes.”

You’re name is James Buchannon Barnes.

The title rang in his head. Another stab of pain. He reached for his gun, baring his teeth.

“Don’t call me that.”

It was almost as suffocating as being called Bucky.

“Alright. Okay, I get it. I’m sorry. I… You must be really confused at the moment.”

Yes.

“You’re going to run.”

The Asset gave the Second Objective a nod. He was going to flee. Process the new information given to him, assess the parameters of his Mission. I’m going to understand who the hell I am.

“I- I know you may want nothing to do with him. But- But you just don’t understand who he is to you-”

“He is my Target.”

She stared at him, eyes large and filled with something he couldn’t name.

“You know that isn’t true. You wouldn’t have saved your Target.”

The words rang true, echo in his head. Till the end of the line. The Asset shook his head.

“No. I shouldn’t.”

“But you did.”

His heart rate was higher then his usual parameters. As was his breathing. But the Asset let it all happen, not bothering to correct the unbalance. I don’t want to comply. All of that is an echoing voice in his head, growing stronger over the chorus of Till the end of the line.

“I did.”

She stared at him, these big large eyes that look like violet candies in the sun. Her face indicated complex emotions, mostly elation.

“ Good . Look, I know that you’re going to leave, but he’s going to try and find you. He’ll go through hell and back to find you again.”

“Is that a threat?” he wondered if he should neutraliz-

“It’s a promise. I think you are going through after all that’s happened. Your energy is insanely muted, but fluctuating wildly at the moment. I think you need to be away from people for a while while you get off whatever drugs they have you on.”

He stares. Drugs. Characterized as a medicine or other substance which has a physiological effect when ingested or otherwise introduced into the body. He thought of the usual packet of pills and liquids that he consumed before each Mission, and after every moment in the Chair. 

“And… And I know you might not want to speak to Steve after this. But you may want to. In that case,” she reached for her hip pouch, and automatically he lifted his gun to point straight between her eyes. She kept moving and took out a flat piece of paper, no bigger than her small hand, and held it out to him, “When you’re ready you can have a place to contact him with.”

He stared. Before he darted forward and grabbed the card. He doesn’t know why he took it, doesn’t know why he doesn’t snap the Second Objective up or why he isn’t shooting his Target in the head while he lays down unconscious.

“Be safe,” she told him, seriously.

“You be safe , James Buchanon, you promise me.”  

A woman’s voice in his head. Soft and warm and fierce. It’s an echo of the Second Objective’s plea for him.

The Asset flees.

Doctor Strange:

What Was Once Lost

“They’re heading for Medical!”

Penelope.

The Man with the red cape extends his hands, as glowing orange and vivid, some sort of Enhanced energy manipulator than, the glass above Penelope’s bed is ripped off and smashed against the far wall with a horrific crash. Bucky gives a sound like a wounded animal, metal arm whirling and pounding against the strange yellow energy field, but its no use. It bent around his arm but it doesn’t break.

“Strange,” called the heavy-set Asian man, sweat on his brow as Steve lifted his shield to pound against the energy field, “Maybe we should explain-”

“Give us a minute, Wong!” cried back the man, rushing to the bed, “We don’t have time to fucking explain!”

His hands, scarred and trembling, start to undo the wires keeping her alive.

“YOU’RE GOING TO KILL HER!” Is Tony’s hysterical scream, and Steve threw his shield with a war cry that came from deep in his chest.

He’s tossed back, back cracking horribly at the impact as he hits the wall, but Steve doesn’t care, getting up, reaching for his shield in wild desperation. PEN.

“Come on, come on!” said the man in the cape, Strange, desperately, waving his hands in an impatient motion, ripping the last few connections that Penelope has to her life support.

“NO!” he bellowed, hoarsely, desperately.

Strange ignored him focused completely on his task, taking a step back as Penelope’s chest, which had been lifting up and down, started to slow down. Strange raised his hands, sweat on his brow as they start to glow, flashing vividly in different colors. Penelope was lifted off the bed, her long black hair swirling in the energy of Strange’s abilities, her small form coming closer and closer to the man as he spoke in a strange tongue, gesturing around her body.

“Stop!” called Wanda, desperately, jolting forward to drag Steve away. Pietro came on his other side gripping a struggling Bucky, “Please! They have no ill inte-”

Penelope started to glow. Just like before. Beautiful. A comet of shifting incandescent colors that hovered across her skin.

“Come on Elvira!” cried Strange, happily, his voice thick with emotion, “Come home!”

The colors stopped on Strange’s part. He is thrust back, nearly hitting the wall, but is caught by the red cape. He’s beaming, however, as Penelope’s eyes open for the first time in months. Steve’s breath caught. She blinked, rapidly, still glowing, hair swirling around her with the force of it. The thin, simple white dress that Natasha had dressed her in that morning tangled about her legs, and for a moment she looked straight out of an old painting, mystical light around her with a blank, beautiful face and the mass of black curls that moved about her. She still floated in air like the angel she is and Steve’s heart nearly stuttered to a stop.

Then, slowly, she gained a smile, soft, warm and Steve can’t help the strangled sound that escaped his lips at the sight.

“I thought we agreed that I was Ruth, not Elvira,” she said, softly and her eyes are on Strange.

Strange gave a roguish grin, walking forward before his hands, still trembling settled on the curve of Penelope’s waist as if he has every right to do so.

“I don’t know. You’ve kept throwing books at me, Poltergeist.”

She laughed, full and warmly, throwing her head back, curls floating with the movement. Strange’s eyes followed the movement, lingering on the pale stretch of her delicate throat as she laughed freely and with no abandon. His lips parted in desire, or joy, or something that made Steve’s heart crack. Its achingly familiar and Steve watched his girl place her hands around another man’s neck carefully and with comfortable affection. She leaned forward, forehead on Strange’s as he looked up at her in such a damn happy way.

“Hey Doctor Weird,” she mummered, her voice growing hoarse as tears escape her eyes, “You found me.”

“An entire multiverse to be lost, and you happen to be upstate from the Sanctum. How lucky are we? I found you,” his voice grew thick, and he laughed, happy and wet.

Penelope laughed with him, crying for a hot beat before she angles away from Strange. The man kept his hands on his waist, lingering in a possive way that has something burning in Steve’s stomach.

“Wong!” she cried, and then she floated away from Strange in a startling smooth move, not at all clumsily as she was prone to do when she glowed. Steve doesn’t miss how Strange’s hands lingered in the air where Penelope had been.

She goes to the other man with flurry of light and limbs, tackling the heavyset man. The yellow shield fell unceremoniously as they fall back with the sound of Penelope’s laughter. She kissed against the man’s forehead and each of his cheeks.

“You found me!” she cried, again, elated.

The man, Wong gives a slight huff, sitting up with a lapful of Penelope.

“I’m going to miss you floating through the library walls, young one.”

“You mean you’re going to miss our Midnight Beyonce Bashes,” she corrected, sternly.

The man flusheed but returned Penelope’s beam with a small smile.

“Doctor Weird,” she said suddenly, floating up and vibrating with energy, “Christine has to know! Call her, text her!”

“I’ll do you one better, Poltergeist!”

He made odd motions with his hand, glowing orange that lingers around his rings. A hole in the air appeared, swirling mass of orange. A woman in medical scrubs, pretty, tall and with auburn hair stood in front of it, hands on her hips and tapping her foot.

“Doctor Stephen Vincent Strange I told you to stop sling ringing when I’m on shift!” called the woman, irritated, she glared at the caped man.

Doctor, apparently, Strange gave another grin.

“I never promised you that, Christine. But come meet our favorite Poltergeist.”

The woman, Christine looked around him, face pissed off before it melted into sheer surprise, as Penelope gave a wave, wigging her fingertips.

“Oh my god!” screeched the woman, jumping through the hole with no thought, running to Penelope.

Penelope met her half-way, hugging at the taller woman with a happy laugh.

“You’re alive agai-”

“Wasn’t dead-”

“Stephen actually managed-”

“You helped-”

“I’m so happy for you! How’s your memory now that you’re back in your body?”

“It’s-”

“Pen?” Steve can barely stand it, voice hoarse and disbelieving.

Penelope froze, turning toward him. She stared, face uncomprehending for a second before it all seemed to hit her.

“Steve? Steve… Oh, Steve! ” she cried and she flew out of Christine’s arms straight into his.

Steve barely has time to register it before her lips crushed into his, pressing darkly, hungrly into him. He pressed back with equal fervor, uncaring of the tears that ran down his face because his girl is awake and in his arms- She pulled back, but Steve doesn’t let her leave the circle of his arms, not for a hot second-

“Steve, Steve,” she chanted, desperately, pressing flush against him, hands reach for his bare skin. He lets her touch, he let’s her feel all of him with no reluctance, reaching for the smooth skin of her bared back in the dress, curling her closer as physically possible, “Steve, Steve.”

She sobbed helplessly, and Steve isn’t far behind.

“I got you doll, I got you.” 

“It- I couldn’t remember. I couldn’t remember anything but I was looking. I was looking for what I lost and- Oh God Steve, Steve!”

“Sssh. I got you sweetheart.”

Chapter Text

Brooklyn, 1 June 1939

Steve Rogers is on his way home, back aching, having spent the last few hours hunched over a small desk, stuffed into a supply closet with a single flickering bulb as his light source. His hands were stained with the cheap drawing ink his boss, Mister Acker favored, and his eyes were a little achy from all the focusing on the illustration he had been making in the dim light. Under his arm, he has a beat-up case that had been his Ma’s Nurse bag back in the Great War, holding all of his drawing things. It’s heavy, heavier then he’d ever cared to admit, and sometimes he wished Mister Acker would just let him leave it at the office. It wasn’t as if Steve had much time to do much personal Art at home. He was mainly focused on catching up on some sleep before his few commissioned art projects before he was due at the Newspaper, before starting the cycle all over again.   

 The air was sweltering, sort of heavy on his tongue, sweat rolled down the nape of his neck, matted in the longer than comfortable hair there. He made a mental note to ask Rebbeca if she could trim it. Bucky’s little sister was a whiz with scissors, being a seamstress and all, and she been cutting Steve’s hair since his Ma died. She did it for free, even though Steve wished she would charge him for it- but she argued that if she cut Bucky’s hair for free, she might as well do the same for Steve, “ ‘Cause you’re much as a brother to me as this mook, Stevie.”

  He absently kicked at a pebble, wondering if Bucky was finishing off his work at the shipyard. It was late, near one in the morning when he had last checked the fine clock hanging over the door of the many desks belonging to the reporters, and Buck usually ended his shift at the shipyard around twelve. Unless Bucky managed to weasel his way into another shift, again. More and more he had been doing that, saving up money, for what, Steve didn’t know. Steve was honest enough to say that he was jealous of the money Bucky brought to the house, with his job, he barely made it to his half of the rent. 

If he was home, Bucky probably had their version of breakfast already cooking in the apartment. The last slab of bacon they had been able to buy was no doubt already fried up, and much as Steve hated cold bacon, he was gonna eat it. He hoped they had some eggs left. The duck’s eggs were hard to come by, but they didn’t make Steve’s lips and throat swell like a balloon. They bought old Mrs. Wong, when she had some to spare and were probably the most expensive thing that filled the tiny Fridgeair his Ma had left to him. Bucky claimed he hated chicken eggs, but Steve knew that Bucky only said that for his sake. Bucky did a lot of things for Steve’s sake, and while Steve appreciated the loyalty his best friend showed, he couldn’t lie and say that he felt all sorts of shit for it too. He could never do anything on his own- It was always with Bucky or with Bucky’s help. 

Steve pulled his leg back and kicked the pebble extra hard. It went skittering into the alleyway between Mister Murphy’s Newspaper stand, Brown’s laundry and the O’Conner’s grocery store. Bounced off the trashcans there, and Steve’s eyes automatically followed the rock as it dinged against the metal.

Steve Rogers got the light show of his life just a second afterward.

It was bright, flashing and flickering through what he assumed were different colors. Automatically, he dropped his Ma’s case, threw his hands up. But even then the light seared his eyes and made him stagger back with a swear. It was over in a minute, and blinking away bright spots in his vision, Steve staggered to brace himself against the wall of the Brown’s laundry, blinking back tears.

What the hell?

That’s when he heard a shallow, rattle of breath. At first, he thought it was his own because that’s what he sounded like in the middle of an asthma attack than he realized it was coming from the alley, ‘cause his heart was beating like a drum but his breath was as steady as it could be. Blinking back spots, he sucked in a startled breath. 

There, sprawled against the O’Conner’s trash cans, was a girl. She was dressed from the neck down in a strange-looking armor, honest to goodness armor, chest plate-like pale chrome, a glass looking thing in the middle, shaped like a seven-pointed star. It was cracked, dull, and sort of looked like the inside of a lightbulb that had burned out. But a lot more complicated . Underneath her pale chrome armor, she wore a fabric, just a shade darker. Most of the fabric was ripped and torn in places, even looked burned. 

She looked like she belonged in the pages of Bucky’s sci-fic dime novels, like an alien warrior.

Then he realized as he stared, mouth gaping at the sight, she was the one that had breathed like she was having an asthma attack. At the corner of her dark lips, a trickle of blood was making its way, and Steve, not even thinking, was already half-way to her, eyes wide. He dropped to his knees next to her, hands trembling as he went through what his Ma taught him. Carefully, he unhooked the glass sort of covering, like a pair of corrective lenses, cracked and warped across her face. He stuffs them into his pocket, checking carefully, pushing down the surprisingly, stiff pale fabric for her pulse. It was slower then what he knew was normal for a person, a human- Sweet Mary I think I found an alien- and her breath was defiantly labored. But Steve didn’t know what to do beyond checking for that. Or if this was normal or not.

“Miss?” he asked, carefully, desperately.

At his voice, short, dark lashes fluttered. Encouraged, Steve called out again, pulse rabbit quick, as her eyes opened. She had light eyes. Light, round eyes surrounded by short lashes, liquid and sweet looking, and not for the first time, Steve wished he could see color. He wondered if her eyes looked like with color. If they were blue or brown or green as Bucky had described to him. She had a sweet, pretty face, like a fae, sharp but delicate, full lips and devastatingly young looking. The armor contrasted incredibly with her face, with her short stature. She was only a little taller than him, he could see, sprawled out as she was.

“Sokovia,” she whispered, her voice soft and hoarse, “Is it gone? I... I tried so hard to stop it. Was it enough?”

Steve felt his brow furrow, confused.

“Um, I’m not sure, ma’am. Don’t right know what Sokovia is.” 

Confusion marred that pretty face. Desperately, the girl tried to sit up.

“Don’t you’re hurt-”

“Is Ultron defeated?” she asked, desperately, hands reaching out to grip his hands. 

Steve felt something, like a warm blanket, settle over him. Her hands were surprisingly soft, and felt frail to him. She blinked, brows furrowed.

“Steve?” she asked, confused, “Steve Rogers?”

He stared, fascinated, confused and utterly scared spitless that this dame had managed to learn his name by just touching him, skin to skin. She pulled back, sharply, those light eyes blown wide. Her breath got quicker, rougher, and more blood startled to trickle down her chin, out of her plump mouth. She sat up in a swift movement, and that’s when Steve noticed the vivid gash bellow the chest plate, dark and stained with must’ve been her blood. She heaved, pressed her hands sharply into her wound, putting pressure on it.

Quickly, just like his Ma used to do in the face of the harshest attacks, he pressed his hands on either side of her soft face. His hands were large enough to cup her tiny face completely.

“It’s alright,” he told her, “It’s okay, just breath. Follow my inhales and exhales.”

The girl did as he asked, eyes wide and focused on him. He kept his breathing as evenly as possible, a feat in itself, but here was someone who needed him to do it.

“You’re… You’re Steve…. Steve Rogers,” she whispered, voice softer, less hoarse, and less confused.

“That’s right. I’m Steve. That’s a nifty trick, being able to know my name by touch,” he told her, seriously.

Those large, liquid eyes blinked. Her plump lips parted.

“You’re… You’re a good man,” she whispered, and he was shocked by the fact that she started to cry.

“I’m trying to be, doll,” the endearment passed his lips without his mean. Her breath stuttered for a beat, and he soothed his thumbs carefully on the arch of her cheek. Her skin was softer than soft, like newborn skin, “Helping ya out and all. Ain’t every day a pretty girl appears in a flash of dazzling lights...”

She blinked, tears still running down her face.  

“Now, I want to help ya, but you’re hurt, and I figured you can’t exactly go to the hospital?”

She shook her head. She had dark hair, a riot of thick curls past her shoulder blades, the remains of a complicated braid half out, a dark tie hanging precariously on a curl, whipped back and forth at the violent motion. 

“... It’ll be fine,” she whispered, “I just.. I just need somewhere safe to be for a few hours.”

“Ain’t much, but I got a place a couple of blocks from here. We take the back alleys, and I bet no one will see us.”

“Yes… Please.”

Steve picks up his Ma’s case, ‘cause he has to and he helps the girl to her feet. She’s heavy because of the armor, there’s blood dripping, but she doesn’t seem to notice. They make it, by some miracle, back to his shared apartment with Bucky, unseen. And he’s breathing a sigh of relief at the fact that all the lights are out. Bucky isn’t home yet. He helps the girl all the way up to their third-floor apartment and brings her to the beat-up sofa, chest heaving with the effort. She collapses with a whine in her throat.

“I’m sorry,” he tells her, blinking at the odd sight of an armored girl in his apartment. She licks her dark lips, grimacing at the blood, no doubt.

“Did... Did you see any glasses with me? A Visor-” she swipes the space around her eyes.

“Um, this?” he digs it out, relief is clear in her eyes as she extends a bare hand for him. He notices with a blink that those tiny fingernails are painted black, strange and almost rebellious. Most gals he knows to use a varnish that matches their lipstick, shades pale or if there more daring, something darker. But not black.

“Thank you.”

She smiles, pretty and soft and Steve feels his stomach flip despite himself. She places the visor back where they were, adjusting it carefully by her left ear.

“F.R.I.D.A.Y.?” she called carefully.

He jumps as lights go across the cracked surface, different shapes, flickering, but obviously working.

“Yes, Boss-lady?” the voice is sweet, feminine and light. It comes from the visor, and it makes him jump again.

“Can you take off the STARDUST suit, please? My reactor is dead so I can’t do it myself.”

“One stripping, coming right up, Tinkerbell. Please stand up.”

She looks up at him, Tinkerbell, the fairy from Peter Pan.

“Will you-”

Wordlessly, scrambling, Steve helps her up. With a mechanical whirl, the ‘suit’ is off,  condescending down to what looks vaguely like a suitcase, almost innocent looking. Leaving her in that skin tight light suit and what looked like soft boots without a heel. She is smaller than he thought, the suit giving her extra height. She is actually shorter than him, with the armor off, she sways, and again, Steve helps her onto the sofa, laying her down. The gash in the suit seems less bad, long and across the soft skin of her stomach, but less deep.

“You okay there? Your pulse rate is abnormally fast, indications of several broken ribs, a stomach wound, and internal bleeding indicate you are functioning at about twenty-nine percent efficiency,” said the voice, F.R.I.D.A.Y.

“I… I’m okay. I need a sec,” she said simply, hand squeezing Steve’s arm. 

Steve jumped, back, rubbing his arm at the sparks that danced there. Without her suit, the young lady looked halfway normal, if dressed a little strangely. He blinked, broken ribs, internal bleeding, twenty-nine-

“You’re really hurt,” he said, stupidly.

The girl stared at him, nodded softly.

“Yes. But I’ll be okay.”

“Doc Smith lives up the road,” he blurts, panicked, “He won’t say much to anyone if ya pay him. Beats the hospital-”

“Steve-”

“Won’t take me more than five minutes if I run, and-”

“Please, don’t leave me alone.”

Her words stop Steve short, blinking rapidly at the crying girl in front of him. She reaches out a hand, weakly, an invitation. Hesitantly, he reaches back. Places a hand in her’s, and it's that same warmth, gentle and feels wonderful. She lets out a breath.

“I… I will heal on my own,” those light eyes stare at him with a desperation that takes his breath, “But I can’t- I need you here. Please, Steve, stay.”

Numbly, Steve nods. Is stunned when the girl drags him to the sofa when her other hand reaches out to grab his other hand. She sits up with a grimace, grinding her teeth and trying to breathe deeply, in and out through her nose. They sit facing each other for a beat, her breath shallow still, his a little faster than normal, along with the beat of his heart. Hands still held between them.

“F.R.I.D.A.Y., can you give me a rundown on what happened?” she asked, softly, squeezing Steve’s hands. Her’s trembled, so Steve squeezed back.

“Steve Rogers is present, would you like a complete report anyway?”

Steady light eyes looked at him. She was looking for something, something in him and she seemed to find it as she nodded.

“Yeah, and give me a status on STARDUST armor, F.R.I.”

“You got it, Tinkerbell. Self-repair is occurring with a STARDUST suit,” said F.R.I.D.A.Y., voice cheerful, “System damage indicates that total suit shut-down occurred when you reached past your normal limits in the Battle for Sokovia. Ultron’s device and your powers caused you to reach a similar event in what the closest approximation we can make is the Bifrost, however, it also caused a quantum change. Approximate local time is 2:15 am, location, Earth, Brooklyn, New York, the current temperature is 92 degrees, humidity 70 percent, and the local date is June 1st, 1939.”

The girl sucked in a startled breath. She looked at him, eyes wide. She licked her dark lips.

“F.R.I.D.A.Y.? Any suggestions on how to go forward,” her voice was higher, panicked.

“Three actions suggested. Wait for the Team to find a way to repeat the event. Call for Asgardian assistance. Or, find a way to mimic the event yourself.”

She laughed, slightly hysterical.

“HEIMDALL!” She called out, loudly, “HEIMDALL A LITTLE HELP!”

She was looking up, desperately but nothing happened.

“Asgardian assistance unachieved. Options one and three still open.”

“Will attempting option three kill me?”

“Probability of death at one-hundred percent. The reason you did not die in the first place is still unknown.”

She blinked, hunched forward, breathing rapidly again. Automatically, Steve reached forward and placed his hands on either side of her face. He eased his own breathing, and when she looked up with her large eyes, filled with tears again, and gave Steve a weak smile. He returned it.

“It’s okay… You’re friends are gonna find you, take ya home,” he felt his pulse hitch up when she pressed her face into one of his hands, turning her head to hide her tears, “In the meantime, I got a bed that is calling your name, sweetheart, and you can figure this out as you go-”

“My name is Penelope.”

“That’s a pretty name, Penelope.” And awful normal for an alien girl. Is she translating that for me?

She turned to him. Gripped his wrist in her small hands. She stared with those large liquid eyes that dazzled like the stars she came from.

“You would really let me stay?”

He finds himself hot in the face, but he nods.

“You look like ya need the help.”

“Will you let me take a shower? Because I am covered in sweat and blood and Thor knows so much Ultron oil it isn’t funny.”

“Bucky’s sister Rebbecca left a nightdress last time she was over- and a couple other things. She’s a little bigger than you, but I think you can make it work. The shower doesn’t have much warm water though.”

“Bucky?” the question in her eyes was there.

“My roommate.”

“Won’t your roommate question why a strange girl is in your apartment?”

“Frankly, ma’am, I think he would just be impressed,” his words spilled out, and it suddenly occurred to him that could be considered flirting, or invasive.

Penelope surprised him by laughing.

“Okay. Can you show me the way to the restroom?”

Steve blinked at the sudden ease in which Penelope stood up. And goggled at the fact that the gash on her stomach was all but gone. Just a raised scab along her trim stomach. Yeah, she’s from outer-space alright, even with a name like Penelope.

1 June 1939

Bucky expected a lot of things, when he finally came to his shared apartment around six, wishing for coffee, but resigned to some cold bacon and burnt cornbread toast.

He did not expect a pretty little dame sitting down on his sofa, wearing Rebbeca’s spare dress, her lips a pretty and real red, shapely legs without stockings, a cream expanse of alabaster skin, curled next to her but visible, with black hair that was set in curls all about her face, a little bit past her shoulder blades. He blinked, willing the vision to go away, especially when she turned towards him, no doubt having heard him unlock the door. She had wide, gorgeous eyes that were violet , soft and clear, and around those eyes was a slight slash of black liner that flared at the end, emphasizing that fantastic color. She was all extremes, slight, delicate with a large curved and plump bottom, but waifish, large hair and bright eyes and dark lips.

She was a sight. Not fashionably beautiful, but something that made ya stop anyways. Something unique and peculiar.

And Steve was looking at her with awe and delight in his eyes.

“Morning Buck,” he said, sheepishly.

Well, I’ll be damned.

Pretty girl smiled a sweet thing that was timid and a little on the small side.

“You must be Bucky, the roommate,” her voice had a delicate quality to it, and her accent wasn’t from New York. 

“Right on that account, ma’am,” he tipped his cap and gave her a charming grin. “And who ya might be, other than an angel?”

She blinked, lashes short but full, dark as her hair. Her full little lips parted.

“Um, well, I’m the girl you’re friend here saved.”

Bucky blinked, as the girl, looked over to Steve, her violet eyes shimmering with emotion. Steve turned as pink as a rose, shifted from his end of the sofa with a frown.

“I- I just did what-”

“What most people wouldn’t. Save a complete stranger in the middle of the night and offered her a place to stay. I could’ve been a complete lunatic and hurt you. But Steve Rogers ignored that and just helped a girl off the ground and slept on the floor next to her because she was scared.”

Those violet eyes stayed on Steve, her arched brows furrowing together in a small furrow. But her eyes still shimmered. Reminded him of his Ma’s favorite violet candy, that bright of a color.

“Off the ground? Scared enough you needed Steve to watch over you? Ya in trouble dollface?‘

The girl turned back to Bucky, and she gave another smile. 

“Something like that. But I’m scrappy. I can handle a little trouble.”

Why do I have a feeling I’ma have a little trouble myself, doll? Especially with Stevie looking like Christmas and his birthday have come early?

Midtown, 4 May 2012

“Mister Rogers, I think it’d be best if you moved away from the Central Library. Just for a beat.”

“Who is this?” Steve doesn’t recognize the voice, sharp, crisp British accent of a man.

“My name is Edward Carter, and there’s someone important out there in Midtown that could use help.”

“Uncle Eddie? How the hell did you hack this feed?” that’s Stark, and there’s some comfort to know that the voice in his ear isn’t a stranger.

“Never mind that, Anthony, I really need the Captain to go help my granddaughter-”

“What the hell is Sharon doing in the middle of this shit, she was with Aunt Peggy-”

“It’s Penelope. Anthony, it’s Penelope out there. She decided to be a damn hero and help out. Please. Captain, please help Penelope.”

There's a swear on Stark’s end.

“Mister, there’s a lot of people that need help,” that’s Barton next to Steve, letting arrow after arrow loose, voice sharp and exasperated, “We can’t just-”

The name is like a blow to the head, and even though he knows it’s not his wife- Steve finds himself moving.

“You guys hold the fort!” he calls out to both Romanov and Barton, moving, bolting.

“CAP!”

“Thank you, Captain Rogers, please, keep an eye on her. She was at a Bakery called the So Delish , near the library there in Midtown, and last I heard she was heading towards Stark Tower.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll find her.”

“Penelope?”

Steve thought he was seeing things, watching as the small young woman, hands glowing and all, turned over to him.

“Um… Yes?” confused violet eyes, eyes he had spent hours sketching, trying to get the shape just right, stare at him.

There’s no warmth. No recognition. Just confusion and the look of a scared dame in the middle of an Alien Invasion. A strong contrast to the woman he knew. Steve Rogers swallows, heart in his throat.

“You’re Penelope… P-Powell right?” he asks stuttering like an idiot, and at her confused nod, he feels his heart surge. 

He wasn’t wrong then, he wasn’t seeing what he wanted to see in a stranger. Powell was her maiden name. Held it barely a year after she met him, because she’s Penelope Rogers, as far as he’s concerned. He still wears the ring on his hand, and he has his ma’s and her wedding rings on that fine chain she had, next to his dog-tags. He’s confused, because it’s his wife, looking up at him as if he’s a stranger. And then he sees it, going into that pretty blue dress of her’s, that fine chain she had worn every day since he had met her. The one that’s around his neck now, and he’s even more confused-

“Well, I’m Steve Rogers, and-” I love you, I need you, I thought you were dead and it nearly ended me and then Bucky was lost and Jesus, doll, I missed you, “And I think it’s best if you follow me, ma’am. Edward Carter said you wanted to help?”

She licks her lip, that lip he knew were soft and plump, stained presently red by her favorite lip ‘stain’, something she had mourned the loss for, so long ago. He spent ages trying to find a replacement, and he couldn’t find a stain, but he had found this lip-stick she had liked just fine. Gave him a nice kiss for his efforts, his girl, and more. Because of that kiss, he knew those red-stained lips tasted warm and rich like the best thing. Under that grime, that soot and dust, he realizes with a start that his wife was younger. Not by much, for when he had known her, she’s still that clean face and without wrinkle, but there was a softness that had yet to leave her elfin features, a roundness to her otherwise sharp cheekbones. She was twenty-three when they met, three-years older, but he realizes now that he’s older then her- Everything clicks, with a remembrance of her vows to him in that church, “ This time and the next, I love you , Steve Rogers .” 

It was a clue. Your vows were a clue, doll. Oh, I don’t lose you. I get you back .

He thinks of her first appearance, when he thought she was an alien, that was later than the now- She was from the future, not outer-space. Or she’s from the future and outer space. Either way, I get my girl back.

“Eddie sent Captain America to help me?” her voice was dubious, eyes wide.

“He sent Steve to help you. Said you wanted to help,” he corrected firmly, eying that beautiful glow about her hands. Less firm then the hallo he knew from his past, fluttering with disuse. He held out a hand, hesitatingly, Penelope took it.

It was like coming home, and it nearly knocked the breath out of him.

“You’re a good man,” she murmurs, brows delicately furrowed, “Coming to get a wayward mutant girl on the request of a stranger.”

This time and the next, I love you, Penelope.

He felt himself smile, soft and too familiar, he is sure. But he didn’t care.

“And you’re a sweetheart, doll,” he told her, easily returning what was a ritual between them, or would be, Sweet Mary, is time-traveling confusing, “Let’s go fight some aliens.”

Hand in hand, they did just that.

Stark Tower 4th of May 2012

She was human, he realized with an interested hum. She was being checked over by S.H.E.I.L.D. medics, and unlike with Thor, they went about her all normal. It hadn’t mattered to him in 1939, to marry what he thought was an alien. Been too far gone on the thought of her. Been so stupidly happy that a gal like that could turn around and see him. She had her secrets, he knew, STARDUST ( must’ve been Stark’s work, fancy that ) told him that much, and the way she jumped around things he wanted to know of her, but he also saw the true warmth in her eyes as she regarded him. Part of him, wondered, as Peggy Carter embraced her like a grand-daughter if she loved him for the man he had become, instead of the man she had found.

But no. He knew. Penelope had not been with anyone here, in her past, in their future, he knew.

“ Hard to see a dame like you, without a fella, ” Bucky said, a grin on his face.

Penelope snorts, sipping delicately at her coke. Something about that, seeing her enjoy something Steve had bought her sent a bolt of happiness. She drank with a small, satisfied hum. She rolled her eyes at Bucky.

“I didn’t have time for fellas. ” 

Steve felt like an idiot for being so happy about the fact.

“But the fellas had time for you, I bet, anyone sticks out as extra annoying?”

Lips pursed, Penelope’s eyes flickered to Steve, a helpless plea.

“Why you so interested Bucky?” he asked, “You planning to line up?”

He meant it as a joke. But something about his words twisted into fear. Because most girls looked at Bucky. Most girls didn’t mind stepping over Steve for a chance to dance with Buck. 

Bucky flushed, and he shook his head.

“Look, inquiring minds need to know. Just want to make sure you ain’t stepping on any toes, Stevie.”

Steve went hot in his face.

“There’s was one fella,” Penelope said, softly, and Steve’s stomach fell, “He was friendly. Always wanted to help me. But I think he was waiting for something...”

A faraway look. Those eyes focused then, straight at Steve. Brows furrowed. Steve shifted uncomfortably. Then, she smiled, timidly as she did. Soft, as if she was afraid to express joy.

“But he wasn’t my fella. Just a friend that was extra nice... You aren’t stepping on anyone’s toes, Steve Rogers.”

She fell in love with Steve Rogers then, not now, and it was hard to understand as Peggy gave her one last squeeze before she marched straight for him. A frown on her face.

“Peggy-”

“March, Captain Rogers,” she snapped, pointing.

Hands up in sheepish surrender, giving Penelope one last look, Steve followed Peggy into one of the few empty spaces. An office by the look of it. Plastic wrap covered everything, and it reminded him that the Tower was brand new.

Peggy let out a frustrated sigh as she sat.

“Twenty years ago, Rose Lorriane told me her estranged daughter had given birth to a lovely little girl named Penelope Powell.”

Steve’s heart fluttered and ached in the same movement. He was older then her, and his wife had been watched over by one of her own best friends.

“Must’ve been confusing, Peg,” he told her, sitting down with a sigh.

Warm brown eyes looked to him, and she snorted.

“It didn’t become confusing until her powers manifested. An echo, I thought at the time. Similar to someone I once knew. Then I saw her. Met the girl who would become a dear friend, or was already a dear friend. This little scrap of a girl, curls and sweetness. My friend who went missing found nearly fifty years after the fact.”

“Must’ve been a sight. It nearly knocked me over today. Beyond being stupidly happy to see her, I had to fight aliens. It’s been a day, Peg.”

Peggy’s eyes locked on him.

“She’s going to disappear, Steve. From this, for whatever reason, whenever in the next few years, she’s going to go back to our Past. She’s going to marry and love you, and she’ll be gone again. She has not resurfaced since she went missing in 1945.”

“Three years. Sokovia. Against someone or thing called Ultron.”

Peggy breathed, deeply. Her fists curled, wrinkled but impeccably manicured.

“Three?”

“She was twenty-three when we met.”

“I have loved her, taken care of her as soon as I knew who she was… ”

“Thank you.”

“Will you be able to handle being so near her? She isn’t you’re wife Steve.”

“Yet.”

“Yet,” Peggy allowed, lips pursed, “But in three years you are going to have to let her go, Steve. Can you do that?”

“I’m not letting her go. I’ma send her home.”

Sokovia, 2015

“Penelope!”

“I have too, or thousands die-”

Sweet Mary, I never thought it’d be this hard.

“Penelope!”

“I’m sorry! I can’t Steve-”

“Penelope listen to me-”

A helpless sob.

“I’m sorry-”

“Everything you see, it all is supposed to happen-- I love you, this time and the next!”

And in a blaze of dazzling lights, she was gone. And so was Sokovia. She did it, saved those people. Unconsciously, Steve thought of the fact that she was going to be in that alleyway, meeting a skinny little guy from Brooklyn. 

Wakanda, 2016

“Stevie,” a hoarse voice, Bucky, looking tired.

“Hi, Buck.”

“I… I saw the footage of Sokovia. What was Penelope Rogers doing fighting giant robots?”

He grinned, despite himself. Especially the way everyone in the room spluttered.

“She fought cultist nazis, what’s a little robot in comparison?”

“Wait, back up, what the hell did Terminator call Tinkerbell, Rogers?”

Bucky squinted at Stark.

“My mind is a little scrambled for reasons outa’ve my control. But I sure as hell remember Steve’s wife .”

“Captain,” murmured Natasha, eyes flashing, “Care to share with the class?”

“Well, I first met Penelope Powell in 1939. It took a bit but she was Penelope Rogers soon after I met her. She first met me in 2012. I think everyone can fill in the blanks.”

It was Hawkeye who groaned, placed his head between his hands.

“How the hell is this my life?”

Wakanda 2024

Than. There.

“ Hey, Steve, on you’re left. ”

Glowing. Beautiful, beaming.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he calls, waving with Thor’s hammer.

“If we weren’t in the middle of a war I would punch you!” she called back.

“Aw, shucks, come on Pen-”

“1939! I was sent back before cellphones and decent hot water Steve!”

“You barely use your phone-”

“WAR WORLD TWO, STEVEN GRANT ROGERS-”

“Was marrying me that bad?”

“Of course not ya mook,” she curled her words just like he used too, “But I have every right to be cross with you. A little warning would have been nice.”

He grinned.

“I did warn you.”

“You suck!” she called back, a near growl.

“I love you!” he called back, hammer swinging.

Violet eyes gleamed with tears and the promise of a life time.

“I love you! This time and the next you, asshole!”

Chapter Text

Sci-Fi Pal

Steve Rogers was one of those people, one of the people that had either the luck, or the curse, depending on who you asked, to have not one, but two soul marks. It was one of those things. It was either God blessed you with two people who you would complete you, or it was punishment. God had cursed you, God was punishing you by having split your eternal soul not in two, but in three. Torn you apart even further and made it harder for you to feel right. 

His Mama called it a blessing-curse, soothed those thin hands he had inherited from her across the pale hair he had gotten from his father, and kissed against his cheek with a Gaelic lullaby in her throat. Told him in that lovely, melodic voice of her’s that having two people meant more work, more effort to find the other, but when they were brought together the love would make their reunited soul sing, a chorus fit for the angels.

Sarah Rogers was a wise sort, and in Steve’s mind, probably the wisest person he would ever know. 

And much to his Mama’s words, Steve’s joined words came to him both too soon and not soon enough. His first soul mark, his first soul mark was written in a hasty scrawl, rough-hewed block letters that curled around his left wrist, the pale color of words unsaid pearly white(or so people said), a gleam against the slightly paler skin there. It was simple, to the point;

“You always fight people that much bigger than you, punk?”

Steve’s second soulmark was a confusing thing and brought both wonder and frustration to what it may lead to. The pale tissue stark against his pale, slightly darker skin across the left side of his chest, under his heart. It was set in a small hand, large loops and sort of messy. It’s soft curves dipped and curled around his stick-out ribs, followed the bones. It said;

“ Are you okay? Did any part of the laser touch you ?”

Where Steve would meet someone with a laser, he had no idea. But it did give him a faint interest in the science fairs, and comic books. He meets his first part of his soul, funnily enough, just behind the newsstand that he usually picks his comics from. Jimmy Brown is harassing Mister Murphy, the owner of the stand, and Steve, six-years-old, is all sorts of fed up with the older boy being such a crumb. Jimmy pulls him behind the stand, in the alleyway, and starts swinging. Steve is already moving, chest wheezing with the effort, but he won’t stand down. Mister Murphy is a good man, doing good honest work, and Jimmy Brown doesn’t have a right to kick over his magazine rack and get away with it.

He just got a punch to his face, that makes him sees stars, and even his left ear, the deaf one, is ringing, when someone jumps over him, clean and easy, and knocks out all of Jimmy Brown’s front teeth in a single punch. Jimmy runs home crying. The person, a boy Steve’s age but all the more taller, neat trousers, trim dark hair, and pale skin, has the sweetest, deepest eyes Steve has ever seen. The tall boy holds out his hand. It was the one he had used on Jimmy, scrapped over and knuckles bleeding.

“You always fight people that much bigger than you, punk?”

Steve’s heart is already faster than usual, but at those words, his heart goes off like a horse at a gallop. But his mouth is already talking before his mind can register really what was said,

“You always jump into fights that ain’t your’s, jerk?”

The boy blinks, jerks, and gives the biggest, brightest smile that Steve had ever seen. Without hesitation, he pulls off the cuff on his right wrist arm and shows Steve his writing, careful and big because of Steve’s hands shake and he has trouble seeing up close(and far away), and it isn’t pearly white, it’s a dark color and Steve wonders what color it could be. Steve pulls at his sleeve and sucks in a wheezing breath at the sight of his words being dark too, instead of white, and suddenly he’s taking the boy’s hand and he can barely stop his smile.

“Steve Rogers,” he tells the boy, flushing pink at the horrible noise emitting from his throat. He sounds like a donkey or a faulty steam machine.

The boy’s eyebrows smash together.

“James Barnes. Most call me Bucky,” he tells him, “Are you alright?”

“Got… Got bum lungs,” Steve is embarrassed. He’s got more things wrong with then right. He must look awful to the boy, Bucky, in front of him. He’s skinny. He can’t even see color, and what a mess to be for a soul-mate.

“What can I do to help, ya?”

Steve juts out his chin.

“I’m fine. Don’t need help,” Steve doesn’t mean to sound snappish, and he wonders with a wince if he’s gonna chase away part of his soul within five minutes of meeting each other.

Bucky scowls, surprises Steve by pinching his ear.

“Ya tell me right now, or I’ma punch ya too.” 

Steve realizes that his soul-mate is really here in that one declaration.

“You’re a jerk.”

“You’re a punk. Now tell me what to do.”

It’s after Steve can breathe, and after Bucky hauled him up to ride on his back to take him to his Mama because he needs something to ease the big shinner already blooming on his right eye, that Steve remembers to ask.

“You got another soulmate too, right?”

Bucky stops for a second before he keeps moving. He gives out a sigh, one of relief. It’s rare, but sometimes, Soulmates with more than one mark can be the only one in the relationship with more than one.

“Yeah. Right on my ribs, opposite my heart… ‘ Wait, please wait ,’ Haven’t met them yet.”

Steve lets go of the breath he hadn’t known he was holding.

“Me neither. Mine’s on the other side. It say’s ‘ Are you okay? Did any part of the laser touch you? ’. Think we’ll meet them together?”

Bucky tosses a smile over his shoulder.

“I hope so. It sounds like fun. They must be smart if they’re around lasers. Real Sci-fi.”

Steve grins back.

“Our Sci-fi Pal.”

It takes them time to understand, from then on, that their soul marks are romantic. It comes slowly, over time, because they been told again and again that it’s platonic. That they're the best of friends, so much so that they shared a soul. And they are, but one day Steve and Bucky are sharing a coke between them, savoring the rare sugar and the even rarer cold drink and suddenly Steve can’t help but stare at the way Bucky licks his lips. Or the fact that they’re so close, pressed shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip, both only in their undershirts and a pair pants despite the sweltering Brooklyn heat. And something in Steve’s stomach twists, but its the good kinda twist, and suddenly he’s gripping Bucky’s chin and he goes in for a clumsily kiss. His lips barely touch his chapped ones. Barely presses against the fullness and sugary taste of him before he’s pulling back.

Dark eyes are gleaming, and Bucky grins just as he did when they first met.

“Took ya hot minute to finally kiss me. Been trying to get ya to do it since we were twelve.”

Steve blushes, but he’s smiling.

“Thought ya liked dames. You should’ve kissed me then.”

“I do. But I like fellas, too. And if I had kissed ya you would’ve gotten all funny on me. It was up to you whether or not ya wanted more.”

Relief is sweet, interest even more so.

“I like them both too, Buck.”

Bucky pressed another kiss to Steve this time, sweet and firm, lingering longer. When he pulls back, he’s grinning again.

“Hope our Sci-Fi Pal is a dame, then.”

It takes even longer for them to understand that the person they want as the other part of their soul, is late. They’re in their twenties. The War is on the horizon and Bucky enlists and Steve can’t . Something burns in Steve, and he tries again and again. Because he has one soul part missing, and when Bucky goes off to War alone it’ll be two. They try not to think if  ‘ Wait, please wait ,’ and how that could sound like a pleading that means they’re in danger, or if it was the desperation of an enemy telling Bucky to wait for saying their words. They focus on more Science-fairs. And they go to one with two gals that are Soulmates too, and then Steve’s fate is forever changed.

His soul mark by Bucky is a brilliant blue, he knows as soon as he’s a few feet taller and hundred or so pounds heavier, and Steve without a shadow of a doubt that Bucky has the brilliant eyes of the same color. When he looks in the mirror, he knows that pale blue looking back is on Bucky’s skin. 

It’s when they meet again, after Steve saves Bucky and the 107th that Bucky turns to him, looks up at him in their shared tent, if that isn’t the strangest thing to Steve, that Bucky brings it up again, the more sinister nature that their soulmarks carry. 

“I’d always thought it’d be at a science fair,” his voice is still hoarse, his eyes bloodshot, “When I enlisted, I thought it still be at a science fair. I prayed for it.”

Steve felt his heart flutter and then seize at the implications.

“You… You met them-”

“No. But those gun things that Hydra has. Looks awful like lasers.”

Steve swallows, thickly.  ‘ Wait, please wait ,’ ‘ Are you okay? Did any part of the laser touch you? ’.

“We’ll find them Buck,” he tells him, seriously, firmly, “And we’ll be okay. All three of us… ‘Till the end of the line.”

Bucky almost smiles.

“Till the end of the line… I’ma miss ya being the little spoon, punk.”

“Jerk. Maybe Our Sci-Fi Pal is small.”

“One can only hope.”

Steve watches Bucky fall, and its the end of the line. When he’s putting the plane down in the Atlantic, he thinks of  ‘ Wait, please wait ,’ ‘ Are you okay? Did any part of the laser touch you? ’, and he’s sorry. But Steve figures they’ll forgive both him and Buck when they meet in Heaven.

He wakes to the twenty-first century and tries not to think of Bucky or their Sci-Fi Pal he had accidentally left behind. He thinks, maybe, they’re out there, still waiting. But what can Steve do, but only offer a third of the soul they shared, with Bucky gone? And he wonders if they’re out there if whatever Steve and Bucky would’ve said to them is still that unsaid white, and they felt cheated for never meeting the other part of themselves? Or worse, Steve meets them, and Bucky’s words aren’t on their skin at all. Or much worse, Steve and Sci-Fi Pal would forever be staring at pearly-white words Buck would’ve have said and that would never change. How could they live, like that? How could Steve take another person, even if that person was aways meant to be theirs , and let them into where only Bucky dwelt? And Steve knew they would be so impossible old by now, that Steve would only have a few years if that with them and how could he live on with two parts of his souls being ripped away from him? 

Steve thinks all this again when he finally hears, “Are you okay? Did any part of the laser touch you?”

He thinks all those things in one second, but then as this tiny young woman looks up at him, her hands glowing, that she was a tiny thing, looks like a tiny breeze could clear knock her over, but she’s moving with him, she’s helping and when she’s blazing like a star he wishes Bucky could’ve seen her. And of course, the final part of their soul is someone with more bravery then smarts and lives up to their long-held nickname, Sci-Fi Pal without even knowing it by being stranger than him, the scientific experiment. 

It’s after Loki is done, that Steve storms over, with what sounds suspiciously like Bucky cheering him on in his mind, to bare his now violet Mark. Penelope looks like someone had knocked her over the head, and she grins brilliantly if a little shyly. Then she lifts her borrowed shirt, and there his words are, ‘Ma’am? ”, written in a bright blue like his eyes, on her ribs, just opposite her heart.

“Do you know how frustrating it was to have the word ‘Ma’am?’ My Grandmother Rose always reassured me that meant old manners, but I was scared that I would miss that one because it was so generic!”

“Sorry ‘bout that doll- Erm, Miss Powell, Ah Penelope-”

“Penelope is fine… Have- Have you met,” she points to the other words, right under her heart, and something in Steve howls in sorrow and relief and happiness at the words written there in Bucky’s script, ‘ ‘ Till the end of the line. ’ He doesn’t hide the tears that threaten to fall as he shows her Bucky’s mark.

“He’s… He’s gone. Died just before… I was reported to have gone MIA.”

Penelope’s own eyes fill and she slowly presses her hands against his bare chest, and softly looks up a him.

“Will.. Will you tell me about him?” her voice is small, and devastated at the thought of the part of her soul, their soul, she would never meet.

Steve swallowed.

“His name was James. James Buchannon, I called him Bucky. He liked coke-a-cola and chewing on cigarettes, not smoking them. We called you our Sci-Fi Pal, because of the laser part. We went to a bunch of Science things trying to find you. Bucky wanted to meet you… He… He really wanted to meet you.”

Penelope laughed, soft and sad.

“I wanted to meet him too.”

“Sorry sweetheart, I- I should’ve brought him to ya.”

She shakes her head, rapidly.

“You did you’re part… You came to me.”

“Wanna get that pound cake you were going on about, earlier?”

Penelope smiles, tears still going down her cheek.

“Maybe after Shwarma. I don’t think the So Delish is open right now.”

“It’s a date, Penelope.”

Despite the circumstances of their meeting, the aching hole that is their soul without Bucky, Steve thinks that he and Penelope make it work. He learns her, and she learns him. When he is set to go to DC because of S.H.I.E.L.D, she’s already working on fitting a small house on the outskirts that follow the same protective specs as The Rosewood . She asks if he would like to share the home, and Steve is blurting yes before she can say too much about it not being necessary. And they move to small domestic peace between missions.

A ring burns a hole in his pocket for nearly a year.

Because he knows being soulmates does not mean a happy ending. In this day and age, marriage and Soulmate don’t go hand in hand. But he wants it. He wants it so badly that he can barely stand it.

And then the Winter Soldier tries to kill Fury. Tries to kill him.

He almost takes Penelope. In the skirmish, his mask falls off, and the “Who the hell is Bucky?” Breaks his heart. When he tells Penelope, she is pale, confused, and presses her forehead into his forehead desperately, their hands clutching each other’s, “We’ll figure this out, Steve.”

When the Hellicareers fall, Steve thinks he’s dead, and that he never gave Penelope the ring, and then he’s dragged out of the water. 

Penelope is there, and she’s crying healing hands on his face, and he hears her desperate, “Wait, please wait” and in return, he hears, in a dead, monotone voice, ‘ ‘Till the end of the line.’

And then Bucky is gone.

It takes two hours for anyone to find them and it takes Penelope three to get him on his feet. He’s ready, to run for Bucky, bring him home but reason wins out. He’s in the wind. And all trace of him is gone. Steve will find him, but it’s gonna take a while. Penelope has other ideas. She brings in Tony Stark, tells him everything. It nearly tears them apart.

“How could you do that-”

“Tony deserved to know what happened to his parents and Jarvis-”

“You sent him on a man-hunt- for Bucky- He wants to kill him.”

Violet eyes gleam with tears that would usually make him pause, but Steve is furious, Bucky is alive and telling Stark what happened means that he could lose him all over again.

“He’s angry, he’s hurt- He loved his mother and Jarvis- Just give him-”

“ You set him after Bucky. He’s going to kill our Soulmate and you don’t even care . ”

Penelope sucks in a startled breath, and she takes a single step back.

“If you really think so, then you don’t know me at all Steven Grant Rogers.”

And she’s gone. Steve doesn’t know if he regrets his words. Not while he’s trying to stop Stark from going off to kill Bucky, and then somehow, somehow Penelope is the one that talks him down. Penelope is the one that convinces Bucky was a POW, was brainwashed and was as much a victim as anyone. He regrets his words then. Because suddenly there’s no place on Earth that will be unsearched by Stark and though their friendship is even more stilted then before, it somehow survived. 

The same thing can’t be said for his relationship with Penelope. His mistrust had gouged a hole between them. And he can’t find a way to fix it. The ring burns a hole in his heart. But he swears to himself they’ll fix it when they have Bucky. That Bucky will bring them together. Because maybe this was God’s way of saying he can’t give it to her yet, can’t ask that when Bucky is out there and they aren’t completely whole.

He regrets that.

Because when Solkovia falls, so does Penelope.

“I… Please tell Bucky I’m sorry for never having met him properly.”

“Penelope-”

The city falls. But Penelope shines like a star, brings in all that deadly energy and destroys the city before it can even come close to hitting the ground. She saves thousands of lives.

But Steve can hardly be happy when he finds her in the small crater, chest moving up and down, her violet eyes wide open. But there’s no life. There’s no Penelope, in that, and even though her body is alive, she seared away her soul and Steve howls and cries and screams, clutching her to him because his mother had been wrong, his two marks hadn’t been a blessing at all. 

He takes care of her, because what else is he to do, and to his utter surprise, Bucky comes home.

He shows up to the Avengers compound, bypass security like it was nothing and finds Steve with Penelope. Doesn’t say a word, just stares while Steve stares back.

“...I saw… I saw what happened,” Bucky’s voice is hoarse, deeper then before, and darker as well.

Steve knew that him clutching at Penelope’s body and screaming in anguish had gone viral, and there was hardly any person in the world who hadn’t seen Captain America lose his soulmate. 

He swallows.

“She saved thousands of people,” it’s his mantra, his only comfort to what Penelope had done.

Bucky twitches.

“...Should’ve been there…”

Steve stares at him. Anger swells, because yes, Bucky should have been there. Bucky should have done so many-

“But… I ain’t.. Right. In the head. Can barely remeber anything right. It’s all a jumble. Can barely think straight,” Blue eyes, dark, scared, dull, plead from across the room, “What… Did I have words?”

Steve feels tears in his eyes, feels his heart set to gallop at that quiet, desperate question. He tries not to think what Hydra had done to take his and Penelope’s words off of Bucky’s skin.

“ Your words were: You always jump into fights that ain’t your’s, jerk? and Wait, please wait. The responses you gave were: You always fight people that much bigger than you, punk? ‘Till the End of the line.”

Bucky blinks, rapidly.

“ ‘Till the end of the line? I… I said that to her.”

“You said the other words to me when we were six.” 

Understanding dawns. Bucky starts to cry, seemingly without notice.

“We… All three of us belong together?”

“Yeah.”

“Can… Can you tell me about her?”

Something howls in Steve’s heart.

“Her name is Penelope Powell. She likes dirty chai-lattes and likes to grow plants- She really wanted to meet ya, Buck…. Really wanted to meet you.”

Bucky blinks.

“Sci-Fic Pal. We… We called her our Sci-Fi Pal.”

Steve’s vision is blurred and his throat is closed up with emotion, but he manages to nod.

When Doctor Strange brings her back, Steve knew the markless Doctor Wizard, whatever he is, is in love with Penelope. Knows it as sure as anything as she beams and hugs and throws kisses to Strange and Wong alike, Christine is given a similar treatment, and Steve knows the affection isn’t returned. Not exactly, but he knows that Penelope has changed, has forgotten because she is not looking their way.

“Pen?” his voice is broken, his heart is a gallop as she turns at the sound of her name.

Violet eyes, unseeing for a moment. Then they bloom and she is flying towards him, and the kisses she lays against his mouth, his skin feel like Home.

“Steve…. Steve, I was trying to find my way home. Back.”

Then she pulls back, and there, Bucky is staring at Penelope like the dawn after a long night. 

“Hey, doll,” Bucky’s voice is hoarse, barely audible, “You were wrong. I found Steve. And you.”

She reaches for him, and Steve draws them both to his chest. And just like his mother told him, it made their soul sing.

Chapter Text

She dies in the light of the day, heat simmering and burning across her skin. She tries, in that moment, to stay awake, fights the dark that comes across her vision, on the edges, like a creeping moon in an eclipse. She fought death. With all she had, tooth and nail, hands pressed desperately at the stab wounds to her stomach. She had ruined her favorite scarf for it, a silk thing that her mother had bought her, pale lavender drenched in sticky red. Part of her is concerned about the fact that it’s starting to brown. She can’t measure how long she’s been on the ground, her car gone, cellphone crushed next to her. She can only vaguely realize that the sun has traveled far across the sky in the course of the morning, now high and blazing above her.

She’s been out in this desert heat, a small, private driving thing that she took once in while, to breath in the sun and enjoy the solitude, the wind blowing through her long hair with windows down. The hot air whipping about the blonde strands in wild disarray, her scarf whipping with it, the color a stark contrast to the near white of her sun-bleached hair. She felt alive and amazingly free like that, the sun and hot Californian wind with her, her eyes bright and squinting behind her glasses as she made a trail across Death Valley. The freedom it brought, the peace and solitude was this, driving like that.

But all it got her this time is her a man pretending to be injured on the side of the road  and like a moron with too good of a bleeding heart she had pulled over in concern, forgetting for a second that she was just a middle-aged woman that was much too vulnerable, even in the heat of the day.

She fought the injustice of being murdered- she had clawed at his face, even as he was stabbing her, this would be car-jacker, grabbing hair from his bristling beard and digging her nails deep in an attempt for DNA, everything she could. Spitting, bitting, yowling like a wild cat in a way that was quite unlike her. But in the end, he still had about a hundred pounds on her, a weapon and she was just wasn’t strong enough in the wake of that. She feels her life slipping away, in that blazing light of the day. She feels it even as her vision fails her, blocking out the impossibly bright sun. In the end, the last thing she can register is the feel of the heat on her cooling skin and the faint sound of the wind against the dry cracked earth she died on. 

She is born in the evening, a cool and comforting balm, to the harsh breaths and wet gurgles from her own throat, shattering the peaceful dark she had thought was the afterlife. She is startled by the cold, how it contrasted to the warmth that had filled her afterlife, the gentle rocking is replaced by the jarring motion of being moved about quickly-

“ The cord is around her neck! ”

“ NO! ”

Words are shouted, muddled together and unintelligible. She cannot understand, she only can scream in protest and fright at the cold world that has greeted her. But even that isn’t fully realized, as she is just can give a gurgled wheezing sound.

It takes her an insane amount of time to understand that she has been reincarnated.

In her defense, the mind of an infant is so… Limited. Not small. No. Small meant an inherent stupidity. Stupidity implied unintelligence. No. It was limited. Synapses delicate and barely formed, neurons just made, focused on that little central nub that focuses on sensation and development of her tiny, infant body. She cannot form true thoughts, not really, cannot understand the concept of… Thought, really. All her wants, all her needs, her memories… Of self, of mind, are distant and slightly detached. No, her main focus is on eating, the warmth that skin provides, the rest that comes with sleep a frequent necessity for a developing brain that is starting to understand itself, and its senses of smell, taste, sight, and touch.  

Anything that she had been was faded and removed. It is only when she is further along almost a year since the cold day of her birth, that one day, against her new mother’s chest who is wearing this lovely, lavender shirt that she recalls the color. The color of it in the wind, against her hair, blonde and nearly white in the morning sun. The color against the blood of her bleeding torso- 

With the color comes realization, with the realization comes recognition.  

With recognition comes self.

Sayu understands from the beginning that there is something wrong with her older brother. 

It isn’t even the fact that he is… Too much. Too attractive- though that could be explained away with their superior genetics. Too charming. Too kind. Too intelligent in just the right way, an academic superstar. Too athletical. Too perfect, in a way that a human can’t be. He wears it, honed himself in the years before her birth to be all the right things in the way he presents himself to the world that it makes her skin crawl each time he directs his perfect, practiced smile her way. 

No. It isn’t that that makes her realize that Light is a monster in the guise of a wonderful, handsome and genius facade of a boy.

It’s his eyes. They are brown, light, like her’s, softer than most brown eyes, generally lighter then most of the people’s around them in Japan, just like their light brown hair. But there’s… Something there. Something she understands is not natural, in the eyes of a child, a coolness. An edge. She wonders, sometimes, why she is the only one that sees it. She wonders if its because she looks at the world with a changed perspective- She had a universal understanding of where death lead, something unnatural itself that allowed her to see how wrong he was because she was wrong.  

She notices it the first time he looks over her, understanding in her mind of a concept of self.

He peeks over her crib. All cherubic youth. Four years old and devetastingly cute. In her pervious life she would have taken that face between her hands and cooed in delight.

Sayu first sees him hovering behind Light’s shoulder, as he sits down one morning for breakfast.

It’s been only a few days since she’s returned to Japan. She’s been in and out of the house really, getting to know her old stomping grounds, revisiting old friends before she re-enters school at the university level in the fall, having completed her high school education at a younger age than her prodigy of an older brother. She thinks it's almost funny, really, how he had seemed almost… But not quite upset at her course in life as being more academically intelligent than him. He could not show himself as such. He is so determined to be perfect after all. It would have been painful to watch, in anyone but Light. As it was, it left part of her wishing he was more open about his true personality. It was so tedious to deal with an overly polite person.  

She comes downstairs, humming and eager of having a small break between the start of school, eager to relish the break.

She pauses, more surprised than frightened at the frightful tag-along behind her brother. Surprised at the grotesque, grinning painted lips, the corpse like sunkenness of his nose and eyes, the long black wings as dark as night, flaring behind in dramatic fashion. Surprised. But not frightened. The being is not the first death-god she has ever met, not in this life, her very first being at the end of her first one. She, pauses, just enough for Light, ever observant, ever obsessive, to look up, those brown cold eyes tightening for a fraction of a second to her inaction, at her dazed look and just general appearance back in his life.

“Sayu-chan,” he asks, his pitch-perfect in his faux concern, his grip on his chopsticks tight, knuckles strained white, something he does not believe anyone would pick up on. It’s a constant thing of him in regards to her, half hateful, a half-loved obsession he has with her, “Are you alright? You aren’t eating.”

Yellow eyes stare, curious, spiked head of blue hair tilting to the side. It’s a comical sight, the handsome face of her brother, being loomed over by such a grotesque one. Sayu blinks. She smiles easily and bright. Why wouldn’t she be able to smile, after all, after coming back to life?

“Yes, Oni-san,” she says, simply, reaching for rice, calm as ever, reincarnation sort of brings a new level of weird for her, “I was just thinking. I hope I get picked for the local Archery club. It might be a good way to pass the time until classes start.”

He hums, the creature behind him, hovers closer, next to her.

“Light,” it says, voice gravel and full of humor, sending chills down her spine, “Your sister is… Interesting.”

Sayu does not flinch as he looms over her , even as he moves uncomfortably close to her face. Boundaries are a thing of the past with an ever controlling brother like Light. Light frowns but makes no comment. The grip on his chopsticks tightens. Sayu does not move, does not even breath as if she is at all aware of the Death God in front of her. She moves elegantly and without pause to bring all the items of her breakfast together.

“Good morning, mom,” her voice rings out, cheerful and bright, “Have I received any calls from my friends from England?”

“As a matter a fact, you did,” her mother puts her hands on her hips, as if in disapproval, but amusement in her voice.

Despite herself, Sayu flushes, soft and prettily in her skin.

“Oh? Was it him?”

She hoped it was, she finds that she has missed the insane boy who refuesed to wear shoes and constantly badgered her for baked goods. 

Her mother giggles, honest to God giggles and winks at her. Light’s chopsticks snap in half. Sayu turns to him and nearly snorts at the gleeful expression the Death-god has on its face.

“Him? Sayu-chan has a boyfriend,” his voice is touched with teasing, but his eyes seem to flash red.

Sayu gives him a soft smile. Something in his face eases.

“No, I don’t. You’re still my number one Oni-chan!”

Something close to pleasure is on Light’s face.

“I thought I was your number one?” and that’s her father, tired, but still smiling at her.

She gives him an impish smile.

“Can’t I have two number ones?”

“No,” and that’s Light, even and smiling so nicely as he does, “So it must be me.” 

Her father snorts.

“It has to be me.”

Chapter Text

Once there was a woman lost in the Void.

In that endless nothingness that connected all universes, she just wandered. In the Howling hell where the monsters of all those endless parallels and alternates threw and hurled into, a massive collection of the worst of all of them and the unfortunate souls sucked in by an accident or tragedy. It was not black, it was not air, it was nothing, no solid ground and nothing to get your bearings, not even like the vacuum void of space, for even than that had matter, substance… It was just nothing . Filled with both innocent and jailed souls of the multiple creations that the multiverse housed. And within it was this woman, existed, lost, alone and worst, bored.

But, she was not afraid because she was the Bad Wolf.

Her hair was golden by choice and her eyes gleamed with a wild power that was her’s to control. She Howled the song of Time and held the heart of a creature of eleven dimensions nestled next to her’s, even if she couldn’t quite feel it with that lovely, loved creature so far away. She jumped into the Void of her own will because she lost all that was her’s. She had wanted to feel nothing, wanted to die. And she had been tired, alone in a universe that once had so much for her, she had found that she was not strong enough to go on. 

She could not die. She had tried that for about two years… And no force could sever her time-line, could cut her in enough pieces for her to feel the bliss of that last adventure. An end that would never stop was her only option and so she ripped into the Howling hell of nothingness and emptiness once she had found a crack in the endless universe after so many years of searching... 

After sometime she had gone insane.

She had become a creature of raving loneliness and screams. Howling and singing disjointed melodies that clashed and rang out with the power she had held inside her for the thirty years her Pack had been with her, for the hundred she had spent looking for something to take her away. She was a massive swirl of grief and furious golden agony with no clear conscious or sense of the person of she used to be.

She grew bored of that soon enough. 

The Void was not bound to time in the usual sense, it was nothing, so it existed in all times, in all moments, and moved in a linear fashion for everything in it. Nothing rotted, nothing died, nor healed, but creatures did not stagnant. So she turned sane once again and thought, pulling into herself and deeper until she saw all that changes she had caused to herself, all of her power. She saw what ‘creating’ herself had entitled. She started to learn it. Form it to her will and she learned the Song of Time backwards and front and the sideways and across different dimensions. She learned herself, this Big Bad Wolf that Howled the Song of Time and moved about atoms like toys if she so wished to make such an effort.

Then she grew bored of that as well. 

So she prowled through whatever the Void constituted, step by step, her hackles and claws raised in a gleaming madness of golden light. Ready for anything, because she remembered the terrors that He claimed had been chucked into the Void. She refused to falter, to sit back and await the horrors that all the multiverse had decided were unfit to exist. So she prowled and was ready to lash out and defend herself.

She found other things from time to time. Creatures of horrible magnitude. She growled and swiped with her claws and gnashed her fangs. They ran or died. People were few and far in between, sane ones were even rarer. Sometimes the sane people walked along with her, more often than not they walked on. She did not linger either, for she was a lone Wolf, her Pack was lost and some were dead. She wasn’t in the market for more and most of the sane souls of the Howling were very much like her. Lost, alone, and heartbroken for one thing or another. 

Once, she found a crack so thin all she could do was sing and whisper through it, to the little girl she could just make out, hair gleaming like a river of blood. She often dreamed of the entire universe, so bright and vividly that Rose stayed until the crack sealed- Rose went mad after that once again. 

It took her time to recover, and prowled on after she had mourned and turned sane once again. The girl was a fond, fierce memory, and her vivid dreams lingered within her heart so brightly that sometimes she could feel them, feel whichever universe. The stars burning and the sounds of creatures breathing and the smells and sights of a thousand worlds and across supernovas...

Part of her was wandering in the faint feeling of that for a few ‘decades’ or perhaps ‘thousands’ of years had passed her by, but most of her was listless and above all, bored.

One day, she found a hole, an unsealed window that she could walk through in that damn, endless Void.

She howled with triumph and insane joy, the thought of relief of her boredom so close, and pounced through it.

Rose Tyler landed in a crouch, eyes gleaming light and hands outstretched. She stood, carefully, relishing the feel of something for the first time in- well, she really didn't know how long. Hundreds, millions of years? It could be either or just a second, but it felt that long to her. The air smelled foul, faintly of the stink of sweat and an undertone of death that filled this tiny bubble outside of whichever universe she had found. It was slightly unevening footing below her, rough crusted earth, and she could faintly hear the trickle of a thousand voices around her. She blinked, and looked around. It was such a bleak place, but it was beyond whatever she had experienced in the Void so it was glorious. 

“Wolf! My Wolf!” cried a voice, and Rose turned to that sound with a quick, fluid twist.

A woman was running towards her, tripping in heels and over her ripped up Victorian gown. She was a lovely creature, really the loveliest Rose had seen in a long time. Rose had a faint recollection of the woman’s face, as if she had known her when she was very young. Her heart twisted and before she knew it she was running towards the woman herself. They met halfway and the woman kissed Rose full on the mouth. Rose had never been kissed by a woman, but once her lips met her's her heart twisted once again and she found her arms twining ‘round the woman’s thin shoulders. They both broke the kiss at the same moment.

“TARDIS,” she whispered a fog of gleaming gold escaping her mouth.

The TARDIS in human form beamed, tears falling from her eyes in a golden gleam that matched Rose's. She was lovely and perfect, all sparkling and singing song in her mind and next to her heart.

“Wolf. Oh my Wolf you have come back.  You will come back, Coming? Oh tenses are ridiculous.” 

Feral, golden eyes blinked, and narrowed. She feels the TARDIS.

“What has done this too you, squashed you up and chucked you away?” she asked, and her voice was a growl with a sprinkling of golden mist from between her clenched teeth.

“Idris!” called out a male voice.

“Sorry lovely, she's mad you see!” called a female voice.

They were running towards them, and the TARDIS’s song gave a wobble of displeasure, of agony and fear. Rose’s hackles raised, she felt her eyes gleam with her power. She howled, long and menacing and it echoed throughout the small pocket of universe. Made the earth beneath them buckle and shake. The male and female frowned, stopping a good distance away, stumbling in their ill constructed bodies.

“House won’t like this,  Uncle,” said the female, and Rose could feel the sweat and fear and death that emitted from her patchwork body. It was a combination of what the female was feeling and what her body had been made of.

She growled low in her throat, golden eyes gleaming as the TARDIS stepped behind her.

“ I don't like this, Auntie.”

They both hoovered nervously away and Rose placed a protective hold on the TARDIS’s arm behind her. She whipped her head to the Ood attempting to sneak behind them. She snarled and a shower of golden sparks burst from her, the Ood was pushed back. The people made of corpses stumbled back as the wave pushed them back as well. The TARDIS gave a happy laugh, and she did not stumble at the onslaught of the Wolf giving a warning. She merely held on tight, hair and gown rustling as if by a gentle breeze.

“I really don’t like this,” said Uncle, gingerly getting up.

Auntie and the Ood followed suit. They seized up, and from their mouths, something spoke:

“What are you?”

Fangs gleamed.

“I am the Big Bad Wolf. And you harmed her, ” her voice was echoing and deadly.

“I have eaten many TARDISes in my day. I have killed Time-Lords. You, whatever you are, do not scare me.”

Rose howled again and the TARDIS smiled.

“You are a speck of dust. Your atoms? I can divide them.”

“That is if I’m still here for you to do so. Goodbye, Bad Wolf, Goodbye Idris.”

The thing let them go, and the patchwork people stared at each other.

“House has left,” said Auntie, frowning, “Thank you lovely, now we’re dying.”

“I’m against it,” said Uncle.

Rose howled.

“So were the thousands of souls you watched House rip apart, scatter limbs to build you up. So rot,” the death of her Pack had made her less forgiving. The Void had made her old.

And she could feel the thousands of corpses and little voices of the souls that House had devoured and torn apart. His playthings had watched it happened and reaped for their own gain. Auntie, Brother and Uncle collapsed. Dead. Rose turned to the TARDIS.

“You're dying.”

“This body is so small, can't support me more than a few hours, at best. We have to get back to our Thief,” she stated simply.

“Thief?”

“He stole you with just one word, and you stole him with your name. I stole him and he stole me when he was young and when I was already a relic,” she was beaming.

And Rose knew.

“Our Doctor.”

She beamed as well.

“Our Doctor,” she laughed, “You should see the strays he has brought to accompany us, Wolf.”

Good , she thought. No one his age should be alone.

“No. We shouldn't,” said the TARDIS, answering her thoughts.

She smiled again, which Rose returned.

“Sexy,” said the TARDIS.

“Sexy?”

“That 's what our Thief will call me. What I call myself because of him.”

“A boy and his motor.”

“A mad man and his box.”

They grinned.

“We will never talk like this again,” said Rose, and she was sad.

“ We will. This is the only time for the Doctor. You have my heart, Wolf. I have yours. You tore open my heart in desperation and looked so far, so deep, and I did the same. I gave you your fangs, your claws with my heart, and you gave me yours in return, made me understand and love . That connects us beyond anything,” reassured the TARDIS.

 She gripped Roses hand. It was tight and lovely and oh, she would speak with her again but she would never hold her hand again, she knew with a certainty and that hurt . She was not all powerful, she was limited and though Rose had learned that in the Void, now that she wished for endless power she had held for a so short of time when she had been so young, that she could keep her.

“He's leaving with my empty shell.”

Rose could feel that. A tug at her navel. She growled.

“Let's get you back where you belong, Sexy,” she said steadily, because she knew that even if she wanted, the TARDIS was better as a blue box, safe, and nearly indestructible.

Tears feel from lovely dark eyes.

“You as well my beloved Wolf.”

Rose’s golden eyes burned like the sun. A whirlwind of power, time and song. The TARDIS echoed her, and together, they left the shell of House.

“Doctor what happened to the TARDIS!?” said Amy in alarm.

The Doctor felt his stomach drop, seeing the darken console room of the TARDIS. Just like… Just like when he first landed in Pete’s world. Hope blossomed in his hearts, before he crushed it viciously. The chance were a less than .000000000000000001 percent of him landing once again in Pete's World. She wasn't waiting for him outside the doors. She had her life, with… with the other him. She was happy. He wasn’t needed. This was something else. He prayed it was something else...

 This was-

The TARDIS console started to glow, this sickly green color that he didn’t even know the TARDIS could produce, a foul odor filled the air, sucked away the scent of apple grass and TIME. He feels for the TARDIS's song at the back of his head, and he feels a faint note of overwhelming nothing. Panic enters in his chest, claws at it. They slam into the Vortex, clumsily, jarringly, so much so that the three of them end up on the ground.

Rory catches Amy, cushions her fall, the Doctor slams into the jumpseat. His head is jarred and his poor jacket is lost in the tumble. His hand reaches for his sonic, and he hears the familiar whirl as he points it towards the console. It does nothing, only continues to make an empty sound. His stomach drops.

“Hello, Time Lord,” says a voice from the console and overhead, ominous and smug feelings enters his range of telepathy.

The voice echoes in his head with fleeting, greedy emotions. And he realizes with a jolt that it's coming from the entire TARDIS.

“What have you done to my TARDIS?” he calls out, and Amy and Rory crowd around him, at his back and ready for whatever this new thing would happen.

“Fear me Time-Lord. I have killed thousands of your race, eaten thousands of your TARDISes. I am House.” 

Anger and grief burned him. His hearts beat like a drum.

“You've taken away the Matrix. Chucked away her soul!” his fists clenched,  “And now what do you plan to do?”

“Run away. From whatever savage force guards the Matrix,” and here, House sounded afraid, devastatingly afraid. He feels it, the deep dark fear of something that had Howled and gnashed its teeth against him as he tried to recapture the wayward Matrix of his TARDIS. 

The Doctor's eyes narrowed.

“What about us?” cried Amy, clutching nervously at her stomach.

Rory hovered protectively over her, his face set in that of the Roman Centurion that had stood vigil for two thousand years. The Doctor twitched, and intertwined both his hands through their’s. Their grip is familiar but not perfect. No that was a hand that was slightly calloused from her early years of gymnastics, with rings made of metal and plastic and rubber, and a thin, nearly invisible scar running from the bottom of her thumb through the palm. A scar she had from catching Jimmy Stone’s butcher knife with both hands, before she punched him and broke his nose for his attempt to scare her into compliance.

“You? Oh, you are here for my amusement. Run. ”

That word once lightened his war torn hearts. Gave him a brief hold of a light and endless empathy that had soothed his damaged soul. Soothed his mind and tempered his grief and rage and agony of causing so many to be trapped in an eternal struggle of death and rebirth. Now, it reminded him of a tongue-in-teeth smile, of a hopeful time and a damn beach where he lost it all to himself of all people. Now, it just prompted him to start rushing away from the sparking console, hearts pounding with the Ponds at his heels.

“Run, run little Time-Lord. Scurry with your human pets all of inside me,” said House, gleeful and oily.

Amy wrinkled her nose.

“Gross.”

The Doctor agreed, but was more focused on trying to make sense of what House said… He was running,  running from what was protecting the Matrix… Someone was protecting his TARDIS. That could either be very good or very bad , he thought, grip tightening on the Ponds’ hands. They squeezed back, and he tried to think of who would think to even protect the Matrix, of what could even hold the soul for the lack of the better word of a being of eleven dimensions. Nothing but her own third-dimensionally perceived body could hold that sort of power permanently. Nothing came to mind as to what could hold something like that even at a smallest interval. The closest thing he could think of was…

Her . And she had held something sort of near it for twenty minutes tops and he had burned for her. Died and saved her from that fate.

“Doctor what are we trying to do?” said Rory and he sounded worried in that typical way of his.

“I’m trying to be clever, give me a moment,” he snapped,  mind racing.

“Be more clever faster or we are going to become this House’s new toys!” snapped Amy, and she sounded pained as she raced in her low heeled boots.

He growled, turning a corner as House laughed, deep and rumbling.

“Thief! My Thief!” cried a voice, joyous, and he blinked for a second before some woman pounced on him, kissing him straight on the mouth.

The Doctor staggered at her weight. Arms flailing both he and the Ponds stopped in their run. Carefully, he tried to push the woman off. She held tight, beaming at him with her arms like a vice ‘round his neck.

“Idris, how did you get on board?” said House, his voice was tiny and afraid.

The kissing mad lady beamed.

“This is where I am. Was? Belong? Oh, She knows what I mean,” snapped Idris, before she did a full circle, cried out, “Where are you? Oh what is are her irrelevant  name, some protected and beautiful plant. You adore saying it all…”

The Doctor's hearts pounded.

“What?”

Idris turned to him.

“Oh your chin. She’ll laugh herself silly over your chin.”

“Is it here, in me? Answer me Idris,” called House furious.

Idris laughed, golden mist abouts her lips. The Doctor stared.

“Are you afraid House?” she asked voice deadly and quiet.

House laughed, shaky and trying to sound sure.

“I am the destroyer Time-Lords and TARDISes,  what would one mutt do?” he snarled.

“She has, will have taken down Empires when she once so young and without discipline,” said Idris, she snorted, “And you, you are tiny.”

“Who is she?” he whispers, and Idris giggles.

“We stole her. She stole us. She's mine. And your’s.”

Golden eyes flashed, and Idris turned to the Ponds.

“Oh she loved you. Will always love you. You dreamed of the universe so well. Gave her hope and break from the boredom. And you, Pretty! She was your goddess of choice when you were plastic,” she told them, and both the Ponds blanched.

“Idris!” called House.

“Call me Sexy!” she said cheekily, before she launched herself at the Doctor.

He held a distance away.

“Who is she? ” he repeats, “And for that matter who are you?”

“Oh you're silly. Just had to kiss her and she knew. Then again, she was always less daft than you.”

He blinked.

“I’m the TARDIS,” she said simply, and she smiled, “And she? She is the Big Bad Wolf. Our Wolf.”

“That's impossible,” he cried, grip tight on her arms.

“Always liked the impossible, me,” said a soft voice, the accent that had been so prominent before tempered.

The Doctor froze, hearts beating so fast he thought they would leap out of his chest. He dropped Idris’s arms, and looked toward the voice.

She was just as he last saw her, only her blonde hair was long, face just as beautiful, ageless as it had been at 19, but her eyes. Oh her eyes told a different story, Time looked back at him. The same that looked at him when he looked into a mirror.

“Hello,” she said simply.

“Hello,” his voice sounded hoarse, and he felt hot stupid tears come to his eyes.

Rory gasped:

“My goddess Fortuna!”

He half went to bow, before he stopped, blinked as the instincts of that of plastic swayed him. She smiled to him.

“Interesting,” golden eyes flashed, and she came nose to nose to the Roman,  “Did you know the Doctor carved that first statue of me? Oh, how big a girl’s head can get by being labeled a goddess. Don’t bow to me, last Centurian, you hold my eternal respect for standing guard.”

She turned to Idris.

“Come on Sexy,” she smiled, and his knees buckled because it was tongue-in-teeth, “Let's get you where you belong.”

“ ‘Bout time my Wolf. This body is ready to pop,”said the TARDIS, gleeful as she stepped forward. She tugged at his arm, but he was already running.

Towards her, crashed into her ready arms, pushed his face into her hair.

“How?”

“Later, Doctor. We need to get the Old Girl home.”

“She is my TARDIS?”

“What do you call her when you think you're alone?”

“Sex- oh you minx!” he said, grinning as he turned to look at his TARDIS.

His TARDIS, human and smiling brightly at the pair of them. Oh, his hearts were about to burst- as was his mind because how was this possible-

“Doctor,” said Rose, Rose, and even years without him he heard the warning in her tone. He had learned her so well, all those years ago.

“Right, oh I’ve always wanted to say this- Geronimo, Rose Tyler!”

She laughed.

“Alonys my Doctor!” she replied, and grabbed his hand, and the TARDIS, turning to the Ponds, “Come along Centurion, come along Girl who Waited!”

They ran, for the first time, in a long time.

Chapter Text

Chapter One

She was born in the Greenwood, the first elf in more years that many could count born beneath her broughts. In her birth, the very wood seems to sing. Sweet and joyful, proud and welcoming. She wakes to that singing, her head pressed to the roots of the oak tree she has appeared under. It is the oldest tree in the woods, and it is in this tree that it had begun in the first place, deep in the cavern of the palace of the Elevin King, used as his throne and seat. Eyelashes flutter, drowsiness fades as the girl who used to be Evangeline de la Luna finds herself very very surprised.

The tree is singing to me. That’s not normal, is her first thought. Her second is that her last memory was of a speeding truck heading her way.

It had been raining.

And she had jaywalked as she always had, and had only looked up when she had heard  the honk of the horn-

I think I’m dead.

She waits for tears. She waits for hysterics. But the tree’s song is so pretty, so warm and comforting that she cannot bring herself to cry. A hand reaches out, and she is utterly confused to see how small it is.

It isn't the hand she died with.

The same rosey tan, perhaps, but it is small and chubby.

It is then that the hysterics start. Because dying is one thing.

Being reincarnated is another entirely. 

Chapter Two

She stays at the foot of the old tree, crying as it sings gently to her.

Chapter Whenever

She is presented before the King of the Greenwood, or that is what the pretty redhead tells her in beautiful language, soothing down the her hair, fingertips lingering on her now chubby cheeks. 

She is very aware that she glows soft and prettily, and it is, she suspects, because this is not her first life. She is also much more awake then a baby has the right too.

“She looks well, for a child who has run around so wildly unhindered in my palace,” is the words of what she suspects is the tall people’s King. His voice is cold and grave. He isn’t speaking english nor spanish, but somehow Evangeline can understand him all the same. His language is pretty and flowing, sweet and quick, “You say she was found at the feet of my throne?”

He sits aloft, in his throne, in the oak tree. It says something like a hello, quick and light. And Evangeline wishes to say hello back, but she doesn’t trust her throat.

She sits, unhappily in the beautiful red head’s arms.

And she blinks as he stands, his robes drifting, a beautiful thing of green that is woven so well it looks like silken leaves. He looms over her.

She is startled.

Because one side of the man she knows is a King, is wretched. Like a horror movie effect. It is a hurt and scar that has never healed. One eye is stern and grey, assessing and clear, the other is milky white. Vicious red burns run down the side of his pretty face.

Her lips part. 

“Does it hurt?” Her voice is pretty. Nicer then it had been before. Soft and like a song. Seemingly unconsciously, she too is speaking in their language. 

Her small hands reach out. And the King of the singing tree lets her touch his face. His unblemished face is soft, and his scared half is hard and hot to the touch. Tears prick at her eyes. It must hurt.

“You see this?” his voice is soft and more gentle then before, his brows crumpled.

“Doesn’t everyone?”

“No. They cannot. This magic is old and true. But I suspect it means nothing to you.”

“My name is Evangeline, not you,” she replies, gently stroking his face.

Grey and milky white went wide.

“I am Thranduil.”

“I am sorry I woke you up. I was quite startled to wake up in front of the tree. I just didn’t understand. She’s not very helpful. Only singing about how I am welcome here.”

“You can understand words from the tree?”

She tilts her head to the side.

“It’s not so much as words. More feelings that can almost be words.”

Chapter Whenever II

She was barely old enough to understand when the dragon came. 

Chapter Whenever III

“Why are you here, thief?”

She swallows, fingertips trembling. She has no ring to hide her. Only her wits and quickness. And is nothing but quick.

“I am not a thief. I want nothing from your hoard, Smaug. But I am here for something.”

“What can you want, elleth?”

“You’re friendship, if I can have it?”

Chapter Text

1982

Will Black was a young man that had taken the milk bottle job as a side sort of job until he figured out what he wanted to do at Uni. He had all his A-levels, pretty good scores, decent, but nothing bombastic, and a drive… For something. He was nineteen and had no clue what he wanted in his life. His dad had an in with the local grocers, and he had to do something while he tried to ‘find’ himself and all such tosh. It seemed good as any job and paid well enough.

The hours were shit.

He didn’t like how early he had to get up to deliver everything by six. He didn’t like how sometimes irate customers would wait at ungodly hours, impatiently waiting for their dairy fix and the need to berate him for not coming to their house first. But really, it was an easy job in comparison to others. He only had to deliver once a day, be done by six and had the rest of the day to himself. Most of which he spent sleeping, or browsing through his books, maybe penning things about in a notebook. Poetry mostly, dark drey things that no one would ever see…

“You have got to be shitting me,” is his ever eloquent response once he gets to one of his least favorite houses in Little Winging, Number Four of Privet drive.

His mum, a who actually lived on Privet drive, absolutely loathed Mrs. Dursley, made that known, and as a result whenever the woman managed to catch him on his deliveries she was an utter cunt to him . His mother was an angel, and her dislike wasn’t unwarranted. Mrs. Dursley of Number Four of Privet drive was an utter nightmare. A gossip, and… well a bitch. An utter bitch that was nasty and just plain dull. 

So when Will sees a baby on their porch, his response is immediately to put down her damn milk, whole and non-fat, and to pick up the boy instead. The letter tucked precariously in his blankets, one that Will doesn’t notice, flutters into the bushes as he rushes back to his truck, glad that he had gone last to Number Four out of sheer petty spite. He drives fast, back to the grocers, and immediately phones the police.

All the while, bouncing the baby boy in his arms.

Perhaps it was not his wisest choice. But to be fair Will was a bit panicked . It wasn’t every day that someone leaves a baby on a porch. And he was nineteen and an idiot.