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Summary: The more he is with her, the closer he comes to falling for death. Note: This passage is pretty heavy on the gore side, and maybe a bit intense for those who are not good with that type of stuff.    He steps through the front door of his new home and scrutinizes the place with a bored gaze. Instantly, he is displeased. When Sasuke’s mother had first told him about the house, she practically gushed about how timelessly elegant it is. “It has history, and the character really gives the place a charming atmosphere,” she had said while animatedly moving her hands around as if taking part in an interpretive dance. He should have realized that all the adjectives she ended up using had been code for “old” and “musty.” Looking around the expansive entryway that feeds into the living room, kitchen, and library, he notices that it appears as if darkness lingers in every corner. The only light filters through the small paned windows situated around the front door and illuminates the particles of dust that drift through the air. Peering into the living room, he can see maroon, damask wallpaper that peels at the edges as well as antique couches that look as if his great-grandmother might have owned them. “Character, huh?” Sasuke looks up at his older brother who had just entered on scene, a large duffle bag tossed over his shoulder. “Next time, we should have a say in the place,” Sasuke grumbles in response. “If mother sees you complaining about her ‘dream home’, she might smack you,” Itachi chuckles as he inspects some of the aged furniture. “She fell in love with it and apparently the ‘bargain was too good to be true’.” He imitates their mothers excited voice, causing Sasuke to roll his eyes once again. “I just wish we didn’t have to use furniture that probably has fifty years worth of dust mites in it.” “Apparently it was all reupholstered a decade ago and is worth a lot now.” Itachi tries flipping a switch to turn on the large chandelier dangling above them, but with no luck. “I’ll let you have first pick of bedrooms,” he tells Sasuke while gesturing towards the upper floor. Sasuke nods in response and watches as his brother heads towards the very modern looking kitchen, before making his way up the staircase. It is grand, with wide steps that curve around the circular foyer, each creaking and groaning under his weight. Just like his mother to pick some place so obnoxiously over the top. Once arriving on the second floor, and seeing six doors on each side of the hallway, he officially thinks his mother has lost it. After all, who could possibly need this much space? Reaching the first door on the right, he twists the knob and swings it open, prompting the hinges to moan at the action. Peering in, he finds a bathroom that seems fairly modern with a minimalist design, much like the kitchen, complete with an open shower and a stainless steel sink. He shuts the door and crosses the corridor to open the one across from it. A mirror image of the bathroom he just exits greets him. He continues his self-tour, opening each of the twelve doors. He finds that the next two doors past the bathroom lead into the same bedroom. He enters the third to last door and finds that it also shares a room with the last two doors, except from within the room, the center door is blocked with a large bookcase. Deciding that this is as good as room as any, he sets his book bag on the ground. The room is furnished with the same antique looking furniture. A large bed with black sheets sits directly in the middle, a bedside table next to it and an old writing desk adjacent. He walks through the room and exits out of the last door in the hallway. I’ll probably just keep this one locked, he thinks before moving to inspect the window at the end of the corridor. He looks out the dusty panes and notices a grove of trees as well as the corner of the neighbor’s house, but something about the window frame catches his eye. The same old wallpaper decorates the wall around it except for the areas directly above and below the window. He runs his hand over the bare area and feels grooves in the plaster as if something had been bolted into it. He decides to ignore the little peculiarity and reenters his room. “Hey!” His head snaps up at the voice as he realizes that he is no longer alone. There, sitting on the edge of his bed is a girl about his age. She appears to be wearing a thin cotton dress with white ribbons tied around the front, similar to nightgowns that women wear in old movies. Her hair is cut short, just barely coming past her chin and her eyes are wide and green. “Who are you? How did you get in here?”  Sasuke questions. Wouldn’t he have seen her in the hallway… unless, she has been in here the whole time. “I’m Sakura,” she chirps happily, swinging her legs back and forth. “What are you doing here?” Sasuke asks, more confused than anything. “I just wanted to pop in and say hi,” she smiles and makes a hand gesture that references to his whole room. “Did you know that this place used to be an orphanage?” she whispers, as if sharing a secret. Sasuke shakes his head, but thinks that it explains all the doors. When they converted it into a house, they must have knocked down some walls to create larger rooms. “Well, it was.” She begins messing with the ribbons on the front of her shirt, untying and retying them. “Run by the esteemed Dr. Orochimaru and his medical assistant, Kabuto. They mainly kept teenagers, but there were some younger kids here as well.” She cups a hand by her mouth and goes back to whispering. “They say you can still hear-“  “Seriously,” Sasuke cuts her off, not sure what to think of this nonsense. “How did you get in here?” She leaps off the bed, and Sasuke notices how petite the girl is, her limbs are skinny and almost appeared malnourished. She can’t be much taller than five foot, and he guesses that she just barely reaches the hundred pound mark. “Well, be seeing you,” she says with a wink before walking past Sasuke. He turns his head to stop her, not exactly sure what to do about a girl that possibly broke into his house in nothing but her pajamas, but she’s gone and all that is left in her place are bloody footprints that lead out, into the hallway. Panicked, Sasuke rushes into the hallway and glances down it, only to find complete emptiness, no sign of the strange girl. He turns to go back into his room, and finds the crimson colored footprints gone along with a piece of his sanity. Xxxxxxxx Knock-knock. Knock Knock-knock. Knock. Sasuke awakens, his body jolting with a start. Knock-knock. Knock. He spins around, trying to pinpoint where the sound is coming from. Knock-knock. Knock. Climbing out of the bed, a flash of blonde catches his eye. There, in front of his bed, sits a hunched over figure with blonde spikey hair, his fist repeatedly hitting the air as if there is an invisible barrier. Knock-knock. Knock. Each time his fists halts, a steady knock echoes through the room. “Who are you?” Sasuke questions while reaching for the metal baseball bat that he stowed under his bed when he unpacked earlier that day. Knock-knock. Knock. The boy continues on, as if Sasuke had never spoken. “Hey! I’m talking to you,” he yells louder, the repetitive appearance of unwelcome guests getting on his nerves. “He can’t hear you,” a familiar feminine voice says sadly. Sasuke looks up to see Sakura standing by the far door, the same white nightgown billowing around her. “What are you two doing in my room?” Sasuke yells at her. Her head bows silently and tears begin running down her cheeks. “It’s not by choice.” “What do you mean?” Sasuke asks. “I tried to tell you before,” she whispers before beginning to back out the door. “He’s coming.” Then she disappears in the hallway once again.  Sasuke is about to chase after her, determined to catch her this time, but a strangled cough from the blonde boy causes him to spin around. His stomach drops at the sight. The boy lies on his back, a bloody hole torn through his stomach. His eyes stare up at the ceiling, blue and blank, blood dribbling down his chin. He coughs again and the crimson liquid spurts from his mouth. “Sa-aku-ra,” he gasps out before the ragged moving of his chest stops and his head falls to the side.  Xxxxxxxxxx “Sasuke?” Onyx eyes open to be met with a matching set. “Why are you sleeping on the floor?” “I-tachi?” Sasuke as he sits up, already feeling the stiffness from falling asleep on the wooden floor. “Itachi! There was this kid and he died on my floor and the blood. There was so much of it.” He looks around on the floor, finding no traces of what happened the night before. “Sounds like a bad dream,” Itachi says as he pokes Sasuke in the forehead a habit that Sasuke despises. “Anyways, breakfast is ready.” He lets out a “hn” in response before standing up and following his brother downstairs. In the kitchen, he watches as his mother bustles between moving boxes and cabinets, trying to get everything unpacked in the large space. The room is a huge contrast from the rest of the house. Granite counter tops, stainless steal appliances, and cream-colored cabinets line the actual kitchen area while a large, round table establishes a dining area.  The biggest contrast is the large windows that take up much of the wall space, each one open and blowing the wispy drapes around. Sasuke thinks he catches a glimpse of pink behind one of the sheer curtains, but when he blinks, it’s gone. “Here ya go, honey,” Mikoto Uchiha, Sasuke’s mother, says as she hands him a large plate topped with eggs, bacon, and some fresh tomatoes.  He sits at the table across from his father, who is reading the newspaper and sipping a cup of coffee. “Did you know that this place used to an orphanage?” Sasuke asks, prompting his brother to pause from drowning his pancakes in syrup, while his father peers over the edge of his paper. “Really?” Mikoto asks, “That’s funny, the realtor didn’t say anything about that, did she tell you, Fugaku dear?” “No,” Sasuke’s father replies, “where did you hear about that?” “One of the neighbor girls told me,” Sasuke replies quickly, the lie rolling right off his tongue. But then again, who’s to say it isn’t actually the truth? “Which neighbor is that?” Fugaku says, an eyebrow quirked in curiosity, at the same time Mikoto says, “You met a girl? What does she look like?” “I don’t know,” Sasuke tells his father, while rolling his eyes at his mother’s questions. “Hm,” Mikoto hums in contemplation as she searches for the perfect cabinet for the nice dinner plates. “I guess it adds to the charm of this place.” Xxxxxxxxx Sasuke stares at the blinking cursor in the search bar of his computer screen. Where should he even start? Konoha Orphanage Multiple results pop up, none having to do with his new home. Konoha Orphanage Murder No results, but it was worth a shot. “Try ‘Sound’s Home for Children and Young Adults.’” Sasuke jumps at her voice and almost sends his laptop flying across the room. From his place at the old writing desk, he turns to find Sakura jumping up and down on his bed. He wants to ask her what she thinks she’s doing, but at this point has realized that he might was well be talking to a wall. So instead, he types in what she said and hits the Search button. The first result is of an article “The Tragedy of Sound: The Unexplained Mystery.” Already feeling uneasy about this, Sasuke clicks on the link. A large, black and white image of the house pops up. For the most part, it looks exactly the same except for a sign out front with the name of the orphanage written on it. Scanning the article, he feels all color drain from his face. “The esteemed Doctor Orochimaru, known for his opening of Sound’s Home for Children and Young Adults, was found dead along with all ten child residents.” Sakura reads from over his shoulder. “All the articles will tell you the same thing, that his apprentice Kabuto is suspected because he was never found afterwards.”  She pauses, straightening her nightdress. “But none of them know the truth.” “What is the truth?” Sasuke asks as he watches a piece of her pink hair come untucked from behind her ear. She smiles sadly, “I don’t think you’re ready for it.”  Then she turns to walk away, and for the first time, Sasuke sees her back. A large gash replaces most of the back of her neck, marred flesh and torn muscle visible inside of it. The entire back of her nightgown is soaked with blood to the point that it drips down her legs all the way to her heels. She pads out of the room, leaving her usual footprints and humming quietly. Xxxxxxxxxxx It is a week later when Sasuke sees her again. He had spent all day researching the bloody past of the orphanage. 80 years ago. 11 murders. 10 children ages 12-17 and the famed Doctor Orochimaru. The majority of the deaths were caused by blood-loss from ghastly wounds, but there were a few that were especially gruesome: electrocution, drowning, there was even a decapitation. According to all of the articles, all the blame was pinned on Doctor Orochimaru’s apprentice and assistant, Kabuto, who was never seen again after the incident. While the children all suffered horrible deaths, the doctor himself was killed by poison, most likely slipped into his food. Sasuke leans back on his desk chair, anxiously running his fingers through his messy hair. It is a lot to absorb, his house being a place where so many murders took place. He’s about the call it a day, when a link at the bottom of the webpage catches his eye. Photo Gallery Hesitantly he clicks on it, not knowing what to expect. The first picture is of the house, similar to the one he saw earlier, except in sepia with a group of people stand in front of it. They are standing pretty far away, so it’s difficult to make out faces. However, he can immediately point out the doctor and Kabuto. Doctor Orochimaru stands tall and proud, his hair long and dark, and an unsettling smile on his face. Kabuto wears a pair of spectacles and his arm rests over the shoulders of a girl. Sasuke does a double take, though he can’t make out her facial features, her height and build resemble Sakura’s. The only real difference that he can pick out is that her hair is long, coming to rest to just above the waistband of the skirt she wears. She frowns as if unhappy with Kabuto’s touch. Another arm is intertwined with hers, and Sasuke realizes that it belongs to the light-haired boy next to her. He could be the one that was making the knocking noise, Sasuke realizes, though it’s hard to tell without the gaping hole in his stomach. Sasuke clicks on the arrow that takes him to the next picture. It’s of Doctor Orochimaru, but he’s lying on floor of what appears to be his office. Father’s office, Sasuke realizes, recognizing the shape of the room. The doctor’s eyes are shut, but his mouth is still twisted into that creepy smirk, it gives him the creeps, so he clicks to the next picture. His blood runs cold and his heart skips a beat. The picture is of a body, and Sasuke immediately knows that it belongs to Sakura. She’s face down, a large wound covering her neck and blood blooming over the familiar nightgown. Bloody hand and footprints surround her body, along with a black-handled axe that seems to be what caused the gash in her neck. The caption under the picture reads, “Sakura Haruno, the oldest female resident at 17. Cause of death is multiple blows to the back of the neck with the axe seen next to her. She was found near the upstairs window, presumably trying to escape.”   “I knew the windows were barred.” Sasuke turns to find Sakura in her usual place on his bed. “They had been since Kabuto first brought me here, but in those last moments, I was foolish enough to hope that they would somehow come unbolted.” “Sakura,” Sasuke says her name for the first time. “What really happened?” She shakes her head back and forth. “I’ll show you sometime soon, but not now.” He brings his laptop over to the bed and sits down next to Sakura, glancing at her neck wound quickly before clicking to the next picture. He doesn’t get a chance to look at it however, because then the knocking starts. Knock-knock. Knock. He glances at the clock and realizes how late it has gotten. Every night, consistently, the knocking starts at 2:30am. He looks up to find the boy, in his usual hunched over spot next to the invisible wall. “Why does he do that?” Sasuke asks Sakura, his eyes never leaving the blonde’s hunched over form. “It was our code,” she replies with a sad smile on her face. “One knock means ‘Are you there?’ Two slow ones mean ‘Goodnight,’ and two slow plus two fast mean ‘All’s clear’.” “What do two fast and one slow knock mean?” Sasuke asks. “Danger,” she says beneath her breath. “It means that the Doctor is performing his experiments.” Sasuke takes a moment to digest what she’s really saying. Experiments? What kind of messed up orphanage was this place? “Why can’t he hear me like you do?” “Because he’s trapped.” Sasuke watches a lone tear run down her cheek. “He doesn’t realize he’s dead, yet he knows he’s not alive.” Her voice breaks. “I know that I’m dead and have accepted that I’m stuck here.” They watch silently as the boy continues knocking, his labored breathing the only other noise. “I have to go,” Sakura says as she rises from her spot on the bed and heads towards the door. “You know enough now that it’ll only get worse. Stay out of the hallways at night.” A couple minutes later, Sasuke watches as the boy falls to his back, his chest just barely moving. A piercing feminine scream cuts through the silence and Sasuke finds himself glued to his spot on the bed. Then like all the times before, the boy gasps out “Sa-aku-ra,” before his head falls to the side. Glancing down at the computer to screen, Sasuke finds an exact replica of the sight before him, except in the picture a solid wall with bloody knuckle prints sits next to the boy’s body. “Naruto Uzumaki: Oldest male resident at 17. Cause of the gapping wound in his stomach is unknown, but investigators believe that Uzumaki dragged himself up the stairs only to die in his room. Investigators are puzzled as to why Uzumaki would do this when he was much closer to front door before his very tedious climb; they suspect that the trauma of the wound drove Uzumaki to insanity in his final moments.” Xxxxxxxxx “Sasuke, you’ve been cooped up in your room for the past week,” Mikoto says one night at dinnertime. “Maybe you should go explore the neighborhood or something.” “How much do you know about the history of this house?” Sasuke counters as he pushes the pasta around his plate absentmindedly. “What is with all your questions?” she asks getting annoyed at her son’s strange behavior. “That’s the fifth time you’ve said something about it since we moved. Why won’t you eat your dinner? It’s your favorite.” “Mikoto, stop pestering him,” Fugaku says quietly. “Oh honey,” Mikoto says as if realizing something. “Is it because you’re missing Suna? You’ll make new friends once school starts, I’m sure of it. In the mean time, you should make the best of it. Konoha is a beautiful place with lots of kids your age.” She glances at the clock on the wall and exhales in annoyance. “Where is your brother?” “That boy hasn’t been acting like himself for the past couple of days,” Fugaku says before taking a bite of pasta. “I know,” Mikoto says sadly, “It’s not like him to act so moody and distant, maybe we should start having family movie nights again or something.” Just then, the front door slams and the heavy footfalls are heard from the foyer. “You’re family’s sweet.”Sasuke glances up to see Sakura sitting on the kitchen counter. “Don’t worry, they can’t see me.” Sasuke gives her a questioning look as a silent way of asking why that is. “I’m not sure exactly,” she replies, apparently understanding the message. “I think you might just be better attuned to the spirit world than them.” Just then, Itachi enters the kitchen and glares at the table. “Pasta again?” he mumbles before turning to leave. “Itachi, wait!” Mikoto calls out, standing from her seat. “We need to talk, son,” Fugaku adds as he sets his eating utensils down. “You’ve been acting strangely,” Mikoto walks around the table towards Itachi. “Is something wrong? You can always tell us anything, we’re your family.” She moves as if to hug him, but Itachi slaps her hand away. She stands back, shocked that her son would treat her that way; Itachi has always been a kind and caring child, he would have never dreamed of hurting her before. “Itachi!” Fugaku yells. “How dare you treat your mother that way!” Itachi stares at his hand for a moment before looking around the room at the stunned faces of his family before turning to leave once again. “I-I’m sorry,” he stutters. “I’ve been feeling restless lately. I will retire to my room for the night.” Then he rushes out of the room, the creaking of the steps signaling his course upstairs. “Itachi, I’m not done with you!” Fugaku calls after, before following him. “Sasuke,” Mikoto says, before bringing a hand to her temple. “Will you do the washing up tonight? I’m suddenly not feeling well.” Sasuke nods as she walks away, pretending to not see the tears running down her face. He turns to find Sakura staring at the doorway, a curious expression on her face. “Your brother’s never acted like this before?” she asks, eyes still vacant. “Never,” Sasuke replies as he gathers the dishes from the table. Her gaze turns to the vase of roses that his mother had cut from the bush in the garden. “I have a bad feeling.” With that said, she leaps off the counter and walks out of the kitchen. Xxxxxxxxxx “When does your school start?” Sakura asks one sunny afternoon as she lies across his bed. Sasuke has gotten used to her sudden appearances and doesn’t jump at the sound of her voice anymore… very much at least. “Not for two more months,” he responds as he puts the finishing touches on a certain drawing he’s been working on. “Why?” “Will you tell me about your days?” she says while making a frame with her fingers and peers at Sasuke through it. “Like all the drama and gossip.” “What do you mean?” “You know,” she smiles as she rolls over onto her stomach, and Sasuke thinks that her perfect teeth and upturned, petal lips are such a pretty contrast from the gaping wound in her neck. “The family that was here before you had a daughter that would always be on the phone talking about ‘who’s dating who’ and ‘what so-and-so did at the party.’ She was in the room right next to yours.” “What happened to that family? Did you talk to any of them?” Sasuke asks, instantly curious. “They were gone within a month. They had a young son who found the false wall that led to the basement.” “What basement?” There was no basement in the house, that he knew of at least. “That’s where Kabuto and Orochimaru would run their little ‘experiments,’ nobody knew about it until that boy found it. I tried to keep him away, but he couldn’t see or hear me like you can and ended up stumbling across some nasty things.” She sighs and her emerald eyes pin Sasuke where he is. “The realtor freaked and had somebody come and fill it in with cement. They didn’t try to sell the house until ten years later. You’re the first family since then.” “What about families before them? Could anybody else see you?” He couldn’t be the only one, right?” “There was only one other person, about thirty years ago. A fortune teller or something.” Sakura makes a motion with her finger indicating that she thought the lady was crazy, which is rich coming from a ghost. “She lived here peacefully for about a year before she tried to contact all of us spirits with some sort of thingamajig. I don’t know what she saw, but she hung herself that night.” “Oh my god,” Sasuke says in shock. How many people died horribly in this f***ing house? “Anyways,” Sakura begins, seemingly unfazed by the conversation, as she peers over his shoulder. “Whatcha drawin?” “Uh,” a blush burns on Sasuke’s cheeks as he turns the sketchpad towards her. “You.” The picture is a rough pencil sketch of her looking backwards towards him. She wears a pair of jeans and a sweater with sleeves that reach down to her palms. No gash tarnishes her slender neck and her hair hangs down to the small of her back. She smiles as she looks at the picture. “I always thought I looked better with long hair.” “Then why’d you cut it?” Sasuke asks. He had given her long hair on a whim, inspired by the picture of her standing in front of the orphanage. “It wasn’t a choice.” Another one of her sad smiles. Sasuke doesn’t know what possesses him, but he has the urge to kiss her, to touch her, to do something. So he reaches forward, and she pulls back. “Soon,” she whispers, before jumping up and walking out the door. Xxxxxxxxxx “Is today your birthday?” Sasuke turns around to find Sakura standing behind him in the bathroom. He never actually sees her appear or disappear, simply one second she would be somewhere and the next she would not, or vise versa. He’s not sure whether some glowing light engulfs her, or if she simply evaporates in the air, but he figures that he prefers it this way. It makes her seem more real. He takes the toothbrush out of his mouth and spits in the sink. “How come you don’t have a reflection?” She jokingly pouts. “I asked you first.” “Fine,” he sighs, “Yes, I turn eighteen today. How’d you know?” “Wow, you’re an adult.” She giggles and Sasuke feels his stomach flutter. “I’m not a tangible thing, so there’s nothing for the mirror to reflect.” She takes her hand and sticks it through the sink, passing right through to the other side. “See? And to answer your second question, I was downstairs this morning and overheard your parents talking in their bedroom.” “You spy in my parents bedroom? Pervert,” he mutters under his breath with a teasing grin. “Not in their bedroom, just outside of it. I can’t go into anywhere I never went when I was alive, and I can’t leave the premises of where I died. That’s why I can go through the sink, but not the furniture in your room.” “Really?” Sasuke asks, receiving a nod in return. He always figured that she ghosted around outside when she wasn’t with him. “Anyways, I think your mother said something about a special breakfast for you, so I’d head downstairs.” With that, she exits the bathroom. Xxxxxxxxx In the entire month he’s been living in the “Haunted House,” Sasuke has been picking up on more and more of the “spirit world” as Sakura calls it. Instead of hearing the knocking and then seeing Naruto, the blonde boy appears first crawling through the bookcase, where his bedroom door used to be. A trail of blood always follows behind him from where his injured stomach drags on the rough floorboards. If he walks down to the kitchen for a late night snack, the sink will be filled with water and the sound of somebody choking can be heard. If he goes to the bathroom, crying resounds off the walls. If he looks out the window, he’ll notice the porch lights flickering. By far, the worse thing is the sound of Sakura’s scream being cut short at the same time every night. One time he asked about why she screams and she shrugged him off once again, but when he asked about the disappearing bloodstains, she answered him simply. “Just like the screams, flickering lights, and water, the blood doesn’t belong to your world. You’re just seeing and hearing echoes of what used to be here. Though the rest of your family isn’t, which is a bit odd.” He has tried approaching his parents about the strange occurrences, but each time they send them away with a “Give the place a chance.” However, he’s grown closer to Sakura. Though she’s dead, she makes pleasant company. Today, he leans back against his headboard, doing nothing in particular on his laptop while Sakura is draped over the foot of the bed.  “Kabuto cut it,” Sakura says after a long period of silence. “Wh-what?” Sasuke asks, taken off guard by her words. He shuts his laptop and sets it on the nightstand, looking at the strange, dead girl lying on his bed. “My hair.” She runs her fingers through the short ends. “He always talked about how peculiar and interesting it was, and one night he called me to the lab and chopped it all off with a pair of scissors.” Sasuke remains silent, taken aback by her sudden openness. “It was two nights later when Doctor Orochimaru went on his rampage. He was the one that murdered everyone, even Kabuto; that bastard’s buried under the rose bushes outside. Naruto was one of the first; having been called to the basement, then it was little Moegi who had gone to get a glass of water. Everybody else was a sleep, completely unaware of what was happening until it was too late.” “Sakura…” Sasuke trails off, not knowing what to say. An apology didn’t seem fitting and he is not quite sure how to deal with her when she acts so serious. “You don’t have to tell me this,” he ends up saying. “No,” she sits up to stare him straight in the eyes. “I can show you.”Then she leans forward and Sasuke thinks that she’s going to kiss him. But when her face gets close to his, she goes right through. Her whole “body” enters his, and his eyes forcibly shut. “Relax, Sasuke,” her voice echoes in his mind. Then he opens his eyes to the sound of knocking. Knock-knock. Knock. “Naruto?” the voice comes from his throat, raspy from sleep but distinctly belonging to Sakura. Feet swing over the side of the bed and land gracefully and soundlessly onto the wood floor below, pale, feminine feet with little scratches on them. It is then that Sasuke realizes he’s a passenger in Sakura’s body. Knock-knock. Knock. Sakura looks up and in the small mirror hanging on the back of the door, Sasuke watches as her eyes widen. Then, the little, white nightgown she dons becomes all too familiar. Knock-knock. Knock. Sakura glances over to the wall, which was not there before Sasuke shut his eyes. A scream echoes out in the hall and Sakura moves to her door, opening it. Glancing down the darkened corridor, Sasuke sees the house as she did in her last few moments. A thick blood trail leading down the hall, into Naruto’s room. She begins moving towards it, and Sasuke thinks she’ll peer in the room and see her dying friend, but she doesn’t get a chance. A tall figure, masked in the shadows of the hallway emerges from the door across from Naruto’s. Water and blood drip down the front of his shirt, and the moonlight illuminates his pale hands wrapped around the black handle of an axe dragging behind him. “Come here, little blossom,” a voice sings out as the man moves towards her. Sakura gasps and falls backwards to the ground, scampering away from the man. He steps into the light, and Sasuke sees the gold eyes, the creepy smile. It was two nights later when Doctor Orochimaru went on his rampage. Sakura is able to scramble to her feet and instantly runs to the window. She pulls on the large iron bars frantically, hoping beyond hope that they’ll break free. The footsteps behind her stop, and slowly, she turns her head to peer over her shoulder. He raises the axe, and a familiar scream rips from her throat before it is cut short with the heavy blow. She falls to the ground, unable to move, barely able to feel. An enormous pressure hits her again, and then everything goes dark. Xxxxxxx Sasuke’s eyelids fly open and he pants heavily, trying to gulp down all the oxygen in his vicinity. Sakura leans over him, her green eyes seeming to search him for something. “Now you know,” she whispers, “now you know what I and all the other ghosts in this place, have to relive every single night.” Sasuke sits up and Sakura leans backwards to give him room. It’s then that he notices the tears running down her cheeks. He brings a hand up to wipe them away, but it goes right through her. “Why now?” he asks while pulling his hand back in frustration. “Why show me all of this now?” “I’ve been feeling odd lately,” she replies as her palms wipe away the moisture from beneath her eyes. “I feel like I’m fading, I don’t even know what day it is anymore.” “Sakura?” Sasuke says hesitantly as he watches the petite girl close her eyes. “I’ll be alright,” she whispers before curling up on the side of his bed, seemingly asleep. Xxxxxxxxx When he wakes up, she’s gone and the morning light filters through the curtains. Groaning, he throws an arm over his eyes to block out the sun. “Good morning, sleepy head!” He moves his arm to find Sakura leaning over his bed, her eyes shining much more green than usual. He groans again turns his head to the side, that’s when he notices it. In the mirror on the far wall, he can see her back. No blood stains the little nightgown, and smooth, flawless skin covers the back of her neck. Wait… reflection? Sasuke sits up so quickly that his forehead bumps into Sakura’s, and the slight pain causes him to wince. Sakura lets out an “ouch!” and Sasuke stares up at her. “I touched you!” he says before slowly bringing a hand up to cup her cheek. Surprisingly, it comes into contact with the soft surface of her skin. His other hand touches her pink hair, like he has wanted to do since first seeing her, and thinks that the feeling resembles that of goose down. Wispy… soft… real. “Am I dreaming?” Sasuke asks as he pulls her down on top of him, feeling the warmth of her body over his. She giggles and shakes her head. “Are you alive?” he asks hesitantly, and her smile dims. Another head shake. “It must be today then,” she mumbles to herself. Sasuke looks up at her curiously, not sure what to make of the situation. “On the anniversary of our death, those of us who are aware of our situation get to materialize. I don’t know why exactly.” She nibbles on her lip and Sasuke can’t help but pull her closer. He knows it’s stupid and impossible, but he can’t help himself from leaning closer and touching his lips to hers. She seems shocked at first, but responds, moving slowly against him. Even though it is slow, hesitant, and over far too soon, it is easily the best kiss that Sasuke has ever had… also the weirdest. Maybe she’s dead and maybe it can never be, but Sasuke has fallen head over heals for Sakura Haruno, the dead girl haunting his house. A pretty blush colors her cheeks, and Sasuke can’t help but smirk up at her. “Wow,” she says quietly, “that was my first kiss.” She lies down next to him on the bed and runs her hand over his face. She traces his messy hairline, running her fingers through the silky locks, her fingertips outlining his sharp cheekbones, softly following the bridge of his aristocratic nose. His arms wrap around her hips, securely her to him, and Sasuke thinks that he can get used to this feeling. She tucks into him perfectly, her thin body molding against his, and they just lay there in silence, feeling each other. “Why couldn’t we have been born in the same time period,” Sakura whispers as she tucks her face into his chest, memorizing Sasuke’s scent. He doesn’t respond, thinking the same thing himself, instead he brushes his lips over her forehead and watches as her face turns the same color as her hair. Embarrassed, she buries her face in his neck, trying to hide. Chuckling causes his chest to rumble, sending Sakura into her own fits of giggles. Sasuke just watches the joy in her eyes as he smoothes her hair, loving the feel of the strands. Her smile falters slightly as she pushes her body up so that she is eyelevel with him. As if unsure, she slowly moves towards him, and kisses him. She begins to pull away, but Sasuke secures her in place and deepens the action. His tongue prods against her lips, and she opens her mouth as invitation. Tasting her, touching her, loving her. It’s almost too much. She hums happily against his lips, and Sasuke makes a mental agreement with himself that he will not be leaving her side today. Xxxxxx “Can I meet your family?” Sakura asks as she runs her foot up and down his. “You know, for real?” “Hn,” Sasuke says, neither accepting nor rejecting her request. He settles for ghosting a kiss on her upturned nose. “I’ll be a girl from the neighborhood who comes down to stay with her grandmother during the summers,” she nuzzles his cheek with her nose. Then, rising from the sheets, he nods towards the door. Sakura looks at him as if confused, her hair mussed from his constant attention. “If you’re going to come to dinner, then I’ll need to get you some clothes.” He heads towards the door. “Stay here.” Quietly shutting the door behind him, Sasuke heads down the hallway intent on making his way downstairs to his parents’ room. However, a loud noise from his brother’s room causes him to stop. “Tomorrow,” a voice hisses from behind the closed door, but the rest of the sentence is muffled, so Sasuke finds himself leaning his ear against the aged wood.“-starting to notice,” the voice continues and Sasuke recognizes it as a man’s, definitely not Itachi’s. Still muffled, he can only catch bits and pieces. “…can’t escape… anger… do it.” The door opens and Sasuke jumps back from it in shock.  “Sasuke?” his brother inquires, looking down at him. Lately, Itachi has had deep circles under his eyes, as if he hasn’t been getting much sleep. At first, Sasuke assumed that he had been hearing the deaths as well, but when he asked about it, Itachi responded with a look that made him feel crazy. “Is there somebody in there with you?” Sasuke asks as he tries to look around the tall form of his brother. “No,” Itachi replies curtly before shutting the door in Sasuke’s face. Xxxxxxx When he reenters the room, Sakura is no longer on the bed. “Sakura?” he calls, panicked that she turned back into a spirit. He jumps slightly when his wardrobe door opens and the girl peaks her head out. “What are you doing in there?” he asks as she steps out. “Your brother came in, so I hid,” she says before launching herself in his arms. Sasuke catches her, surprised at how light she is and sets her back on the bed. “I cleared told my mom that you were coming to dinner and I grabbed you a pair of leggings and some boots.” He picks the items up from the floor, having dropped them when she leaped and shows them to her. “My mom’s pretty tall and I figured your dress would pass as normal clothes. You’ll probably have to roll the leggings up, but my mom has so many clothes and shoes that she shouldn’t notice the boots.” She pulls the items on and examines herself in the mirror. “How do I look?” she asks teasingly. “Beautiful.” Xxxxxxxx They sit around the dinner table, except Itachi who left shortly after sitting down, and the room is filled with Sakura and Mikoto’s chatter. The Uchiha woman had instantly took a liking to the dead girl, even hinting at Sasuke needing a girlfriend like her. Fugaku remained his passive self as always. “So, you’re only here during the summers?” Mikoto asks. “Yeah, I live in Ame, I just come down here to help out with my grandmother.” “That’s too bad,” Mikoto replies. “It would have been nice if you and Sasuke went to the same school.” “Yeah, it would be fun to go to school with each other.” Sakura sends a wink at Sasuke before excusing herself. “She’s very charming,” Mikoto says after directing Sakura to the bathroom. “Though she doesn’t seem to like my cooking.” “Yeah,” Sasuke says quietly. “You know, long distance relationships don’t typically work out well unless you are both very committed to each other.” Sasuke shoots his mother a withering glare. “Don’t you look at me like that, Sasuke Uchiha.” She points her fork at him threateningly.  “Never, have you ever brought a girl home, not even that one girl that you dated for almost a year.” Sasuke shakes his head as his mother continues giving him unwanted – and frankly, unnecessary – relationship advice. Xxxxxxxx Being a ghost, Sakura doesn’t really have to use the restroom, but feels the need to wash her face. Mikoto is such a beautiful woman and very motherly as well, accepting Sakura even though she knows so little about her, not even saying anything as she pushed the food that she can’t eat around the plate. This was a mistake. Sakura thinks as tears burn in her eyes. She should have never asked Sasuke for this, she should have stayed away from the family that she can never be a part of and remained the orphaned, dead girl that she is. But she is selfish and couldn’t pass up the opportunity of feeling normal. Turning off the water and drying off her face, Sakura stares at her reflection. Gaps in her memory have started forming. Have her eyes always been green? Has she always been this short? How old was she when she died? She doesn’t know what the lapses mean, but she figures that it cannot be anything good. Make it worth it. She tells herself before exiting the bathroom, only to run into a strong chest. “I’m sorry,” she says, quickly moving out of Itachi’s way, but his hand shoots out and grabs her arm before pinning her to the wall. “What are you doing?” he spits out and Sakura could have sworn that she saw his eyes flash red. “I was just washing my face,” she replies trying to remain calm.“That’s not what I mean, little blossom.” The change in his eyes is distinctly visible now. They remain bright red and the tone of voice shifts to one that sounds all too familiar for Sakura. “What are you doing in this world?” “Orochimaru,” she realizes as she watches Itachi’s tongue come out of his mouth and flick across his lips in a way all too familiar. “I won’t let you harm this family too.” She tries to make her voice sound strong, but her yelp of pain as Itachi’s grip tightens around her wrist ruins the effect. “Learn your place, girl,” Itachi snarls. He blinks rapidly and his eyes fade back to the dark color that resembles his brother’s. He looks at his hand and in shock pushes away from Sakura. “Please forgive me,” he states, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I have not been myself lately.”  Sakura watches him as he rushes away, her eyes swimming in sympathy. It seems as if she is not the only one losing herself. xxxxxxxxx “My mother is quite taken with you,” Sasuke murmurs as he strokes her hair. After dinner, when his parents had retired elsewhere, he and Sakura had snuck upstairs and resumed their position on his bed. He lays on his back, with Sakura curled up in his arms, half lying on him, drawing geometric symbols over his shirt with her finger. “I’m fading, Sasuke,” she whispers. His hands come down to cup her face, and turn it so that she looks in his eyes. “What do you mean?” “I’m drifting away, I’m forgetting my past, who I am, what happened. It’s all leaving me.” Her eyes close and she begins humming a sad, haunting tune. “Soon enough, I’ll be just like Naruto and the others.” Sasuke allows that to sink in. He knows that their relationship is dysfunctional, but he never imagined something like this. Having to hear her die every night, calling out to her, but his voice never reaching. Her humming stops and he thinks she fell asleep, so he runs his fingers up her back, tracing all of her vertebrae and her soft skin. “Sakura?” he begins, there is still a way that they can be together, forever. “Sakura?” he asks again, shaking her lightly. Slowly her head rises up, and her eyes are filled with confusion. “Is that my name?” she asks. “Yes,” Sasuke breathes out his reply, not believing this. “Yes, you’re Sakura.” Her eyes widen and she jumps up. “Sasuke, you need to get out of this house!” “Whoa, wait a minute,” he rests his hands on her shoulders. “No, you need to get out, you need to move somewhere else,” she starts breathing quickly as if hyperventilating. “He’s coming back, he’s coming back.” She begins looking around as if in a panic. “Sakura, calm down.” Sasuke’s at a loss, he doesn’t know what she is talking about or why she is suddenly hysterical. “I love you, Sasuke, and you need to leave.”  He pauses and stares at her, shocked, then he decides to voice the thought he had just a moment ago. “What if I never leave?” he whispers. “What do you mean?” she asks slowly, in a way that makes him think she already knows. “I could d-“ “Stop, stop right there,” she says sternly, frowning at him. “You are not killing yourself. You are not going to be trapped in this house, reliving your death everyday for me. Don’t you dare ever suggest anything like that ever again!” She yells the last part, tears streaming down her face. She leans her head on his chest, clutching her shirt in her hands. Her shoulders shake as she begins crying, and he instantly embraces her. “You need to leave,” she whispers between sobs. “He’ll kill you too.” She slides to the floor, and Sasuke comes with her, until they are on their knees.“I’ll speak with my family soon, okay?” he tells her, burying his nose in her hair and breathing the light scent that he discovered this morning. She nods and he picks her up before setting her gently on the bed. “It’s time,” she whispers softly, and her voice sounds distant. “What do you mean?” Sasuke asks and Sakura holds up a hand in response. It does not appear translucent, but it is not quite solid. Testing it, he tries to interlock their fingers, only to go right through. “No,” he says quietly.He stares at her and watches as the rest of her body begins to lose its solid outline. He grasps her around the waist and begins kissing her. He puts everything he has into the kiss since he knows it will be the last. Then, she is gone and he’s left alone in the expansive bedroom, crying out for her to come back, as her scream echoes in the distance. xxxxxxxxx She did not come back the next morning. She did not come back the in the afternoon. She did not come back at night. xxxxxxxxx   “Sasuke!” Dark eyes fly open at the sound of Sakura’s voice. He glances around and finds her leaning over him, her hands resting on the bed. “Sakura! You’re still here!” he exclaims reaching to touch her face, but his hand passes right through and he is left with the gut clenching reminder that she is dead. “You need to run. You need to run now!” she shouts as she points to the open door. “Get out! He’s awakened, Itachi is possessed! You need to leave!” He takes a moment to figure out what she is saying. “Run!” she screams, “the window!” Sasuke slowly tumbles out of his bed and enters the hallway. There, standing at the foot of the stairs is a dark silhouette, and Sasuke is hit with an awful sense of déjà vu. This scene is too familiar. Moon light streams through the window, a tall from shuffling towards him, with dark hair hanging down, an axe dragging along the ground, leaving a trail of blood in its wake. It is almost exactly like the vision Sakura showed him or her own death. He begins trying to open the window, only to realize that there is no way to do so. There are no hinges or handles. It’s just a solid pane of glass. Itachi steps into the moonlight, and Sasuke notices that his eyes are glowing red, even more shocking, the handle of the axe is black. An evil smirk splits his face in half and blood splatters across his forehead and cheeks. Is that the same one that killed Sakura? He breaks out of his shocked state in an instant, forcing his mind not to linger on whose blood might be coating Itachi’s body. “Come her, brother,” Itachi calls, but his voice is not his own. “Itachi, why?” Sasuke asks, pounding against the window, begging it to break. “We must join them,” he lets out an inhuman chuckle and continues down the hall. Sasuke dashes back into his room and grabs his baseball bat. He barely acknowledges Naruto, who his executing his usual knocking routine. Spinning around to enter the hallway once again, Sasuke finds his brother blocking the doorway. He instantly runs to the other door, only to find that it’s been locked from the outside. Then, a hand grabs the ends of his hair and pulls him back. “Your turn, Sasuke,” Itachi smiles as he raises the axe over his head. This is it. Sasuke thinks, bracing himself for the blow, but it never comes. Looking up, he notices Sakura standing in front of him. “No!” she yells at Itachi, “You can’t have him too.” Then, she steps into the elder Uchiha’s body. Itachi lets out a blood-curdling scream and grasps at his head. His voice comes out, morphed as if multiple are using it to argue with each other. Then, in a voice that clearly belongs to Sakura, he shouts. “Run! Use the window! He sabotaged all the other exits!” He glances at Itachi one last time before running to the window. Swinging the bat he shatters the glass, creating an opening big enough for him to slip through. Before jumping to safety, however, he glances in his room and watches as Sakura is pushed out of Itachi’s body, her spirit glowing brightly. She turns to him, a large smile on her face as her spirit begins to evaporate. First goes her fingers and toes, then her whole body becomes streams of light. “Thank you,” she whispers before disappearing. Xxxxxxxxx Two years later, Sasuke opens his eyes, finding himself in a strange white room. He looks around him and almost has to shut his eyes again due to the hazy, bright light. It is then that he notices a familiar pink-haired girl hovering over him. “Sasuke,” she chokes out. “Do you know what happened?” He’s in a shock. He hasn’t seen Sakura since the night Itachi was possessed by Orochimaru. After she had disappeared, he was able to jump out the window and get help from the neighbors. When the cops had arrived at the house, they found his parents dead and Itachi missing. Since then, he had been living on his own off of his inheritance. He is in college now, studying law. People have passed through his life, their faces blurring together. Though he survived that night, he felt more dead than alive. His family was gone, the one girl he fell in love with was gone, all the light in the world… gone. The last thing he remembers is driving to a lecture and then, nothing. But with Sakura here, looking down at him, it is as if somebody has resuscitated him, breathed oxygen into his body and shocked his heart into beating once again. “Am I…” he hesitates to say it. “Am I dead?” Sakura smiles sadly, a tear running down her face. He reaches up and wipes it away, and at there touch, instantly knows the answer. “Yes,” she whispers, covering his hand with her own. He notices her usual white nightgown is long gone, along with any traces of blood. Instead, she wears a wispy dress that seems to float around her, even from her seated position. He rises from his spot on the ground, and Sakura comes up with him. She points in the distance, and all he can see is ever expanding white. “Your family is that way,” she explains before slipping her hand in his and guiding him forwards. As she giggles and leads him towards a golden light in the distance, a new warmth spreads through him, calming him for the first time since the incident. 

Summary: The marriage bliss wasn't as blissful as Padmé would have liked.Notes: Hi y'all, this is my third SW fic, and it's a bit longer than my others, so, hopefully, you'll enjoy. Plus, it's pure Padmé/Anakin fluff, which I personally love. :D No spoilers, unless you don't know what happens at the end of AotC.Senator Padmé Amidala could not concentrate. She tried to with all her might, but her mind kept focusing itself on Anakin. It was natural for her thoughts to be consumed by the Jedi apprentice every chance she let her mind wander (they were still in the newlywed phase after all). This time, however, she couldn’t stop the guilt from plaguing her.She never liked fighting- with anyone- and the fact that it was her husband made her queasy with unpleasantness. Simply, it frustrated her no end.She loved him, with every fiber of her being.Snapping out of her reverie, she realized she was now all alone. The other delegates were nowhere to be found in the Grand Convocation Chamber. Standing up dejectedly, she left her own seat. She was almost near the exit leading out of the Senate Building when a voice called out to her.Turning, she saw Senator Bail Organa come up behind her.“Oh, hello, Senator Organa,” she greeted him politely.“Hello, Senator Amidala, I was wondering if, by any chance, I could talk to you?”Padmé nodded, wondering why the usually confident senator seemed apprehensive now. “Of course, Senator, how may I be of help to you?”“Actually, I was wondering if I could be of any service?”At Padmé’s blank stare, the Senator continued, a little hesitantly, “I hope you don’t think me too forward, but you seemed to have been distracted the whole morning. I was wondering if perhaps you were feeling unwell today.”Padmé’s face gave way to surprise. Was she that transparent? More than that though, she wanted to hug the man. Amidst the formalities, and each of the delegate’s own do-not-invade-our-personal-life-or-space-if-you-don’t-want-to-lose-a-limb mentality, she wasn’t surprised that no one had approached her about her daydreaming (well, that is, up until now).The reality of the situation was that she did need to talk to someone, but as the main point of her need to talk concerned her secret marriage to a Jedi, she didn’t think it would’ve been wise to bring up the discussion with anyone.“Senator Organa, I can assure you that I am in great health. However, I do deeply appreciate your concern.”Senator Organa didn’t look too convinced, but he nodded all the same. “Well, if ever something does come up, and you need to talk to someone, know only that you can come to me, and I’ll be willing to listen.”He turned to leave. “Wait,” Padmé began, “um, there is something that I think I need a second opinion on, if you don’t mind, Senator?”If the Senator was offering to be of help, maybe she could be vague about the truth, as well as get some answers.Padmé bit her lip, not knowing really where to begin. “Hypothetically speaking, if you were given the chance to be in actuality happy with someone, but both of your careers got in the way, would you still take that chance, or would you stop being with that person?”Bail Organa looked thoughtful for a minute. “Well, not knowing the full circumstances of this hypothetical situation, and just going with what I feel is the right path, I’d choose to be with that person no matter what.”Senator Amidala smiled sadly. “I’m afraid it’s not quite that simple. These two hypothetical people are young, they have been together for only a year, and already there are dilemmas which seem insurmountable.”“Senator, there will always be problems in the area of love. It’s an emotion we can’t see, but feel in the deepest depths of our bones. I’m afraid the only solution I can offer to the two lovers is, despite all of the troubles their love presents, never give up on each other. Be there for one another, and always have the best communication; sometimes the only thing we can do is extinguish the misgivings and misunderstandings, and put our faith in love.”The Senator’s words, astonishingly, made Padmé’s heart feel lighter. She was convinced that’s all she had to do. She’d talk to Anakin, and make him see that she didn’t doubt their love, but that the burden of keeping something so wonderful a secret was crushing her like a steel ball. She’d make him understand that she loved him more than she did anything else in life.She turned her beaming face to the Senator to thank him, and fled quickly out of the hall, leaving Bail a little more than confused.He chalked the Senator’s inattentiveness all up to her eagerness to help whatever poor creature crossed her path.“I wonder what that was all about,” he said to his aid, the moment she came up to stand behind him.The aid, having all ready entered the hall toward the beginning of her Senator’s speech, replied, “I bet Senator Amidala’s in love.”Bail laughed loudly. “Really? What makes you say that?”“I can’t be quite sure, but just her whole demeanor suggests she is.”“Hmm, it would make sense, I suppose, that she has had her head in the clouds because of love. But if she was in love, I don’t see why she’d think it’d cause trouble. Senators are allowed to love.”“She must not be devoted to a senator then.”“Well, whomever she loves, it won’t do us any good speculating. If she wanted the world to know, we would’ve all ready been informed.”-------Padmé rushed back to her apartment complex, after talking with Senator Organa, and hurried to prepare a romantic dinner. Her apartment was devoid of any life except for her protocol droid, C-3PO, which followed her around the kitchen, helping her.Her beloved husband wouldn’t be in until late afternoon, so she had some time to prepare something spectacular. As soon as he came home, she’d surprise him with a great dinner, and apologize.-------The late afternoon came and went. The sun on Coruscant went down, and enveloped the urban city in a chilling darkness.And in an apartment complex, a dinner went cold. Padmé paced around, and worried. It wasn’t like Anakin to be late. Something must’ve happened to him. Images of her husband lying somewhere hurt, or even worse, flashed through her mind.Not being able to take the concern anymore, she went to her personal landing platform, and got into her star skiff. She was going to the Jedi Temple to find her husband.She knew it was dangerous, but the adrenaline coursing through her veins couldn’t stop her. Even knowing it was a risky plan she was about to undertake, she raced to the shrine of the Jedi.-------Fortunately, the landing for the senator went smoothly. Luckily, she was all alone on the landing pad, and encountered no one. But, once she got out of her skiff, she realized she didn’t even know where to start looking. The Jedi Temple towered threateningly over her, discouraging her from her mission. But Padmé kept her resolve; she came all this way, she wasn’t going back until she found out where Anakin was.She was thinking about her next plan of action when she heard faint voices coming toward her. Hiding quickly behind one of the pillars in the Jedi Temple, she saw to her shock that it was Obi-Wan Kenobi, and another Jedi. They seemed to be in deep conversation, and it wasn’t until they were mere inches from where Padmé stood when she heard what it was they were discussing.“…I’m afraid my Padawan is quite hurt, and will need looking after until he properly heals. I shall stay with him until then.”“Of course, Master Kenobi, I shall inform Master Yoda of the status of your mission.”“Thank you.” Obi-Wan bowed to the green Jedi, and turned, heading out toward the landing pads.Padmé gasped. They were talking about Anakin! Not controlling her emotions, she suddenly stepped out from behind the pillar.Obi-Wan stopped in his tracks. “Padmé?”She was aware that maybe revealing herself wasn’t the best choice she could’ve made, but she had to find out the truth. Obi-Wan was about to leave, and she surely would’ve been in the dark for who knows how long.She stared at her friend, not really knowing what to tell him about why he was seeing her there unexpectedly.“Are you here, by any chance, looking for Anakin?” It appeared she didn’t need to explain. Dumbfounded, Padmé could only nod.“I see.”“Where is he? He planned to meet me hours ago, but when he didn’t come, I got worried about him.” Padmé lied, hoping she wasn’t giving anything away.“Well, I’m afraid that one of our leads on Count Dooku’s whereabouts misled us to a horrid planet upon which our intrusion was most unwelcome by the natives. We did not desire to engage in physical combat, but it looked as though it was inevitable. I escaped relatively unharmed, but Anakin got the brute of the angry natives, and sustained some injuries.”“Is he all right?” she asked hoarsely, not being able to stop the shiver that went through her.Obi-Wan gave her a quizzical look before responding. “Yes, although his injuries are serious enough, all he needs is looking after and some rest.”Padmé was glad for this, but she couldn’t help wanting to be with Anakin. Yet, Obi-Wan looked suspicious enough all ready, so she forced herself not to question his whereabouts.“Padmé, if you’d like…I was just on my way to the hospital, you could come with me.”She nodded fervently, and followed the Jedi master out of the temple.-------Anakin opened his eyes to find himself in his bed, in the apartment he shared with his wife. He sat up, and promptly groaned.His chest was wrapped up in gauze, and he felt like something rammed into him. The only thing he remembered was getting hurt on his mission with Obi-Wan. As far as everything else went, however, it couldn’t have been more muddled.He lied back down, trying to catch his breath. He suddenly felt tired once again, and closed his eyes.-------The second time Anakin woke, the room had darkened noticeably. It looked to be early twilight.He lay still, concentrating his senses somewhere beyond the room. It was a particular sound, which had woken him up, soft and quiet, kind of like a lullaby. Had he not been trained in the Jedi arts, he would’ve missed it entirely.Rising from the bed, and gathering his black robe, he ambled inaudibly out to the balcony. He still felt somewhat sore, and moving his muscles a certain way exposed his ligaments to more strain and tension, but if he moved carefully (and not everything at once), he found he could get by.It honestly kind of made him feel guilty for not appreciating his welfare more; being unable to move however he wished, and the little sharp jabs of pain when he did budge, made him realize how much he took his body for granted.He didn’t think he’d be trashing his body like this again anytime soon.“What’s that?” he asked the lone figure he found leaning against the railings. The soft song ended hastily, and Anakin heard the little gasp of surprise from his wife.Padmé swiftly turned around at the voice, and, once realizing that it was whom she thought it was, lunged at him.His arms automatically enveloped his wife, not mindful of the fact that his ribs were quite bruised at the moment. “Ow, ow, ow, ow,” he groaned, and winced, his whole body wanting to kneel, and never get back up. Padmé’s arms around him were the only thing keeping him upright at the moment.“Oh, oh sorry,” Padmé instinctively went to shrink back from Anakin, but his iron-grip on her made sure she stayed where she was.“I’m sorry,” he blurted out, burying his face in her hair, thankful to be in her arms once again, thankful that he was alive, and that, for the moment, she seemed to want to be with him.“What do you have to be sorry about?” she inquired, the corner of her eyes brimming with unshed tears.“For being a jerk, mostly, and for making you feel guilty about us and our secret marriage.”Padmé let out a shaky laugh, and the tears started rolling in. She couldn’t decide on whether to cry or laugh, so she settled on both. They were happy tears though because she was immeasurably blissful at that moment.“I’m sorry too,” she replied. “It’s just…announcing to the world that we’re married would complicate everything so much- no matter how much I want everyone to know that we’re husband and wife.”“I know, I think I understand that now. It just felt as though you were ashamed of us.”Padmé, with a gentle hand, pulled his chin down, and kissed him roughly, wanting to convey all the emotions boiling around inside her for this beautiful man. His hand upon the back of her head pulled her gently closer.They parted slightly after a moment, their need for oxygen overriding their need for each other.The city life seemed unusually subdued. Padmé turned back to the railing, enjoying the comfort the darkness brought down onto the city like a security blanket. She smiled softly when Anakin’s arms wrapped themselves around her waist; they were her anchor.This was where they belonged: entwined in each other. She might not have been sure about anything else, but about this, she knew she absolutely was.The end.

Summary: “What’s your name?”“Red.”“No,” the man - Frank - shakes his head. His heart beating a symphony of unease. “That’s not it.” Notes: Hi, there! First things first, I did a lot of research for this series. And I mean, a lot. I'll try and write as much as I can about it in the end notes, for anyone curious. Poems and excerpts taken from (in order of appearence):Unlocking, Alice B. FogelDeep Red, Kevin KillianThe too late poem, Albert GoldbarthBalance, Alice B. FogelBilly-Ray Belcourt Happy reading ❤️     Humus; a brown or black complex variable material resulting from the partial decomposition of plant or animal matter and forming the organic portion of soil.   Trees are born and die, bones turn to humus, glacier to meadowland.     RED   I’m living in your disgrace deep red hatched cells a doll with hands scuttles across the face of the sea for you come and get these memories   He wakes up and he’s nothing but the pounding ache, hammering a hole through his brain and out his skull. Nausea plays with his stomach in flips, bitter acid splashes at the back of his tongue, scorching his taste buds in white-hot sting. He swallows convulsively - he’s numb from his feet to his waist and it recedes like the tide. Feeling returns like glass shards stabbing his thighs, knees, calves, feet. Abdomen flutters with the need to be sick, heat replaces cold and cycles back to heat all over his sweaty skin. Glass shards turn into pins and needles, he finds that moving is possible. Hands scramble to get a purchase onto something real, scratchy cotton scrapes over his palms as they shake, muscles pulse as if trying to melt right out of his skin. His fingers feel anesthetized, skin tingles all over, merges at the right side of his face. Tingling- Getting up makes blood rush to all the places that hurt, his perception flickers and darkens in a world that’s already painted in black and splashes of red. Maybe his knees hit the floor, he’s not sure. He’s up again - holding himself tightly to the wooden headrest of a bed before the pain converges to one place; his head. It sharpens into a ringing over his right ear, splitting him open, brain turning into static mush. He’s being taken apart from the inside out. There are words trying to tumble their way out of his mouth, but he can’t remember how to move his lips, curl his tongue. Knows that M feels like pressing his lips, knows that L gets his tongue to dance in the cage of his teeth, but nothing moves, nothing works. Nausea swirls around once more, doubles his body weight. He’s oddly aware of his own shaking, then. How his hands tremble and tremble as if convulsing. Moving gets the blood to pool on his legs and the throbbing muscle flares like fireworks under the skin. He takes a step - falters. Nothing works as it’s supposed to and he pushes. When his knees fail he pulls himself up, his head feeling like an overfilled balloon, brain liquid and heavy. He smells soap and he follows it, follows the only thing that’s not hot-cold pain and the clash of lightheadedness and heavy, pounding ache that tears from his spine, to his neck, to his head and behind his eyes. The world flickers as if it’s own fire. And then he’s falling, knees collapsing like a house of cards. He’s unable to keep going - still, he crawls. Shoulders shake in a dance of giving up and giving more, his elbows bruise with the number of times it falls to the ground. He can’t remember half the crawl when he finally reaches the smell of soap - a bathroom. He has to stand up, so he does. Body begs him to stop, flares in his own perception like lightening. His muscles quiver and crumple, pain screams a high-pitched agony song on all of his limbs. Even as he manages to stand up, he’s still falling, getting pulled into the ground. He doesn’t know, but it’s not the first time he awakens in the unfamiliar place. Cold porcelain meets him in a shock of cold and he’s vomiting before he can process the feeling of knees hitting the tiles once more. Barely registers the vile taste coating his tongue for it feels thick and tingling with palpable static as if anesthetized. His head throbs, brain pulses against the cage of his skull. Drills from the center to find surface - he’s a hollow tunnel collapsing inwards. He vaguely registers he stopped vomiting when vertigo thickens the weight of his head. Digs through his brain on how to make his limbs move, how to get his muscles to work, so he stays slumped in the ground, a pile of failed meat. Feverish eyes scream a bright sting when he blinks - maybe he’s shaking from it, from the pain. Maybe it’s the cold from the tiles under his naked knees. He tries to come up with an answer to questions he doesn’t know how to formulate - to where he is, why does everything hurt, why can’t he see, why is he alone - but nothing comes. Only the ringing in his right ear and the impermeable fog on his head, cut through only by needle-sharp pain. Where. His breath hitches and even the slight movement of his throat feels exhaustive. He forgets mechanics and only focuses on pressing his hands to the floor, finding something solid under his feet. Tries to get up, tries to get ready. Head screams threat even when all he can perceive is soap, his own sweat, copper and the ringing in his ear. Needs to locate the threats. Find escape routes. Head pulses, throbs- Where? The unfamiliarity of the place feels slightly less daunting when he manages to stand up. He doesn’t recognize the cold feeling under his feet, doesn’t recognize the smell of soap or the coppery aroma that gets more noticeable every second that he balances precariously on his legs. He can’t see but he knew where the bathroom was - followed the scent of soap and bleach. There’s something he has to do. The thought comes unbidden, penetrates through the fog like knife cutting through cloth. And then it’s all he can think of. There’s somewhere he has to be. Someone... someone was waiting. Someone needed him. Needed... who. The thought disappears like smoke with the next pulse of pain against his bone, overworked muscles shake and falter as he grips onto the sink. Swaying side to side, again and again. A swirl of nausea his body mimics from his stomach. And then it’s back. Someone, someone, someone. Fingers curl around the faucet. He can’t open it. Right hand refuses to cooperate. His head hurts and the ringing won’t leave. He tips it slightly to the right side only for it to scream bright-white-red pain and his knees try buckling once more. Someone waiting ( someone needed him) . He’s there, holding himself to the sink, convinced he’ll fall to the ground again. And this time, he won’t get back up. The world is a black hole but for the fire thickening around him, a botched perception of a sink, a toilet, a shower - but it’s dull and thick like spilling ink. He’ll fall and sink into the nothing underneath. Melt into insubstantial liquid. He hurt his head. He hurt something else too. His head is hurt - how, when, why - doesn’t know. Why is his head hurt? He finds the stitches like a rupture in the embers painting the perception of his own body. Follows the sutures with his fingertips, feels the swelling threatening to pull the threads apart. Almost faints from the pain when he tries pressing lightly into it. His right ear rings - someone - and keeps ringing, it won’t stop - someone needed him. Who? (Get to work). The erratic thinking is cut through by rhythmic thumping approaching - and then, the world rushes in. A heart, breathing, creaking wooden floor, birds, a deer far away, rustling leaves. Something is missing and he doesn’t know what. Someone needed... Open the faucet. He can’t open the faucet. Thought turns to mush and disappears into nothing, he has one job, he has to open the faucet but he can’t. Fingers fumble but can’t hold a grip. A solid wall of thumping heartbeat, inflating lungs and straining muscles carrying the smell of rain, smoke and antiseptic clots the doorway, the only escape route. A large hand suddenly intrudes in his space, takes the handle and twists it for him. He stumbles away from the oppressive, undefined form. Too much battles with his perception - the worms crawling and squirming under the house, the creaking wood, the loud, thunder-like heartbeat, the choir of birds and deer and coyotes and a large, shapeless body of leaves and trees and roots. It takes the form of a man as he concentrates, limbs sluggish where he tries to protect himself. Maybe he falls, maybe he’s still up. He’s upright, he’s upside down - his head hurts. The man, for now he’s sure it’s a man, closes the faucet then. Tries to focus on some kind of noise that may or may not be coming out of his mouth, but is deafened by the too-fast sound of his own pulse, loud ringing and the rhythmic war-drum behind, framing the bathroom with its sound waves. He whimpers, tries to press a hand to his right ear only to yelp at the pain, the sound echoing and stabbing his eardrums viciously. What’s happening? What the hell is happening? Why does everything hurt? What happened to him? Too late, the fog whispers back, too late. “Where am I?” He doesn’t recognize the voice that leaves his own throat, uncertain in its candor. Weak. A simple thought of what would Stick think? passes through his head before disappearing into the fog, lacerated and torn apart by the sharp ringing. Like everything else - insubstantial. He can’t reach it but it’s there, trapped in the haze. If he could just reach it- God, his head is killing him. “Red,” the gruff voice saturates the room and paints it bright. “Can’t be walking yet, go back to bed.” The sound helps him make a picture of himself - the embers lick at the heat gathered tightly in a straight line across his lower abdomen, in a circular wound in his right leg. Hot-white pain brings the nausea back the moment he attempts touching the sutures in his belly and he’s falling again. The man’s arms are curling around him firmly before his knees manage to hit the ground, a solid weight trapping him and he fights the nausea if only to push the man away with a disgruntled shout. His tongue is thick and dry in his mouth when he makes a second attempt at speech, limbs heavy and unable to come up to protect himself from the stranger. “No!” His own voice hits the tiles and echoes loudly against his eardrums. “Where am I? W-who are you?” The man’s heartbeat slows right down, the image of him flickers and he tries to grab onto it so he won’t catch him off guard should he attempt to attack. The man’s breath rumbles like the growl of a bear in his chest and he stumbles another step back at the disappointed, choppy rhythm of the man’s pulse. “You’re in a shack,” he relays carefully, tone neutral and giving him nothing to analyze. “Outside the city. It’s me, Red.” “No, why... Who, who are you?” He’s barely there when he asks again, mulls over the name again in his head. He’s called him that twice. Tries to savor it in his tongue as if it’ll get it to make any sense, but it doesn’t. He doesn’t know. Something’s wrong, missing. He tries to reach for anything that makes sense. Anything at all. The fog sits there, unreachable, unperturbed. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know. “C’mon, Red. You need to sleep the meds off for a while longer.” A hand approaches him, cutting through the haze. “Don’t!” Red jumps away a few steps from the solid wall of a man, hands reach for him again once his knees try buckling for the second time. “Why do you have me? Let me- let me go-” The tinnitus in his right ear rises to that of a bee hive and he whimpers, head falling forward only for it to pulse dangerously, throbbing in so much pain that he barely registers it. “It’s Frank, Red.” It still doesn’t make any sense. Nothing does. “Why do you keep- ah, God,” the skin at the side of his head seems to swell, tries to pull at the stitches when it’s only the pain, bloating larger than life and playing with nausea settling deep in his bones. Adrenaline pulses hot, burning through it, keeping him no his feet. “Why do you keep calling me that?” The man’s - Frank’s - answer is deliberate when it comes, deceivingly patient. “What else should I call you?” The air leaves him in a sharp exhale, sutures pulling at the side of his head, right over his ear. Can hear it like bending wires, metal against bone. He uses it to center himself, tries to work through the haze with trembling fingers and weak knees. Finds nothing. “I don’t-” Too late, the fog repeats, you’re too late. His eyes sting but he refuses to acknowledge the heavy heat when it fills his eyelids with salt, burns at them. His head pounds as if protesting against it too. “Red is... fine.” He chokes out, his whole frame shivering as if his skeleton was attempting to jump out of his skin. The man - he forgot his name again, what was it? Grant, Dent, no - steps closer again, palms turned up to show he’s not a threat. He’s the only real thing he can track, the only thing that makes sense in the midst of all the input. Untouched by the fog even while he’s surrounded by it. Red can make out arms, fingers, a torso, a heartbeat, organs, bones - can’t make sense of his face, not yet. It gets lost among all the flames. Trying to work through the scents only proves him in worst shape, the sound of the man’s stomach digesting coffee and oatmeal almost deafens him. “Hey,” his voice booms around the room and Red’s knees weaken, the man is there to touch him lightly, callouses meeting elbows. “Hey, I’ll just take you back to bed, c’mon.” The words make sense until the point that they don’t. His brain grabs at what he can; the quality of the man’s - Fred, Frank - voice, deep, stoic and unperturbed. The warmth of his palms, every single ridge of a scar and a callous. His limbs are heavy by the time they stop moving, knees touching something cushy but coarse. Cotton. Doesn’t want to come anywhere near it, but he can’t fight the pull of every single muscle in his body. “I have to get back,” he slurs. “You’re in no shape to do sh*t, Red.” But he has to get back before curfew. Sister Augustine uses the ruler on the disobedient ones and Matt doesn’t want- He needs to get back before curfew. The man is there. Hovering just at the edge of the fog, fingers digging into it and keeping it away from him. Molding his body just right so it doesn’t escape it completely. He feels larger than the world, surrounding him from all sides - mountains surrounding a forest, forest surrounding a cabin... “It’s okay, kid.” He lets the tide take him. Large palms pressing him down to sandpaper, the church bells ringing in his ear.     His head is splitting open. Red cries out as soon as he wakes up, his brain pulsing against the sutures at the side of his head, throbbing. The pain radiates like lightening from it’s roots, an intricate web-patterned mesh of agony right over his right ear, extending to his temple, all over the right side of his head and the back of his eyes. The skin of his right arm feels numb and prickling, his ribs burn and splinters every time his chest rises with a breath. His lips feel dry and cracking when his parched tongue traces the edges, a foul taste lingering in the inside of his cheeks, over his teeth. His saliva feels thick with dehydration. “Open,” the gruff voice startles him to action. A rib shifts and another creaks and Red feels another cry dig its nails inside his throat. A large, sunken ship groans in his thorax and his chest stutters up and down with the new ache. He tries to feel for the coarse fabric irritating his skin - tries to fight, to get the offending hands away, but it’s useless. There are birds chirping outside, loud enough that it feels like their beaks and too-fast-too-loud heartbeats are pressed right against his eardrums. The large, indistinguishable body of roots, dirt and trees extends for as far as his senses can go. But the birds, they’re everywhere, occupying his insides like their own little cages. “It’s just water, open up.” Water. Water sounds good. Hands falter and fighting becomes pulling. Opening his mouth takes a surprising amount of strength. A rough but surprisingly careful hand tilts his chin back, supporting his head and helping cool liquid slide down his throat and quench the desert-like aridity. Stray drops run down his lips and neck, a stark difference with his slightly overheated skin. Tries to reach up his right hand to steady the man’s wrist only to find it uncooperative, lifting his left one instead. Red keeps on pushing until the right one eventually joins its twin, grip weak around a thick, scarred forearm. He holds it tight. The man's not getting his arm back until Matt is finished.  “Slow down, Red, you’ll choke.” He responds to the command automatically, guzzling down gulps of fresh water in a slower rhythm until he finishes what’s left in the bottle. All strength leaves his muscles when he finally lets go. The man’s hands are stop him from falling down abruptly against the mattress. This man. The man from before. Before... how long ago? Hours? Days? Some time before. Some time. Red doesn’t linger on it. Cotton sheets catch on the bruises in his skin and he hisses. “Hey! Stop f***ing moving around!” The man’s voice is pleasantly rough and Red stops, tilting up to hear it more closely, how it caresses the shell of his ear with a deep, gruff timbre. He’s locked in a more gentle, subtle kind of haze, then. The void doesn’t seem as terrifying as it feels inviting. “You had your skull open three days ago. Take it easy, Red.” He giggled. It was funny. Skulls weren’t supposed to be open, and people weren’t supposed to be named after colors. Red doesn’t know what colors looks like. It’s funny. “I’ll call you Black, then,” it feels funnier, still, because he isn’t sure he knows what black looks like either. “Dunno what it looks like but errthing’s burning-” The tingling feeling from before traveled up all the way from his legs to his shoulders and the world went out of focus. He’s oddly aware of his body moving before he went out again. Moving and moving and he couldn’t stop. Muscles tightening and loosening and tightening again. And then he was melting into the cotton sheets, skin feeling oddly detached of his flesh, hanging of him. Curt... back... seized again, just, come back here. He feels two powerful arms holding him sideways, a palm cradling his head. His head is overstuffed with cotton balls until they too dissolve, and Red’s drained. He isn’t sure when he manages to move. When reaching out feels like something possible, but it happens before he’s ready for it. He carefully explores the man’s face, the heavy stubble around his jaw and lips. The tight coiling heat of a bruise under one eye. He smiles. He’s home? “Dad?” “Sh*t-” the man, he didn’t sound like Dad, holds his breath before letting it get punched out of his chest. Like he’s in a ring with himself, or maybe with Red. “No, kid, just... Hang in there. Just hang in there.” The man doesn’t make much sense. Red feels around for him, for a proof of Dad. Feels the thick neck and strong shoulders. The pain coils tightly around the grinding above his right ear. His right arm feels too heavy to keep moving. Too heavy to do anything. He groans, hands coming to protect his head from the hellfire blazing within, hold it together so it doesn’t get ripped apart from the inside out. Hands appear out of thin air and Red can’t track them fast enough, hear the whistling of nails through air when someone forces something down his throat. Red fights. He has to find his Dad. He needs to find him or it'll be too late. The hands press him down against sandpaper sheets, feels it scrape at his skin, take a piece of him with it. Red fights it, with everything he has in him. “What did you do to him? Where’s- where’s-” Limbs loosen even when he tries to tense them, tries to fight. The need to sleep comes so suddenly his brain barely catches up to it, fingers still twitching, attempting to grab at something. The world is black, black, black and Dad’s face disappears with the sky when he hears the bullet. He lays down beside dad’s body in the alleyway, blood dries in the concrete.     “Eat.” His eyes open like the fluttering wings of the bird right outside the window, picking at its own feathers with its beak. Everything smells of wood, grass, gunpowder and soil, it impregnates every inch of his skin as his eyelashes disturb the air around him. Moves dust particles in a dance of fairy lights he’s not privy to. He’s not sure how long it’s been since he last woke up. It could be hours. It could be weeks. The fog is easier to navigate through, this time. It’s thick and omnipresent in every pulse of blood rushing through his body, but Red finds a way around it - can make the picture of his own body in his mind, how it inhabits the space, how it’s positioned in relation to the wooden walls. He can trace his pains back to their sources, although the fatigue stops him short of it. Every muscle in his body screams of exhaustion. The man - Frank, he recalls - is there once more. The fog battles the fire as Red unravels the enigma of the heartbeat poised right beside him. Listens to the rush of blood and oxygen to track the edges and contours of the man’s frame. Frank’s big, a shifting solid wall of trained muscles and a too-steady pulse. There’s a certain unwavering confidence in the way his chest expands with every inhale. A man unafraid of anything. Smells tell him more - gunpowder, gun oil, coffee, nicotine, blood, a lot of antiseptic, enough that it tickles his nose. He’s soon interrupted when a bowl of oatmeal is shoved in his face, struggling to curl his right hand around it as easily as he does with his left one. He winces once more when a head movement makes agony strike like lightning, rooting from the cloudy epicenter of the wound by his right ear and spreading over the curve of his skull and side of his neck. “Here,” the man turns to his left, feeling for something in a small fold-up table that smelled strongly of rust. A rough hand reaches for his, dropping two pills inside the shell of his palm. “It’s paracetamol. Curt said I can’t give you NSAIDs.” Red just nods sluggishly, realizing his mistake when the pain flares - whatever Frank says, he has other things to worry about. Why am I not in a hospital? He wants to ask. But doesn’t. Not yet. “Why do you smell of guns?” He asks instead. Red’s voice is only a thin thread of what it had been moments earlier. The fatigue is catching up to him quickly - too quickly. The man only snorts and Red tilts his head in slight confusion. For some reason he can’t fathom, that gives Frank a stop. Heartbeat falters before speeding up imperceptibly. “What’s my name, Red?” His voice catches on gravel and tar as he speaks, thick and filling the whole room with a sense of foreboding Red can’t help but mirror. “Frank.” “Frank what?” Red frowns, works through the exhaustion to keep upright, oatmeal balanced precariously in his hands. “I don’t know, you tell me.” “Sh*t,” the man shakes his head, pulse slightly faster still. “What’s your dad’s name?” Red’s eyebrows furrow closer together, analyzing a catch, some kind of implicit cue that he isn’t getting. Sees Dad’s face in his head, bruised and smiling at him. “Why do you want to know-” “Just answer the damn question.” He breathes a bit deeper. “Jack.” Red offers, calmly. Tries to remember his surname but can’t for the life of him form a single letter in his head that feels right. Just Jack. Battlin’ Jack. “Your mom’s?” “Dunno. Never met ‘er.” Something clicks, right at the back of his head. A noise. Doesn’t know what it is, doesn’t know where it comes from. Another click. He shakes his head. Frank is quiet. A void where Red’s perceptions usually would reach him - read his heartbeat, the pulling of his muscles, the steadiness of his breathing. He leans with his elbows to his knees, shifting dark smoke against the flames and the fire. “What’s yours?” The noise clicks again, his stomach goes cold. Eyes shift uselessly around as if to look for those embers, that bright fire. “What’s your name?” “Red.” “No,” the man - Frank - shakes his head. His heart beating a symphony of unease, of disappointment. A stark contrast to Red’s derailing one. “That’s not it.” “Does it really matter?” He begs in a breathless voice, heartbeat erratic where it pulses like a drum against his broken ribs. Soft tissue pressing against splintered bone. “You got yourself in some sh*t, Red,” the fog and the smoke envelop the man and he can barely track him but for his breathing, his heart, his stoic, unperturbed voice. “Some bad guys, they hit you in the head pretty bad. I could see part of your brains when I got there. Have no f***ing clue how you’re alive.” Frank’s heartbeat changes - accelerates just for a moment, snapping his body to life before he sinks back to the controlled ease. Red feels the pull of sutures on the side of his head. The grinding of bone on bone right over his ear, the feel of metal holding them together. “Is that why-” “Why what?” “I can’t see. Is... no,” no, he remembers Dad fading from his sight. The sky a far away dream. Dad promising it would be okay. “I’m blind.” The man’s chest stutters in a breath before measuring itself once more. In his slip of control, Red sees him clearly. Smoke fades in the face of the impressionist-like strokes of scent, sound, taste, touch. Can feel the heat as it leaves his body, the bruises blossoming all over his skin, the gunpowder stuck under his nails. “Yeah, you are.” The fatigue weights on him, seeps the energy out of his bones like a quiet stream. The oatmeal cools off. “Why is everything so loud?” Frank sighs, the air leaves him like a prisoner breaking free. Red feels it permeate the air. “I don’t know how you work, Red, really don’t. Just eat and go back to bed. It’ll get better, yeah?” A skip. Barely there. “Lie,” he mumbles. Frank’s heartbeat is a war-drum, a march of soldiers across no-man’s land. He sounded almost worried. Family? No. Red only ever had his dad. Friend? Unlikely. Red's no good at friends. “Are you my boyfriend?” Frank snorts without humor. “Nah, Red. You don’t like me very much. Just eat your food.” He stands up, footsteps fading where the fog dampens the fire. The noise rises in his right ear as he eats, spoonful by spoonful of lukewarm oatmeal. He can’t keep it in his stomach for long.   CONCUSSION   Nothing in the room can go back. The ashes couldn’t be paper again, the paper couldn’t return to its parental linen rags.     3 days earlier;   Frank can’t find a pulse. He curses, fingers slides wetly and slips in blood, presses them deeper into the same spot. The puddle keeps growing, nothing thrums under his digits - there’s no f***ing pulse. And he was too goddamn late. He keeps his hands close to the absence of a heartbeat and hangs his head. Sh*t, this wasn’t supposed to happen. It wasn’t supposed to go down like this. He lets go of the cold, progressively colder neck and curses at the sky, gathering the strength to face Red. He’s still mumbling, lips twitching and moving uselessly, crimson-tinted. His eyes are huge and dazed as if drugged, eyelashes clumped together with dried blood - he’s covered in it. Envelops him like a second skin, a sick kind of clothing. He stands up from the wet puddle under his feet, stains the few parts of gray concrete ruby where he steps and crouches by Red’s shivering figure, tries to find the source of the blood dripping down heavily over the side of his neck and painting his dislocated shoulder the color of his old suit. “Ah f***!” It’s small, can’t be wider than three, maybe four inches and a half, but the broken, elevated bone in Red’s skull gave way to his brain, hidden among tufts of auburn blood-soaked hair. Frank curses and steps back - has to work through his mind on what he knows of head injuries, anything from boot-camp to his experience on the field. Files the do’s apart from the don’t and what he’s equipped to deal with on his own. Goes through the information with single minded focus as he motions to the side and rips the shirt of a twitching, dying man in the warehouse floor. The bone hadn’t pierced the brain and there didn’t seem to be any parts pressed inwards, which counted for some measure of relief. He was extra careful moving him even then, supporting his neck. Red was still mumbling, huge eyes blind and lost to the tar-like emptiness surrounding him from all sides. “Sh*t, Red, work with me. C’mon, kid, work with me.” “Ahn- mhn- nnn-” “No,” Jesus Christ, he’s not doing this. He is not going to do this, not here. “No c’mon, kid, you don’t die here.” Frank holds on to a lifeline, attempting to press the cloth to stop the bleeding without disturbing the bone. Shifts his body to wrap a tourniquet around the bullet wound in his thigh, the knife slash across his stomach bleeds freely and gets the too-thin scrap soaking wet. He takes his own jacket off and presses against it, one hand still holding his nape to keep his head off the ground. It starts off like a twitch before Red’s whole frame seizes. Muscles contract and loosen, Red’s body snaps alive and deteriorates at the same time. Castle uses his whole weight to press his chest down to the blood-stained concrete and keep his neck still so he won’t hurt himself further. “Come on, Red, hang in there.” The gunshot to the thigh, the broken ribs, the dislocated shoulder and the slash to the stomach Frank can deal with. Sh*t is way less concerning than the piece of brain he could see and the seizure. Red is a live, pulsing wire in his arms until it seeps off him like an ill-fitting suit and he goes limp in Castle’s arms. He makes sure to put the shoulder back in place, secures the crimson-tinted wraps around the kid’s right thigh and lower stomach. Shifts him in his arms to brace his neck as best he can without proper equipment and holds the cloth to the bleeding wound. Thick ruby liquid drips on the ground and splatters his combat boots when Frank gets Red up. He checks the unconscious and dead bodies around them - some mangled to some degree, others beginning to wake up and shook his head. This wasn’t his goddamn mess. He gets moving. Calculates next steps. If Frank takes him to the hospital, Red was as good as dead. Whole city would be looking for him, morning came. He sifts through the possibilities in his head before finding the only truly viable solution. This day couldn’t get any worse.     “Does he need surgery?” “I don’t know, I-” Frank’s got no time for this bullsh*t. Much less the kid. He takes one careful, deliberate look around the room before slanting his head towards the bloodied threshold; the dead bodies piled outside. “Your bosses are dead, Doc. You only get out of this alive if I let you, got that?” The wiry man couldn’t be older than fifty, but the severe lines of fear distorted his face, made him look older. Frank studies exit points lazily - he had them memorized by now. “You told me you needed the portable CT. You have it. Does he need surgery?” “Man, look, I dig bullets out of people, close up stab wounds. I’m not a neurosurgeon!” Frank looks around, stuck between the restlessness and measured composure. He rubs the handle of his colt at the scar in his head, presses the cold metal against the skull until it stings. He wasn’t a neurosurgeon, no, but he had good equipment. Everything a mob doctor could need to patch up sh*tbags, including some things Frank was sure was alien tech. The Italian family Frank had been planning on hitting before this whole mess started had a whole hospital fit in a room so they could keep out of sight, out of record. “See, Doc, people say you’re the best. If they’re wrong, I got no use for you.” Frank clasps his hands in front of his body, feels the tackiness of Red’s drying blood in his palm and presses them more viciously together before loosening his muscles by sections. “Do you know how to do this or not?” The man’s lower lip trembled, muscle caught in the limbo between giving in and giving out, dark skin shining bright with sweat in the artificial light. “His dura looks intact. Little extrusion of brain matter... I can,” doc sighs shakily, “I can make a wound debridement, put the bone back in place with some wire and stitch it together. But if his brain starts bleeding or if there’s any internal damage we didn’t see, there’s nothing I can do.” Frank chances a look at the kid, sprawled out in the metal table. Still mumbling - awake, and still fighting to live with every inch of strength he could gather beneath wax-like skin. The house, painted crimson in blood as it was now, stank of death and piss. His eyes meet the doc’s again, there’s no understanding or truce in the gaze, but acknowledgment. They’re doing this. Frank has no f***ing choice. “Get ready, doc.”     0500 hours sees the sun far from fully setting in the horizon but the cold is already creeping into Frank’s bones. He abandoned the van he had stolen from the Italians in a ditch far enough away from the forest so it would keep them from looking, although Frank seriously doubted there was anyone left after the bloodbath he left behind. Wheeling a stretcher through the woods is a challenge on its own but it’s good quality stuff and he makes do, shoving bigger rocks and rotting branches away from their path when necessary, covering his tracks when needed. Red is passed out in between the flimsy see-through sheets, head bandaged neatly with only a few bloody stains seeping through. The trees eventually give way to his cabin and Curt’s car. He checks the plaque twice, makes sure the numbers are ordered correctly, focusing on details that would give away anything other than the expected. The beehive eating away at his brain settles, if only just as he mulls the numbers over in his head. Details get past him, sometimes. Spill like water from his grasp, like Red’s blood from the fracture in his head. Splattering in no distinguishable pattern, thick like overheated jelly over Frank’s boots. Can’t help looking at the gauze holding Red’s head together and feeling the tingle over his own scar. The one Bill left him with. Curt is draping new sheets over the creaking, old bed on the corner when Frank bursts hurriedly through the front door, eyes checking the perimeter, counting the booby traps surrounding them in a backwards order. Tree branch, leaf pile, can grenade, bamboo whip, trip wire, nail spikes. The room had been scrubbed within an inch of its life and Frank can’t exactly put to words any kind of gratification as he undoes the latches holding Red to the stretcher. He had been up and moving since four in the morning, since the phone call and the warehouse and finding Red mumbling gibberish with his head open and covered in blood that wasn’t only his. “Curt,” his voice is thick with gravel and tar-like saliva when it croaks out of him, “gotta take a look at that wound.” “Slow down, Frank, we’ll get to that in sec.” He shakes his head but doesn’t protest further, he won’t interfere with a corpsman’s f***ing work. Never had before and won’t start now. The unease trickles to his jumping fingers and settles in the pit of his stomach like a reassurance - he’s left two battlefields, welcoming a third one. Red, Curt and him and making sure that Red’s brains stayed where they were supposed to. Curt puts a thermometer in the kid’s ear and holds it with one hand while he carefully untangles the end of the gauze with steady fingers. “Hold this for me,” Frank’s already moving, taking hold of the device and leaving Curt to his work. Had never been this close to the kid without gearing up for a punch and the wrongness is another poke at the wasps’ nest in his head. “Did he do it right?” The uneven tan of his forearms next to Red’s waxy parlor makes him look fragile like china. “The surgery, he got it right?” The corpsman exhales a huff - neither a put upon sigh nor a simple breath, something trapped in the mingling lines. “I’d need a head scan to know that.” Wants to say something useless, waiting for the temperature to stop rising and the thermometer to finally shrill out a warning, if only to see if that would get Red to wake up and stop looking like a corpse. Say something like he’s good. Because he’s an idiot and a sanctimonious a**hole but Red’s good, can’t argue with the truth of it. “Does it look right?” He doesn’t trust a mob doc to have done it right as he trusts Curt and he certainly didn’t trust one not to give Red’s identity in exchange for safety from the other gangs, and that’s why his body is cooling off with his bosses’ back in the Costa family mansion. “Doesn’t look infected but it could take a while to set in,” the thermometer beeps. Curt checks it and nods in passing. “Not high enough to be a fever, probably from the shock.” An open palm is presented to him and Frank doesn’t ask him what, just handles Curt the improvised head scan the doc had taken after Frank shoved a gun in the back of his head. His face twists in all kinds of complicated expressions before sighing heavily. “Was he unconscious after the hit?” “Was awake when I found him. Mumbling sh*t, wasn’t making much sense. Passed out right after I got him to the doc’s table.” “How long?” “Two hours maybe.” Isn’t sure, even when he says it. The details get lost in between bracing Red sideways in the table and watching the doc put the fracture piece of bone back in place after dosing him with something, wiring it up together precariously and pulling the torn up skin over it, knitting it together in the shape of a crescent right above Red’s right ear. “The surgeon got the place clean, put that piece of bone back in place and closed it.” Curt nods, frowning for a different reason entirely as he works the flashlight back and forth over non-responding eyes. “His pupils-” “He’s blind.” “Alright,” he took it in stride. Curt’s good at playing civilian but he’s still a soldier. Still trained for the job first, any and everything else later. Frank can't begrudge him for the shake of his head. Frank himself still found hard to believe the sh*t Red pulled without functional eyes. “At least they’re even.” Mumbles offhandedly, barely parting his lips as the slurred words work through the cracks. The blooming bruises starting under Red’s eyes were small but starting to spread. A mock-mask. Frank remembers it vaguely. Seeing the same bruising under his own eyes in the mirror back then, when that bullet shattered inside his skull and lodged in the soft tissue of his brain. Curt stands up from his looming, turning the flashlight off and sighing heavily, his whole frame moving with the weight of it that hangs oppressively in the air between them. “Fracture’s not the problem, Frank. They mostly heal on their own. Docs call it a compound fracture.” Curt snaps the gloves off his hands, throwing them over to Frank when he offers his palms. He sees it coming, sees how the situation downs on him - Curt prepares to fire the big guns and Frank fights the urge to square himself back against it, keeping his pose neutral. “If he has brain damage, though? He could bleed internally, Frank. His brain could start swelling, he could paralyze, stop breathing. If he gets an infection, the chance of saving him, Frank, Jesus.” Curt shakes his head, every motion a forewarn. “Risk is already high in a hospital, let alone in the middle of nowhere.” “What do I gotta do, Curt?” He cuts to the chase and the ex-corpsman is none too happy about it, pressing his lips together in silent disapproval. Frank could almost taste it in the air in the way he could still taste the sterilized surgical tools. A stench that wouldn’t go. “For at least six days, if you’re keeping him here,” he exhales, all the contents in his lungs leaving in a single heave. “You gotta sterilize the room. Clean it at least two times a day. His sheets will need to be changed everyday, his wound cleaned, the bathroom scrubbed every time you use it. You can’t touch him without washing your hands, can’t open the windows or you risk letting in dirt and bacteria.” Frank rubs a palm through his eyes until the skin around it stings and he moves to pressing his knuckles against his eyeballs, feeling the pressure build up, dark and bright spots dancing at the edges before he lets up. “Think I can do it here?” Curt turns to him, eyebrows raised in something that looked like resignation but Frank wouldn’t be all that sure. “You have any other choice?” It’s a fair question, one Frank would’ve answered truthfully, should’ve gotten the chance. He was nothing if not practical - if there was anywhere else he could’ve safely taken Red to, he would’ve. In a f***ing heartbeat. But there’s nowhere and here they are. Movement stops them both short of continuing the questioning: twitching fingers sing a prelude to wakening muscles and a dragged out, weak groan. Red moves subtly under the thin stained sheet, left arm fumbling for a grip before he lets go. Frank watches it, taking an involuntary step forward when it twitches again, fingers attempting to hold the fabric before eyes flutter open. “What’s his name?” Curt’s voice brings him out of the brief uncertainty and Frank’s eyebrows furrow down to meet at the bullseye between them. “Matthew.” Curt nods, pulls himself a rickety fold-up chair and sits closer to the bed. “Alright, Matthew,” he starts, his voice dropping to that soothing tone Frank had heard one too many times. “I’ll need you to stay still, you’re really hurt.” He’s dazed, still. Less so than when Frank found him, but his eyes won’t still quite stop moving around lazily. Every single movement too slow, as if limbs were being weighted down to the mattress. “Mhn,” sounds wrong coming off the kid. Too vulnerable, lacking a fight. Frank clenches his jaw and works his trigger finger against his upper thigh before taking a step to the side. “Eye response is good, that’s a four.” Frank’s gaze flickers from Red’s frame, coming back and forth from Curtis and settling back again. “Hell’s that?” “I need to know his level of consciousness. There’s a scale the docs use to track that. Might need to check it a few times. It usually gets better, but he could also step into a coma.” Frank frowns at the thought of it; locks his stare to Red’s owlish, blinking eyes and lets the severity of the situation wash over him like a wave. “Matthew, can you move your left fingers for me?” The silence drags viscerally in the wake of it and Frank feels each second like a brand searing into his skin. Numbers lining up at the seam of skin over his vertebrae. “Matthew,” Curt tries again, “Can you please move your left fingers for me?” Absence of movement takes a space bigger than Frank would’ve once thought it could. He waits for it - he and Curt hanging onto the edges as they swell, separate the before from the now and all its meanings. The cabin feels larger, all the empty spaces consuming the occupied ones. “Alright.” A sigh, Curt fumbles for his first aid kit and pulls an unopened suture needle from it. The sheets get pulled from Red’s blood-stained feet, stainless steels puncturing through dermis. Red’s leg jerks away from the pain like a snapped rubber-band. Curt’s assessing eyes drag to meet Frank’s gaze in doubt. “Looks voluntary, that’s a five. Not too bad. Matthew,” no response. No head tilting, at least not towards Curt. Red’s a blank sheet with nothing but bruises and stitches holding him together - every inch of him looked wiped clean. “Matthew, can you tell me how you’re feeling?” “Mhn, mhn-” “Sh*t,” the curse leaves him in a huff of breath, his eyes go up in useless search of something he wasn’t quite sure he ever fully believed in. Guy upstairs was either very fond of Red or not at all. “Matthew, can you tell me your name?” “Mmm, mmm.” Nothing more than sounds. The echo of Red’s words over the phone crackle like static around the shell of his ears, the ghost of his speeches and admonishments like a half-forgotten story he heard from someone else. “Verbal response is not good, that’s be a two.” Curtis stands up from the chair, flimsy legs creak and cry with the movement, slanting towards the slightly smaller leg precariously. Gloves get pulled off again, thrown to the side. “He’s got moderate TBI at best, Frank. These kinda injuries either get better or they don’t. He could be talking tomorrow and then falling into a coma the day after and there’s not a damn thing you can do here to stop that from happening.” Frank turns his gaze away, locks onto Red’s dazed form instead. “This guy should be in a hospital, Frank!” “Jesus Christ,” fingers find a thread to pull before ripping it out in a single tug. Frank interlaces them behind his head and he steps around Curt, pacing into the room. There was no doubt before, when he dragged Red away from that warehouse and brought him here. There isn’t going to be any now. He drops his arms. Turns back to his brother. “How do I know?” Curt sees it. Knows him long enough to know when he’s got his mind made up about something. “Bleeding,” he offers, an exhausted drag of his consonants, “from the ears, nose, eyes. Pupils dilated unevenly. Fever, seizures, loss of motor function.” Frank commits it to memory like he once committed the names and addresses from the Cartel, the Irish, the Dogs of Hell. Paralysis, fever, seizure, blood - abort mission, find Red a hospital. “Any of those happen, I go to the hospital,” turns his eyes up to meet Curt’s, “they’ll be able to help ‘im?” Curt’s shrug is every inch as tired as his voice had been moments before. “With any luck, maybe.” He turns to sit back down, fingers tracing the rusty edges of the fold-up chair. “You mentioned a mob surgeon?” “Yeah, was planning on hitting their headquarters a while back,” he scratches at his stubbled chin, eyes fixed on the grime stain on the window pane right by Murdock’s bandaged head. “Guy took a portable scan, ain’t sure if it was any good.” “Jesus, Frank,” words are just that now; words. No turning back from this and Curt knows. Frank’s gotta do his thing but that won’t stop Curt from doing his - from trying to knock some sense into him. He’ll push and Frank won’t buckle and Curt will eventually fold, if only for the time being. “He’s had head surgery, he should be on a ventilator! Of all the impossible things!” A hysterical, put upon breath breaks out of him as he sits down. Frank doesn’t offer him anything - it’s not the first time he’ll disappoint him and most certainly not the last. Frank will do what he gotta do and Curt knows that. Knows him. The taller man shakes his head once more, fingers rubbing at his eyes. “I’ll take a look at his wounds, make sure they’re clean.” The ex-corpsman dropped his hands from his face, right elbow leaning his weight into his thigh. “You sure you can’t take this guy to a hospital? There’s a serious chance he won’t make it, Frank.” Unprompted, his mind makes its way back to the bloody two-floor warehouse. The man in the stairs. “Yeah,” voice leaves in a wisp, barely there, shredded at the end. He clears the thick feeling bloating around his throat, perched under his Adam’s apple. “I’m sure.”     Frank thumbs the edge of the crumpled piece of paper, following Curt’s scrawl with a gunpowder blackened index, dried blood stuck under his short nails. Searches through the sh*t he had raided from the Costas. A bunch of drugs Curt advised him against using, some others that’d come in handy. Paracetamol, broad spectrum antibiotics - some sedatives, should they need them. A whole bag of cleaning products he had scrounged for and some he had bought. Supplies for his dressings, antibiotic creams and Vaseline, so the bandages won’t stick to the sutures. Red’s still deep asleep by the time he gets back, Curt reading one of Frank’s books absent-minded in a corner. They’ve been checking him from hour to hour. Nudging him awake and testing his reflexes. Taking his vitals, his temp, making sure his pupils were even and there was no bleeding. Frank scrubs the whole place down. Makes sure there’s plenty of antibacterial soap and hand sanitizer around, specially when he changes his bandages. The sutures over Red’s ear were reddish and still swollen and the dressings come out slightly damp with serous fluid and some bleeding, but Curt tells him it’s normal and Frank doesn’t overthink it. He’s got a job, he’ll do it. And he damn well trusts Curt to do his. By the time he’s done cleaning, the place doesn’t look the same, something odd creeping through the wooden floors. It’s not even about the stench of cleaning products or the lack of dust settling over furniture, but a presence hanging over the space. Red is a stain making itself known - and even small as he is, kid's got one hell of a presence. Doesn't demand attention but once you see it, it hooks you in and by God it won't let you go. Twenty-one hours later, Red wakes up on his own for the second time. At first, he’s twisting the sheets in pale, ghostly hands and making sounds leaden with fatigue. Frank has no idea how he does it. One second he’s pale and slumped in the clean sheets; the next, he’s jumping to his feet, swaying precariously over his toes, breath straining and erratic - shallow, panicked puffs of air leaving him as if he was being punched repeatedly over his ribs. “Red, calm down,” his voice makes him cry out in shock, which surprises Frank in turn, heart jumping and body gearing up. “Hey, quit it, you gotta lay down.” “No, no, I have to go, lemme go, I have to-” Frank attempts an approach, only for the younger man to jump a step back, knee bobbing underneath him like a spring, caught in the limbo between giving in and holding up.  “Red, it’s Castle-” his attempts to appease only serve to incense him more, and Frank can’t say he’s surprised by that. “Let me, I need to go, I need to, I have to- ” “Red, you can’t move yet!” Trembling, almost convulsing fingers close tightly around the hilt of a fire iron, dazed, panic-blown eyes jumping from one nothing to another. Curt is a new presence at the threshold when Red unsteadily brings the weaponized tool up to his chest, sweat gathering around his waxy features with the effort of pointing it towards them. If not for the dressings and bruises and the overall beaten down appearance, Red would look every inch the dangerous fighter Frank knew him to be. “Where am I?” He asks, a quiet choke of a sound. The bandage around his shot left thigh starts pinkening before the color darkens to ruby red that starts seeping through the gauze. “What’s- I need to go,” his voice wavers again. “I need- let me go.” Blood drips on the floor from the ruptured stitches. “Can’t do that, Red.” “Who are you?” Murdock interrupts again in a burst of sound, shaky as it was, it still echoed around the four old walls. Frank hands it to him, he’s got a lot of fight. Can see the recognition in Curt, too. Red was barely keeping himself together, but still he stood there, holding that fire iron up and displaying every intention to use it if necessary. “It’s Frank, Red.” He tries a step forward. “Frank Castle.” “Get away from me!” The marine does, palms up to the opposite wall, suspended in the air with all the things he had no idea how to answer. All the question he’d need to face once- “Where’s... where’s...” Frank sees it happening in those sightless eyes and looks away. Recognition comes and goes but it always, eventually fades. Only serves to allow the question a repetition. “Where’s...” “Hey, Red, you got your head hurt pretty bad. A lotta sh*t’s gotta be confusing right now, but yer safe here-” “No no no don’t come any closer!” Can barely recognize the Devil’s voice, the way it splinters in fear and disorientation. The shaking only gets harder, his joints seem to stretch against his skin, limbs jumping away from his torso as if needing to run away. “There’s something wrong-” a sob, broken as anything Frank had ever heard. “There’s there’s something wrong, I can’t- I can’t-” words mingle and turn to mush, consonants get eaten and mixed into an auditory scrawl. Slurring the middles and catching at the end on hitched sobs. Was a wonder that Murdock still managed to keep standing, the bandage around his leg darkening further into crimson. “There’s something- please, please take me home.” The distant ringing on his ear turns into a hive, the numbness of the swarm’s fluttering wings. Take me home, he had said years ago. Head bandaged, no wife, no kids. Dead even if he still didn't know it. “Take me home, please-” Murdock’s knees finally give in and Curt steps into the room, the mid afternoon sun painting a dream-like haze over them - over Red’s open sobbing and Curt’s mumbled, comforting words. “Please, take me home.” Frank dodges his gaze to the ceiling and leaves the room.     “He doesn’t know his goddamn name, Curt.” The man sighs dispiritedly in response and Frank wonders if this is where Curt will finally stop indulging him. No such luck. “You don’t know that.” “Did you see that? Huh? Did you see what I just saw?” The incensed tone barely registers over the ex-corpsman’s features, eyes lazily following the movement of the blunt kitchen knife cutting through the apple in his hand. Curt shakes his head, drops the fruit on the table. “It’s been barely a day, Frank. He’s been beaten half to death, shot at, stabbed, brained. You’d know something about it?” “What, you think I did it?” Deep black eyes search over his face, eyebrows slightly curved upwards, betraying the worry Curt couldn’t keep bottled up. When he finally gives in, he does so with a heavy, exhausted exhale; his whole frame moves with it. “I think you wouldn’t torture someone you think is worth saving, it’s what I think.” Curt shakes his head once more, eyes pressed closed. Frank’s seen it a million times before. Patience runs right out of him even while Curt tries to hold it as tightly as he can. “Why is he here, Frank? Who is this guy?” The question should cut or maim or injure something in him, the way it sounds like a shriek cutting through his eardrums. Slicing through them like butter. No such thing happens - he’s a man sitting by a window with all his systems geared up for a fight and nothing left to face but his friend. “Have nowhere to send him.” “That’s bullsh*t, Frank!” He wasn’t denying it. “All I can give you.” He shrugs, rolls his shoulder back when he feels a healing cut pull at the edges. Curt steps back from the conversation at the movement and so does Castle. Takes the time to observe the other, how he prepared for another approach, how he studied his angles the way Frank would always study a building’s layout and exits before stepping inside. “Look, I ain’t asking why a blind man got hurt the way he did,” it sounds like it’s exactly what he means to ask. Frank doesn’t give him anything. “But whoever had him wasn’t a fan. He has broken ribs, his lower abdomen is slashed, his left thigh shot through, his shoulder was clearly dislocated-” “What do you want, Curt? What do you want me to say?” “I want you to tell me you’re not neck deep in something too big again, Frank!” His exasperated tone turns desperate, the thick lump of worry suffers metamorphosis, hatches out of its chrysalis like hopelessness, resignation. “You don’t die on me, not again.” He presses his palm against his head, rubs a the tight shaved hair on top. “Sh*t, Frank, what happens when this guy goes into a coma, huh? What happens then?” “I take him to a hospital.” Frank closes his eyes, lets a long exhale flow out of his system. “Just gotta postpone that sh*tshow as long as I can.” Curt only stared, dismay a permanent fixture in every pulling, twitching muscle of his face. Frank thinks again about disappointment and bringing Red here. The warehouse and the phone call and the man in the stairs. “What have you got yourself into, Frank?” “Got no idea what’s going on, Curt,” not yet. He’s nothing if not tenacious and thickheaded. He has a goal in mind. He’ll achieve it. “No goddamn idea.” The Lieutenant’s eyes find Red’s sleeping figure as if on a whim. The kid was twitching in his sleep, hands moving from time to time. “Is he the one neck deep-?” “It always is,” Frank interrupts, pressing his knuckles to the scar over his head. A mirror of Murdock’s. “It’s always a sh*tstorm around Red.”  

TW: Violence, familial abuse; physical and verbal/emotional, blood, strong language.August 30th, 2011 - New York CityDistantly, beneath the thumping of his heart filling his ears, he hears his mother calling. Not to him. To the man stood across from him. His father. He thinks she's telling him to stop but he can't be sure. It sounds like he's underwater. He doesn't even hear what his dad says, only knowing he's said something because he can see the movement of his lips. Over his shoulder he sees one of his 'uncles' stop his mom short from stepping past the circle of the pack surrounding them.He turned eighteen eight days ago. He still hasn't shifted or otherwise presented his wolf. If he were a late bloomer, he's quickly running out time for even that normalcy to be granted to him. Which is what brings them to this moment. One of the warehouses the pack owns, on an early Tuesday morning. Most who work here are the members of the pack that surround him and his father. Those who aren't pack have been given a generous Tuesday off. People, humans, who know well enough not to ask any questions. They might think they're dealing with another family in the mafia despite many thinking that largely ended in the late eighties. They might think it's a different gang, or other criminal front. Surprisingly, for all his father's packs faults, they keep the Secret in tact. He's learned by now, like anything else done, it's only for self-serving purposes. If it required outing another pack, another supernatural species, to get what they wanted; it would be done. In the time it takes him to blink, a fist is thrown and colliding with his cheekbone. He's thrown to the concrete with the force but he wastes little time in pressing his palms to the gritty surface and stumbling his way back to his feet. He was raised this way. Maybe not with the punches but with the idea. Weakness isn't shown and if you're knocked down you get back up. He thinks of the bully he had in fifth grade. He can't remember the kid's name with the swirling feeling of his head but he remembers his mother telling him not to hit back and his father telling him not to lie down. If his strength wouldn't be shown in engaging the fight, it would be shown in resilence. Even if it was turning into it's own form of stupidity. "Even if that boy is beating your f***ing brains in you'll get up, Aeron. If you're the son I raised you to be."He's only just straightened up, and faced his father again when he's punched another time. He doesn't get the chance to scramble back to his feet this time before a hand is gripping his face. Chin propped in the hook of the thumb while fingers dig into his cheeks. He blinks his father's face into focus as it leans close to his own. "You know how to stop this. You're the only one who can, Aeron." He's shoved away by the same hand gripping him, collapsing again to concrete.Briefly, he lets his eyes close. Hoping. He'd call it praying if he believed in that. Please. He silently pleads to that feeling of Otherness. That feeling of something else there with him. Even if it's just this once. At least it would make this stop. His eyes snap open at the sensation of an answer in his own mind. Only for now. Foolishly, he hurries back to his feet. He has an answer, a response. He'll shift then, won't he? Show any sign of the wolf he carries. In the next instance he's dropping back to his knees from a blow to his stomach. He coughs, his forehead pressing to the cool floor. He grits his teeth, wishing he could send a glare of betrayal to whatever had answered him. Given false hope.A sharp kick to his ribs sends him to his opposite side, still gripping his stomach. He coughs again, feeling the warmth of the blood he brings up with it on his own chin. He gasps, trying to catch his breath past the sickly empty feeling of his stomach. Blindly, he slaps a palm back to the pavement, shakily pushing himself back up in increments. He knows not to simply lay there. Inaction was always worse. The arm holding him up gets kicked out from beneath him at elbow. He groans, hitting the ground again. Each time needing more effort to get back up with the addition of every blow. He screams at a boot being slammed down on his fingers and held there. The other leg kneeling in front of him before eyes he inherited are peering at him. Dark and lined with disgust. "You know I don't want to be doing this, Aeron."The boot on his fingers twists as his father gets back to his feet, pulling another pained shout from him before he's able to grit his teeth against it. He's pulled back to his own unsteady feet. A hand closing around his throat. "But you've turned it into the only way. Let your wolf out. Take your place in the pack. Accept your birthright!" The fingers close tighter with each word, each moment that passes. His own hands scramble for a grip or purchase along the arm the hand gripping him belongs to. His nails digging into skin doing next to nothing in desperation as his air narrows to nothing. He begins to see black. Creeping slowly from the edges of his vision inward. Just when he thinks he's accepted this simply being it he's dropped back to concrete. He rolls after a second, going to get up when he sees his own hand beneath him. He looks up, suddenly registering the howling scream of pain that isn't him. He gets back to his own feet after several tries, looking back down to his own hand. Claws, sharp and dark, had replaced his fingers. In front of his own eyes, he watches them shift back to the fingers he's used to seeing. His breath heaves as he watches the blood seeping past his father's fingers from his eyes. He backs away, turning only in order to push past the few members of the pack stood behind him. He glances back when his father's hand falls away from his face. Blood the only thing he can see where his eyes usually are. He leans his whole weight against the door to make it open behind him as he continues his retreat. Once he's blinking the sun out of his eyes, he's turned forward and starts sprinting down the street.

“Get Back! Or I will fry her brain!” Came the panicked voice the cracking sound of electricity rolled from his fingertips licking the side of the red head's skull causing the hair to frizz slightly into the electrical discharge. Damien’s arm clenched tighter around her neck bringing the security agent closer to him as his eyes bounced from one gun to the next aimed in his direction. He had a hostage, but that was only getting him borrowed time eventually they would tire of the standoff, and someone would make a move. Agents were already blockading the parking garage to make sure no one else got involved, or that he could make an easy run for it. One simple, stupid mistake had him now trapped like a rat on the second story of a parking garage, files unobtained he didn't even get far enough into the files to get a glimpse of what he was looking for. Information on the Kabal was hard enough to get let alone anything on Project Reflection. He had been so close to getting... something this time. “Hey, I said back off! You want me to kill her!?” The barely contained electrical charge surged through his body lighting up his pale cheek bones and down his neck. He didn't really want to kill the woman; these people were just security guards. It was not their fault they were secretly employed through a terrible group of people under shell companies. He would, however, if it was his only wait out, better them than him. The souls of his boots shuffled slightly as he moved backwards away from the guards desperately trying to think of a way out of this situation, and really there was only one though it was not his best plan ever it was a plan... feeling the concrete barrier meet the middle of his back it was now or never. With a quick shove, and an electrical discharge leaving an acrid scent in the air he launched the female guard towards the others colliding with two of them. She would have singed places on her back, and a need for a new outfit, but overall fine. Tucking over the edge of the concrete barrier he went into free fall, what he wouldn’t give for the power of flight right now. The sound of gunfire rang through the air mostly harmless a few thudding against the psionic barrier around him. However, one pierced through the edge sending a burning sensation into his left arm, blood immediately pooling to the surface, but that was going to be the least of his worries with the ground quickly rushing towards him. Branches of electricity shot down towards the ground barely a few inches in length from his body. He had used this same idea to hover up off the ground a little. His hopes were that whatever propulsion that gave him would slow him down, it did but not enough. His body slammed hard into the ground, his legs and feet tucking and rolling. Doing everything to lessen the impact on his body. He felt the pain wrack his body, certainly bruises would form he would be lucky if he had not dislocated anything. His head bounced off hard ground, his body rolling off and onto the sidewalk and pavement scratching up his body even more as it came to a halt. He did not have time to lay there and be consumed by the pain. He had to get up. Gasping for air to reenter his burning lungs, he tried to push himself up from the ground. Every muscle screaming in protest wanting him to just lay there and give up. Let his body come to terms with the jarring pain. No, he had to get up and keep going. Else he was going to get caught, and if he got caught there was a risk Kabal would send agents, and he was not going back to that agency not under any circumstance. Groaning as he stood stumbling to get on his feet his body lagged behind itself part of hm forced to cooperate dragging himself along the pavement. He felt blood pulsing through his body to the multiple wounds, especially the gunshot, but also his nose, blood had started running from it. He had not used his powers in five years, especially that power or that extreme, and it had taken its toll. I have to keep going. I must get out of here. The word repeating in his mind as he pushed himself to keep going. He would heal, already the smallest wounds were healing the scratches and scrapes. An unknown factor to him. “Stop!” One of the guards yelled from the tower, and when Damien did not comply more gunshots rang out. Thankfully broken against the psionic barrier. Keep going his only thought as his feet forcefully carried him away from the scene if he was lucky, he would make it off the private property without any more surprises. 

NAME: TobiasMIDDLE: Riordan LAST: McCortlandtNICKNAME(S): Toby, RiorAGE: 27yrsDOB: July 28thSIGN: Leo ♌️POB: Seattle, WashingtonRACE: HumanJOB: Doctor/MedicCIVIALIAN: NoMILITARY: YesENLISTED: YesOFFICER: NoBRANCH: Marine CorpRANK: Sgt.CALLSIGN: DaggerEYES: BlueHAIR: Dirty BlondeWEIGHT: 173lbHEIGHT: 5'10"BODY: Lean/Toned. Muscular.SKIN TONE: Lite/FairETHNICITY: White/CaucasianNATIONALITY: American/CanadianORIENTATION: BisexualPOSITION: SwitchLEAN: Males PERSONALITY: Toby is usually a very chill and laid back guy. Many times he is charming to the point they call him a gentleman. Serious attitude while on the job. He can be humorous at times. Always tries to be a good Marine. Great attitude around most people. Not easily distracted. Has some measure of anger control. FEARS: Having a relapse. Losing his focus. Failing at his job. Thunderstorms. Enclosed spaces such as elevators.HOBBY(S): Surfing. Swimming. Fishing. Sketching. Reading. Play guitar.  (Note: A work in progress!) 

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          Rules Of the Pink Ranger  This roleplayer is about Kimberly the OG Pink Ranger. So please read the rules before roleplaying with me.   Rule#1: I’m here to have fun and roleplay with my fellow Power Rangers.   Rule#2: Power Rangers Friends are highly allowed to roleplay with me, others are highly selective.   Rule#3: NO DC or Marvel related characters please. I rather have Power Rangers characters to roleplay with. If you add me I will block you.    Rule#4: Looking for a Rocky for my Kimberly.   Rule#5: Kimberly is my favorite Power Ranger and I would rather keep her here to roleplay if you don’t mind.   Rule#6: No Drama!    Rule#7: More to come!    ~ Kimberly   

"Drabble # 1!Writing example"@Swift-Kitten- 857 WordsTanzania, Africa was home to a vast amount of wild-beasts.  Most where beasts - where not. Some where were-creatures. Humans who shifted to animals and back. There where some creatures were spotted, long-legged and were fast going at least 60+ miles per hour in a short distance. You would think; "That's just a regular cheetah. Nothing special." But you would be wrong.Living in the the vast heart of the Savannah with her family, was a were-cheetah Princess who everyone called affectionately, Kitten. Most where family and others were deemed as her "Aunts and Uncles", those who were close to the family but were NOT blood related. The Princess was loved dearly by her family and subjects. She was never alone even when she wanted to be. Her loving and dotting parents forbade her to do so. She complied with their orders, as arguing never helped. Trying would get her scolded by the whole Coalition. Kitten often spent time wandering the vast Savannah. Sometimes to relax away from her family and guardians. Other times to hunt and use her abilities to hone them.One night she came back to a horrific scene. Before she stepped into her Kingdom, flanked by four guards, the smell of death and blood, washed over her senses. The rank smell almost made her want to puke. She swallowed hard and raced forward on spotted paws, towards her home.As she grew closer a sinking feeling grew in the pit of her stomach. It twisting and turning, making her feel nauseous. With her guards in toe, the Cheetah Princess, arrived home. Entering through the back gate of the castle, the young cheetah went to look for her parents, hoping and praying that whoever had attacked, had left them alive.She walked through a flowered post that had been stripped of the beautiful decorations, some dotted with blood. A shrill scream of pain and three more sounded behind her. She spun around on her paws and pelted for the subjects in need. A hunter stood infront of the one guard that stood still. Blood from his now dead comrades now stained his cheetah fur. A growl of anger rose in her throat. She saw the hunter pulling the trigger and she leaped at him. Hoping to make him misfire, but she was too late. As she landed on him, she heard the thud and the laboring breathing of her guard as he slowly drew in his last breath. In rage she tore the hunter apart, letting bis blood soak her fur. His bones crunching under her teeth as she bit down on them, breaking his spine with no effort.A growl rose into the air, her father's. Another one sounded her mother's. Swirving her head towards her parents' growls. She saw them being dragged out by hunters with guns pointed at them. Desperate she made the choice to try and save her parents. She released the bone and jumped off the dead hunter and her way around the castle. To the front entrance. She was almost behind them, but hadn't factored in the other hunters that were still alive. She found herself on the ground, guns pointed at her back. A hard boot pressed on her back as another hunter put a steel collor around her neck with a chain that was locked on a ring in the ground next to her. They forced her to shift to her human form and onto her knees. They tied her up and removed the feline muzzle.Once on her knees, she tried to bite one of the hunters, but instead, she found a hard fist, slamming into her face. She fell over as she lost her balance. The guards lifted her back up and forced an "O" ring into her mouth. Keeping her Mouth open. She was forced to watch as the hunters killed her parents in cold blood. The hunters shot them over and over again until they stopped pleading and begging. Only laying limply with there heads bowed on their knees."Nuuuu!", came a muffled cry of pain from the brunette. She sat where they had placed her tears streaming from her eyes as they killed her parents before her. However, they let her go and left. She had been untied and unmuzzled. She crawled to her parents lifeless bodies and cried into them. They were gone and her Kingdom was now in rambles. In the days that followed, Kitten buried her parents and her fallen comrades, their loss weighing heavy on her heart. But as she stood before their graves, a steely resolve took root within her soul. She vowed to honor their memory by rebuilding the Coalition, by restoring peace and justice to the land they had loved and protected so fiercely. "I swear, someday I will have my revenge. I will build back our home, our Coalition, and rule as their Queen." She vowed to the stone graves as she stood before them. "I promise!" After she grieved, she left her kingdom, having grabbed some clothes from her room - what could she find and left her home forever.  " A Queen must be strong to lead her people. "One Day you will become Queen!. template credit

RulesNo drama please I can't stand it .Don't always expect me to write large essays in RP.Lastly just have fun writing with me.

In the electrifying world of Broadway, few stars shine as brightly as Caroline Tesfaye. A triple threat who has captivated audiences as an actress, fashion designer, and popstar, Tesfaye's journey is a testament to her unparalleled talent and relentless dedication. Her career catapulted to new heights when she joined the original cast of "Hamilton," portraying the iconic role of Eliza Schuyler. Sharing the stage with Lin-Manuel Miranda, Tesfaye etched her name in Broadway history as the only performer to ever grace the stage with the entire original ensemble of the groundbreaking musical. Today, Caroline Tesfaye's career continues to ascend as she steps into the vibrant role of Vanessa in the highly anticipated film adaptation of "In the Heights." This casting marks yet another milestone in her illustrious career, showcasing her versatility and ability to breathe life into diverse characters. As she transitions from the historical depths of "Hamilton" to the lively streets of Washington Heights, Tesfaye brings a fresh, dynamic energy to her performances, further solidifying her status as a multifaceted star in the entertainment industry. In this exclusive feature, we delve into Caroline Tesfaye's remarkable journey, exploring her evolution as a performer, her creative ventures in fashion design, and her impact on the pop music scene. Join us as we celebrate the achievements of this extraordinary artist, who continues to inspire and captivate audiences worldwide with her indomitable spirit and exceptional talent. What was it like stepping into the iconic role of Eliza in Hamilton, especially with the original cast? Can you share any memorable moments or challenges you faced during this transition?Oh god, it was incredibly intimating. These are people who I consider as the most talented people in entertainment right now. I never expected to take the role when Phillipa couldn’t return. I felt so incredibly lucky that these people saw what I didn’t see in myself and gave me the opportunity. Everyone was so kind, and they were all offering me little tips, and just cheering me on. I’ve never been in such a loving atmosphere where there’s no competition, everyone wants everyone to succeed. People who aren’t in the musical theater world really don’t understand how hard it is to be on Broadway, like it’s incredibly physical, and you don’t get takes, so you have to get right every single time, every single night. You also have to learn how to mess up, but recover, because we’re all human, but the crowd can’t know!Did you feel any added pressure taking over a role that had such a significant impact on Broadway? How did you prepare for it? I did feel so much pressure, I wasn’t even sure if I could do it. My first instinct was that Lin was joking, I was like, “Oh he’s making a joke!!!” I was like when Patrick Swayze said to Baby in Dirty Dancing where he’s like,”oh, do you want to do it?” but he was serious. I had to spend sometime in the studio and hear my own voice to prove to myself first before I could set on proving myself to the cast. Eliza is literally my dream role, I love Eliza and I love Hamilton. So, to make my broadway debut with a role that means so much to me, I’m so incredibly lucky. To prepare, I took voice lessons. I would run on the treadmill and sing to make sure that I never lost my voice. Eliza is the only character in the show that never raps, so I wanted to make sure my voice was smooth. I studied the Disney plus movie recording of the show, and I wrote down little things that Phillipa did that made Eliza who she is. I think I ran the show with Phillipa a few times, she’d come to rehearsals and we’d run the show and she’d be like, “breathe here. Watch out for this person.” and Renee would sort of put her arm around me to help me reach my marks until it was muscle memory. It’s a lot of work, but it’s so much fun. I’m so lucky.How did the dynamics of the original cast influence your performance as Eliza? Were there any particular cast members who offered you valuable guidance or support?Like I said, this cast is the kindest people I’ve ever met. These people truly are my friends. They never made me feel like an outcast or anything, even though I was the youngest person in the cast. I mean, Daveed and Lin literally came to my album release party, and Renee, Lin and him came to Noelle’s birthday party. As far as during the show, they were all so kind. Okieriete is like my biggest cheerleader, when I finally felt like I hit “Burn” the way that I wanted, here comes this huge man screaming, “YESSSSS LET’S F***ING GO, WIDDO BEBE.” Birdie has everyone calling me “Widdo bebe”. Everyone was so chill about answering all my questions. The entire cast traveled to Puerto Rico to perform some numbers from Hamilton and to see us announce “In The Heights.”It was also my first performance as myself and they all had “Gaslight” t-shirts on and were singing the lyrics to my songs. I mean, MY SONGS. It was crazy. But I can’t talk enough about Lin. He’s truly part of my family. Him and his wife are such blessings to know.  You have a close relationship with Lin Manuel Miranda. How has his mentorship influenced your career? Can you share any special moments or advice he’s given you? I adore Lin Manuel Miranda so much. He’s such a creative genius and he’s the kindest person I know. He’s literally kind to his bones. He has such love and passion for giving voices to the people who don’t get them. He’s always been very much ready to help me with anything. He’s sort of given me this mindset that I’m capable of anything. He’s been one in my corner to be like, “No, Caroline, you have the talent, you have the passion, do the damn thing.” He’s influenced me incredibly, he’s made me think a whole lot more about what I can do with my platform that’s for the good. He’s the most special person. He told me once, “As long as I have a job, you have a job.” So, I think for the rest of my career, any time Lin calls, the answer is, “yes.” Collaborative Process: What was it like working so closely with Lin both on Hamilton and In the Heights? How does his creative process inspire your own work? He’s just so passionate, he loves every bit of the process. You can tell he is just nothing but joy in his lyrics and in his ability to tell a story. He does something no one else is able to do with his writing. He’s really given me the confidence to try, to stand up and force people to embrace my culture. Without him, I’m not sure anyone would have ever paid attention to the Mexican side of me. It’s the most precious part of who I am, and I’ve been quietened for so long and he doesn’t let me take that. Role in the Movie Adaption of "In the Heights" Transition to Film: How did you find the transition from stage to screen in the movie adaptation of In the Heights? What were the biggest differences you experienced? I think they did a fantastic job translating it. It’s the same heart, the same story, the same characters, but it’s bigger. It’s like they took exactly what was in his head and put it on screen, it’s truly magical. I unfortunately haven’t gotten to play Vanessa on stage, I would love to, though. Maybe Nori and I can do a run on Broadway, I think he’d love it. It’s closer to what he does on stage normally. But in the movie, we do get takes, so it’s nice to be able to be like, “woah, hold up, can I do that again, please?”Tell us about your portrayal of Vanessa in In the Heights. How did you make the role your own, and what aspects of the character resonated with you the most? Vanessa is a hard worker, and her biggest dream is to be a fashion designer, and that’s the core of my career is fashion. I might not get to do as much costume designing and styling as I used to, but the very first award I ever won was a costumers guild award. And I’ll never stop making clothes. Fashion is walking art, and I appreciate it so much. She’s this girl with big dreams and Usnavi says that she’s tough as nails. I think Vanessa is the closest to myself that I’ve gotten to play. I think I might’ve added a little more sweetness to Vanessa, but either way, I love her. I’m so lucky.Your best friend Nori Jusino plays Usnavi in the movie. How did your real-life friendship influence your on-screen chemistry and performances? Chemistry is something you either have or you don’t, and our real life relationship made it that much easier. We sort of got to skip the nerves, because we already knew each other and we have the most trust. I think we’re able to play a little more, and it makes every day so much fun. I hope we get to work together more.Throughout your career, you've often been labeled as white despite being Mexican. How has this affected your career and the roles you’ve been offered? I really didn’t get the opportunity to be able to play someone who felt like me culturally until Lin. It wasn’t something that I didn’t want to do because it’s all I’ve wanted to do. I just sort of been typecast in my real life. I’ve spoken a bunch about my heritage, and my mom, and it’s those lines that seemed to get cut from interviews. It’s been really nice to have been offered this role that says, “I see you. I know who you are. I know you have talent. You’re more than who you were on Tik Tok three years ago.”How important is it for you to represent your Mexican heritage in your work? Are there particular roles or stories you are passionate about bringing to the stage or screen to highlight this aspect of your identity? It’s the most important to me. It’s how I keep my mother’s memory alive. It’s how I honor her and it’s most authentically me. I’m really happy to be able to take my first role that does this, and it’s not just the sassy best friend. I am really dying to be in West Side Story. I really would like my chance to be in Encanto, too, it’s coming to the stage.Can you share any details about upcoming Broadway shows or projects you’re involved in? What roles or stories are you most excited about exploring next? I can! I will be doing the TV Live version of Rocky Horror Picture Show as Janet in October, and I’m really excited about that. I’m doing quite a few projects with Birdie. You’ll be able to see us in a horror movie, which I can’t say much other than it’s called, “X”. I’ll still be Eliza on Hamilton for as long as they’ll have me.Are there any dream roles or shows you’ve always wanted to be a part of? What attracts you to these particular roles?I have so many dream roles, I am such a dreamer when it comes to the stories I’d love to be a part of. I am dying to be Eurydice in Hadestown. I’d love to be in & Juliet, that is a show I’ve seen a few times and got to meet the cast. I'd love to get to do that for a run. I really was serious when I said I’d love to be in Encanto, that’s towards the top of my list. And Chicago. I would die to be chicago. Oh, and burlesque. Broadway Evolution: How do you see Broadway evolving in the next few years, and what role do you hope to play in that evolution? I think broadway is going to keep evolving to include stories that aren’t getting told. I think Broadway is a place where all cultures should be celebrated and I think Lin is the forefather of that, and I think we’re going to continue pushing people to tell all of their stories, not just those that are of only white descent. I think we’ll see more people of color taking on roles that were traditionally casted only by white people. I hope that I can use my platform to keep demanding it happen. I hope I get the opportunity to share the stage with people who have finally gotten the respect they deserve.Who are some of the people, both within the theater community and outside of it, who inspire you the most?I don’t need to mention Lin again, but you guys know, he’s the blueprint. I really look up to Bianca Marroquín, she's an incredible mexican broadway actress and she was “Roxie Hart '' in Chicago for twenty years. She’s one of the only actresses to ever play both female leads in that show. I, of course, look up to Phillipa Soo, she’s the original Eliza and taught me so much, she sings like an actual angel. Olga Merediz was in the original run of In the Heights and in our movie version, she’s one of the wisest people I know. Outside of the theater community, I really look up to Chappell Roan, she literally is so much herself, and she’s making music that's so unique and fun, and I’m obsessed with her. Also, my grandmother, Dolly, which y’all would know her as Dolly Parton, but she’s just Golly to me. She’s amazing. She’s so talented and she sings better than anyone I know even at her age. She's a love incarnate.What advice would you give to young performers who aspire to follow in your footsteps and make it on Broadway?Don’t underestimate the amount of work and respect Broadway deserves. It’s so hard but in the best way. It’s something that takes more dedication than anything. Most importantly, don’t stop dreaming. Broadway is built on dreams, and if you’re not dreaming, you’re missing the one thing that unites all of us, from the actors to the crowd. Take voice lessons, don’t rely on pure talent, because it’s technical, too. Try and prepare audition songs from most genres, and try not to choose something too popular but nothing unknown. How do you balance the demands of a busy career in theatre and film with your personal life? What keeps you grounded and motivated?I think I am just really lucky to be surrounded by people who love me and love that I’m chasing my dreams. Abel brings London to see me at rehearsals, Golly comes and sees me, she hasn’t missed a single show. My best friend in the world, Birdie, if she can, comes to watch my shows and hangs out with me behind the scenes, she’s my biggest cheerleader, she’s the best. She comes and threatens every single cast member like, “you better be nice to my widdo bebe.” I’m lucky that Nori and Noelle both were in “In the heights” so we didn’t even need a babysitter for her, and that was super special. I just try to make sure once a day, I find time to just be “Caroline” and nothing else. I think the motivation comes simply from loving it so much. I love being on stage or on set.

https://www.cosmopolitan.com/entertainment/movies/a45823323/saltburn-costume-designer-sophie-canale-interview/

                             Rules of The Sea GoddessRule#1: This roleplay account is highly about my Sea Goddess Amphitrite but in my own way. My Amphitrite is half human/ half mermaid. So please show her respect or I will block you.Rule#2: This is a half human/ half human account Why you ask? I have a high reason in making this account because I always loved mermaids ever since I was little and I wanted to make a few because for my love for them. Honestly, I’m getting sick and tired of making accounts with DC/ Marvel characters because there is enough of them on here roleplay so why make them all the time when I make an account of my favorite Sea Creature that I am highly comfortable roleplaying. So please don’t ask me to make an account that deals with DC/ Marvel okay. I am keeping my mermaid character. Rule#3: No Drama! Keep it off my account!  Rule#4: No harassing, bullying or stalking my character I will block you. Rule#5: Friends : There are some friends I would like to roleplay with.Mermaids (sisters)Mermen (Brothers or love interest)Spiderman (If he no taken really love interest)Loki (Not taken love interest)Captain Killian Hook (Not taken love interest)Rule#6: Relationships: My Sea Goddess Amphitrite is highly single and looking for someone to but with her so she is looking for fellow love interests: Spiderman Peter Parker (If he no taken really love interest)Loki (Not taken love interest)Captain Killian Hook (Not taken love interest)Rule#7: Roleplaying: Amphitrite would like to roleplay with the following: Other mermaids, mermen, Spider men, Loki, Killian HookRule#8: more to come! 

Headcanon Felix and therapy When he got out of the hospital his family put him in rehab and he was forced to talk about his problems with a therapist at the center and he just sat in the group sessions and said nothing about that night of his overdose and nothing about Oliver . He didn't even talk to them about it . He just was frozen and wouldn't let anyone know about his Ollie. .he still loved him and he did the program but he will only talk about it with the book he wrote and that's it

Bowie was rummaging through some old photos. She was trying to find a picture of her cheerleading to show Rebecca. She stopped on one particular photo that was of a six year old Bowie and her grandmother standing at the kitchen counter hand mixing ingredients in a bowl that her grandfather had taken without them knowing. Looking down at a photo a memory appeared in Bowie’s head, like a private movie only she could see. “Ow, ow, ow” her grandfather cried out. A thwacking sound then could be heard followed by a louder “ow” that again came from her grandfather. “That’s what you get you old geezer” her grandmother said to him before ushering him out of the kitchen. Bowie and her grandmother had spent the morning baking brownies for themselves, and some cakes for the Church bake sale to get money to repair a damaged part of the roof. “Grandpa, Grandma told you to wait until they had cooled down” Bowie sweetly spoke to her grandpa. “But my sweet angel they looked so delicious, and I just couldn’t wait” her grandma said to her before kissing her on the head. “But now my mouth is burning” he said before going to the fridge and grabbing some milk. He poured two glasses one for himself and one for Bowie. He then drank the milk quickly before refilling it. “I will have to wait till they cool before I have another” he said. “Finally learned your lesson” her grandma said causing Bowie to laugh. Putting down the photo Bowie smiled to herself. She always loved baking with her grandmother, it’s some of her happiest of memories. It always brought a smile to her face and made her feel good. But it also made her miss those times a lot more. Glancing at the photo one last time she smiled before looking for the specific photo she had been searching for.