Proof That Everyone On The School Bus Graveyard Fandom Needs Therapy Part One

I would like a innocent little kid to come up and call will dad and kayla mom and see how they freak out about it If any one make this a fic I need to see it

Things I think happened in the chb’s infirmary No Order my references are prophetic dreams and war memories from when i was a health student

- they have like this huge old whiteboard glued god knows how with a little cartoon caterpillar sticker saying “get well soon?” where they (Will and any other poor souls that are in infirmary duty) put everything they need to remember but they can’t make themselves write complete sentences so is just “JuYCE” and “neomicinabacitracinanitrofural” and “CLARISSE = OUT”

- there is this hole on the floor that they always forget to ask a Hephaestus kid to fix so its like a rite of passage to not notice it and end up falling

- They are in a camp. Sharing cabins. Bathrooms. ADHD kids who love to run and procrastinate everything including hygiene. THE INFECTIONS GET SPREAD INSANELY FAST. They have to WEEKLY go renovating the “PLEASE WASH YOUR HAIR WE NEED TO ERRATIC THE COOTIES” ads around the camp.

- we need to rip off the band aid. where there is teenagers there is sex. Michael Yew was pioneer on the sex education topic and his legacy isn’t going to die on Will Solace reign. One thing is cooties another one is herpes. There will be informative and traumatizing videos and awful teen pregnancy documentaries. They are all gonna watch.

- And since they are already here there will be having safe drug use convos too and dionysus is the one sponsoring them there is a rap battle at some point i think

- kids will be kids and most part of the time they are taking care of spread ankles, stomach aches, allergies and flu season at this point Will doesn’t even need to touch them to know when its a flu case

- since they (the infirmary squad) are spending a lot of time walking around they need to wear comfy shoes. At some point Kayla shows up wearing a neon monsters inc slippers. So Austin decides to wear his clown shoes. Now they only accept sandals and crocs. Rules are rules. The weird socks keep going tho.

- on the topic there is a lot of unspoken rules. One of them is that the communal and personal things limits are very rigid. Everyone gets to drink the coffee. No one is going to use Austin personal “Grammy Winner” mug. No one is going to use Kayla’s special glitter rainbow hairbrush. And, mostly important, no one is going to give their bureaucratic work for Nico to help. That is Will’s personal secretary.

- on the communal help tho, sometimes they will use Drew’s charmspeaker as an anesthesia. The Stolls are always there to get a couple of stuff outside their monthly rides to get things. Clarisse is amazing to held people when they need to put their bones back into place. They make it work.

- the communal work have one problem unfortunately. They are neck deep into drama. And into a complex cobweb of they likes them and they kissed them and they hate them. And. Worse of all. They cheat them. Thats when there is screaming. And chairs floating into peoples neck.

- the smaller kids don’t get the drama on its fully complexion. But they still gossip. At least five of them have called Will “Dad”, at least three of them have called Kayla “Mom” and all of them have said “Thats embarrassing, dude.” For everyone around there.

This is one hundred percent Canon they do this so much

Cecil and Will have that friendship where they run up behind the other and slap the other's ass. No matter what time, who they're with, where they are they WILL slap each other as hard as they can.

The duality of man

"CANT WAIT FOR CECIL MARKOWITZ IN THE COURT OF THE DEAD!!!!" i scream as i am dragged to a mental facility

prev

-- -- --

The last thing Will destroys is --

The last thing Will destroys, is.

-- -- --

He picks, flowers, once. Fidgeting. 

He watches Anthracnose bloom from the cratered burns in the centres of his palms and devour the things up to the tips of their petals, leaves curling in blackened rot.

He burns them.

-- -- --

"You get quiet, sometimes."

Will faces him. Nico watches carefully, eyes blank. Will wonders if he learned that from his cautious father, from the undead that kept him company. He stares back, and prays his own eyes are ice. 

"Many do."

Nico smiles. Small, quick, fleeting. Amused. 

"Indeed."

He burns with questions. This, he cannot have learned from his father -- Will remembers a boy, dark-eyed and mischievous, wide-mouthed and non-stopping. He remembers the winter afternoon and Lee muttering to himself, scowling, about a motormouth worse than Will's. He remembers crouching by the entrance of the ampitheater, breath caught in his lungs. He remembers wild, cackling laughter, and cheering sons of thieves. 

That boy resurfaces, sometimes. 

"Are you thinking?" Nico grimaces as he says it, shrinking back; but it is too late, and Will has acknowledged him. "Of -- something, I mean. Working something out."

Will places his head on his knee. "I'm thinking," he agrees softly. "I wish I wasn't."

"How anti-intellectualist of you."

Will cracks a smile. "Yes. You've cracked my master plans -- once the rest of this foolhardy camp has succumbed to my brainwashing, I will easy control the complacent masses."

"I think I have to kill you," Nico says sagely. His eyes sparkle, like granite. "Your threat is too great."

Will tries to hide the panic in his face. He does not succeed, because Nico frowns. 

"Hey," Nico says, hand outstretched. "You --"

Will scoots back, pressing his back to his bunk. His heart thunders, his pupils shrink.

"Ha," he says, weakly. "You got me."

He turns so his forehead touches his patellae, and breathes carefully through his mouth. He stays there until Nico stops staring. 

He hides his fevered palms in between his thighs.

-- -- --

Sometimes Will thinks he was destined to die at four, in penance. He should have choked on his own disease, his own plague; but he did not, and the only thing that died in him was the sparking flame Prometheus gifted them all, blown to matted ember in the stalk of his chest. 

Instead his brothers watched his shame bubble out of his mouth, circle him in clouds of spores, and they lied for him. They clung to his bloody hands and pushed him behind them. And then they were slaughtered, as were the punished firstborns, for the crime of their knowing existence: Will, marked, stood on their shrouds and ashes. 

He smells of guilt, he thinks. Of guilt and germ and rot. He hides it, in all the antiseptic he can bathe in, in all the ethanol he can consume. But his breath still stinks of it and his lying tongue burns. He is tall, removed from those around him; they cannot see the sores in his mouth or the inflammation of his throat from years and years of choking hands. Bandages hide the bright red spots up and down his arms. Burn scars cover his blackened fingernails. 

But the tallest obelisks are swallowed by the length of their shadows. And nothing can hide from Fate, from the servants she sends to collect for her. 

Nico gets closer, and closer. His hands are cool compresses on the hidden sores on Will's skin. It is relief, as he is never felt it.

Will is afraid.

-- -- --

"Connor is cute," Will blurts, one day, catching Nico looking. He swallows, hard, and the wail of his failures -- his victims -- echo louder than the crack of his heart. "He's, uh. He's into boys, you know."

Nico snorts. "Connor is into money," he says, turning away. He meets Will's eyes with a grin. "He found out I have an infinite credit card and proposed on the spot. He wept when I turned him away."

Will fights the urge to sigh. He is unsurprised that Connor is a gold digger -- if anything he kind of respects the commitment to the bit -- but he just wishes --

He's not blind, Will. Or maybe he is and it's just that Nico is so obvious. He is always -- looking, always, when Will is standing, when he is slouching, when his hands twitch and when they are shoved into the hollow of his chest, hunched over at the campfire. Will can feel the pinprick of his gaze when he is startled into laughter and when he climbs out of the cabin in the middle of the night, gasping, and crawls onto the sun-warmed roof to face the stars. He watches and he touches, featherlight: Will's elbow, the shell of his ear, the sensitive small of his back. 

He guards, too. This one Will has noticed the most. When Will cannot find the breath to fill his lungs, or when his hands shake too badly to thread the suture needle, Nico stands like a shadow two paces ahead of him. And the whispering voices that follow Will's every stumble are glared into mute, mum terror. And the aching tired muscles of his back go lax. 

Connor is cute. 

Will wishes, with all the audacious hoping he has left, that Nico cared about that kind of thing.

-- -- --

"Will. Hey."

Will realizes, abruptly, that he has automatically leaned into Nico's gentle touch. He wrenches forward, bile rising in his throat -- if Nico is offended, he does not show it. 

But he does not move his arm. His big, sky-black eyes watch him, round and steady, until Will forces his breathing to even. 

"I have something to tell you."

The souls on Will's shoulder screech so loud he flinches.  Death! they cheer. Death! Death! D --

Nico watches him critically. "You know, I think."

"I can't," Will blurts, and hunches in on himself. "I can't, I'm not --"

"Into boys?" Nico finishes. He does a good job of hiding it. The hurt. He keeps his hand light and careful on Will's wrist, thumb brushing over the edge of his bandages, and a safe distance between them. Friendly. He has more strength than he realizes. It is only in the smallest twitch of his mouth, that it is obvious, in the watery gleam of his dark, dark eyes. 

Now, Will has -- 

He inhales, quick and short. No exhale comes after.

There is an easy escape, here. 

He cannot tell a lie. They burn him, coming up his throat, and are always shroud in smoke and warning. His father has many domains and it is the job of his heirs to reflect them: Lee had healing, and charm. Michael had the gift of the shot. Cass had prophecy, Diana poetry, Kayla her bow, Austin his music. Dozens more that Will met and loved and who died before him carried on dance, light, education. Will's father is a warm, bright man: he shines upon his children and endeavors to make them beacons among their peers, laughing, trustworthy fortune-tellers and music-makers. 

But there is more to the Sun than warmth and light. The Sun brings dry desert, and heady drought; the Sun cooks and it burns and drains a man's sanity out of his ears and onto the sizzling sands. The Sun is all-loving, and it is unforgiving. For every one hundred children there must be one to represent his father's shame, his rage, his fear; for every one hundred children one must coil the snake in which the Sun will meet His end, devoured and digesting. For every one hundred children there must be one who is marked, who is covered in rotting, rancid scales. Will has been shadding as long as he has been alive. For every hubric act of divine grace he forces he must match in decay from the bottom of his own soul. When he opens his mouth, his truth is obvious, it is evident: when he speaks, lies burn him, as they bolster the devil. Will cannot tell a lie. 

But he can nod, if someone guesses. If someone presumes his silence for contempt or his neglect for dismissal, he is not beholden to their correction. He cannot lie, but obstruction is outside of his father's domain, and he has no responsibility for it. 

Nico watches him, heartbroken. Hand still stubbornly extended, beating muscle bleeding with every pump. 

He could nod. He could say: sorry, and squeeze Nico's hand. He could take one step backwards and let his hand fall.

It would be so, so easy.

"Ton angélon," Will chokes out. His hand twitches, in Nico's hold; Nico frowns and brings up his other hand to match, squeezing until the spasms stop. "You are celestial, Nico, you are breathtaking, you're --"

Nico inhales sharply. He blinks once and his eyes open wide, brown in the gold of the sun; amber, cassiterite, quartz. The bow of his perfect lips drops, slightly, mouth in a perfect, shocked little O. Will blinks and a crown of thorns digs into his marble temples; he shakes his head and necrosis climbs up his sharp jaw.

"I ruin everything I touch," Will says, hoarse. "I destroy -- all that is innocent, all that angels breathe life into." His heated hands glow, under bands of cotton; green pulses through his eyes and his pores, and he flinches wrenching them away. "There is nothing of me worth holding, Nico."

Will is expecting nothing because he has forbidden himself from imagining it. Or, he is expecting rejection. He is expecting disgust.

He cannot say in good conscience that he is expecting offense.

"I'm going to smack the shit out of you."

He opens his squeezed shut eyes. He sees Nico's hands, first. Still gentle. And then his narrowed eyes, his sideset jaws. 

The failures resting on his shoulders are silent. 

Will stares, breathing heavy. His hands twitch. 

"You think," Nico begins, and stops himself, breathing out through pursed lips. "You think I -- care? That you've lost people?"

"It's more than that," Will says, desperately. Nico takes a step forward and all the thousands of souls on Will's head scream, at once; he flinches, shoulders aching, hollow stomach scraping against the shake of his spine. "Nico, you guide people, you shepherd them --"

"And you save them from me!"

Nico takes another stubborn step forward and Will can't turn away fast enough, he cannot duck out of his strong fingers on either side of his chin and can't pull away from his magmatic, furious eyes.

"Death is inevitable," Nico says calmly, firmly. "Some deaths cannot be prevented. I'm -- making my peace with that, Solace. I am not the plague I think I am." Will makes a low, groaning noise. Nico smiles sadly. "You are not to blame for your mistakes, either."

Will realizes, abruptly, that he will never be able to say it.

He is not sure who has designed this. It could be the shame, balling solidly in the back of his throat; it could be his many victims, coiling tightly around his neck. It could be his father's warning hand: grow out your hair, child. Keep your marked forehead to yourself.

He swallows, and pulls back. Nico lets him, dark eyes narrowed and curious, head tilted. In the Hades cabin there is nothing for him to destroy -- there are bones, and stones, and raging fires -- but the only lively thing is Nico, and he is doing a fine enough job on his own trying to wiggle under Will's stained palms, drying to swim close enough to the blood he is drowning in to choke to death on it.

Instead, he picks at the yellowed bandages. It takes time, to unroll the layers, but the cotton piles at his feet, and his forearms are bare: layered, upon unflinching burn scars, are varicella spots, EB blisters. Open, weeping sores, cracked skin and inflamed blisters. A spot, where the first drop of Lee's blood hit his skin, that is black and rotted. A patch of reddened rashing that wraps around his elbows.

Nico lurches. Will tucks his arms quickly away.

"I'm contagious," he says, softly. He ducks down and scoops up the bandages, stumbling fingers pressing them back against his skin. "I'm okay, in small doses. But loving me is -- poisonous." He always struggles to tie the last strand. He is not, for all his trying, ambidextrous, and his right hand is clumsy along the cut of his wrist. He blinks aware the moisture in his eyes and yanks on it, frustrated -- he has to leave, quickly, before he can endure the humiliation of Nico's horror, of his disgust. But if he leaves his arms uncovered than someone will -- see.

They'll see, and they'll know.

Deathdeathdeathdeath, murmur his spirits.

Will swallows. I know.

"Stop," says Nico, voice cracking and hoarse. Will squeezes his eyes shut, as his voice gets clearer. "Will, stop it."

"Please," Will begs. "Don't tell. I'm careful, I promise, I can -- I can keep it under wraps, I can control myself --"

He is surprised, again, by Nico's sob. By the balm of his cool fingers on the heel of his hands and the contained unit of his weeping.

"Those look like they hurt," Nico whispers, lump in his throat. He traces his fingers, slowly, over the criss-crossing bandages, removing them carefully. Will, stunned, lets him. He peels them all off and stands, on hand on either wrist, turned so he can inspect the scarred and infected insides. "Gods, Will, this -- you must be in agony --"

He is, he supposes. Or: he always has been. But it is quiet most mornings, and the ache is dull by evenings. The pressure of elasticized cotton is as familiar as the weight of a t-shirt.

"I can handle it," Will insists. He tugs, but Nico holds firm. "It is penance, anyway. There was none of this -- before."

Before he watched his cousin burn into the air. Before he heard his brother's back crack clean across Manhattan. Before he poisoned dozens of demigods, as hurting as any other, for the crime of pain and anger. Before he pieced together the fractured pieces of Lee's skull. Before the shriveled crow cawed three times, beady eyes reading the black rot of his soul.

They came one by one by one.

Slowly, Nico walks him back, until his tailbone hits his bed. He presses, gently, on his aching shoulders; Will sits, bewildered, and watches him flit away, watches him sink into the shadows and appear halfway across the room, with an armful of new bandages, first, then a tube of cream, a jar of nectar.

"Nico," he says, quietly.

"Shut up," says Nico hotly. There are still tears in his eyes, and every fifth breath shudders. "Just -- sit down and be quiet."

Will sits. The roar, even, of the dead, is only simmering; curious as he is.

Nico is gentle, when he heals.

"Drink this," he orders.

Will takes the nectar. "It won't work." He drums his fingers against the glass. "These are -- marks, Nico." He exhales. "Punishments."

Nico stares, jaw set.

Will drinks.

It tastes like cloying sweet. It always does. Like a strawberry on the wrong side of soft, like the underbrush of autumn. It does not fix the viruses who have made home in his systems -- he knows the sound of them dying -- but it does, for a moment, ease the ache.

"You're dumb," Nico says, when he has finished. His voice is short, eyes hard. "For -- the best medic in centuries, you're fucking stupid."

"Comes with the self-destructive tendencies," Will says drily. "Takes one to know one."

"That -- okay, fair. Fair. But." He tilts Will's face to meet his eyes, softening. "That means you have to listen to me, okay. I know what I am talking about." He pulls down the collar of his shirt, stretching down to his sternum. Will inhales, sharp -- where there should be skin, and muscle, there is nothing but dry, gnarled ribcage, right in the patch of space around his beating heart. Nico breathes slowly, heart slowing. He releases the shirt and Will stares through it, eyes wide.

He kneels by the edge of the bed. "I'm marked, too."

Will takes his hands when he offers. The shouts of his victims scream: death! Death! Look what you have done to him!

But the ice cool of Nico's hands reminds him: not everything is yours.

"We can be outcasts together," Nico suggests. He quirks a smile. "Something very Greek about that, I think."

A bubble of hysteric laughter escapes Will's chest. "Like -- Patroclus."

"And Achilles long after."

Nico's breath is warm against the scarred skin of his knees. He stays there, eyes soft, hands gentle around the ring of Will's wrists. He doesn't seem to mind Will's twitching, or the awful, palliative smell of him. He seems drawn to it, actually, breathing deeply.

"I'm scared," Will admits, voice small. "I don't want to hurt you."

Nico inclines his head. "I'm half-dead anyway." He squeezes gently. "You'd have to try pretty hard."

The last thing Will destroys is --

Will is going to be destroying things for a long time.

There will be other wars. Battles. There will be moments, when there is screaming, when Will's lungs coil in his chest, and smoke pours from his mouth. There will be moments when the herbs he picks wither and die in his hands.

Deathdeathdeathdeath, wail the voices.

Will inhales. The clean air settles deep in his ruined lungs, sweet and cooling.

"Try," Nico says, jaw set. "Me. Us. You -- loving, I mean."

Will nods. The pressure lifts from his throat.

"I will."

Do yall think Will has a fear of bridges because of what happened with Michael

@onetiny-inkdropuniverse @mediumgayitalian @cometjuice

Sorry for tagging yall i just want to know your opinions

I have a theory about Will's tattoo

It's a sun and so I was thinking that maybe for every sibling he lost in the war is marked as a ray on the sun. so it's like a memorial and it's also on his pectoral close to his heart so he wants his sibling to be with him forever

I also think that he has a couple tattoo with Nico and a friendship tattoo with Lou Ellen and Cecil

It is so rare, for a day of peace. So, so rare. For the Apollo cabin to be empty, for siblings to be busy, for the sun to be gentle and the birds to be sweet.

"Hey, Will."

So serene. Truly. Cecil lounging on Will's bed, remembering to have taken his shoes off for once. Quietly flipping through a comic book. Will, suffering but willingly, with his Calculus III textbook on the floor. Actually making progress this time, gunning through practice questions.

And Lou Ellen.

It always has to be one of them.

Lou Ellen watches, velvet skirts tucked under her crossed ankles, dark eyes squinting in contemplation.

Will barely looks up, scrawling something illegible over the most graphite-smudged paper maybe in the entire world.

"Yeah."

"Can we kiss for a little bit?"

That works. The slowly shifting sun through the dusty windows pauses. The chisme plants turn, slowly, shifting their stems to the center of the cabin. Will takes a full seventeen seconds to visibly separate from his textbook, process the question, and erupt into a shade of red previously unknown to man.

"Um," he says, or rather squeaks. "Yes?"

Cecil snorts, turning a page.

"Bicycle."

"Shut the fuck up, Cecil."

"Just like your father."

"Shut the fuck up, Cecil."

"I just want to try something," Lou Ellen soothes, potentially hearing the lack of breathing happening in Will's general direction. "Like, for science. That works for you, right, nerd?"

"Science generally begins with a hypothesis and due process," says Will weakly. But he dutifully crawls over to her direction, settling in front of her. "Um. Now?"

"Now would be great," Lou Ellen agrees. She tilts her head. "So do you just, like, go for it, or...?"

"I mean. In my experience?"

"Which is about to go from two to three," Cecil adds.

This time, Lou Ellen and Will are in perfect sync:

"Shut the fuck up, Cecil!"

Cecil flips another page and promises nothing.

The determination has slowed some of the blush in Will's face, containing it high in his cheeks. Or, well, spite. Cecil-branded fury. That does a whole lot of activating every modicum of ADHD impulsivity in Will's soul.

"Okay," he says, nodding to himself. He meets Lou Ellen's wide, round eyes. "Okay, so I'm gonna -- lean in. And we gotta close our eyes or it's weird. And then I'm gonna kiss you, okay? And you test."

Lou Ellen nods, serious. "Got it."

She breathes in, then out. She purses her lips, leaning forward. Her hands rest, fingers spread, on her knees. Her eyes flutter shut.

Will exhales. He squeezes his eyes shut.

He leans in, gently, and presses his lips to hers, resting a warm hand on the soft curve of her jaw.

"Hm," says Lou Ellen, as they separate. "Hm."

Will shifts nervously.

"You smell good," he offers. "And you taste like orange shampoo. In a good way."

Lou Ellen narrows her eyes at him. She reaches her hand out slowly, like how you may approach a startled horse, and grabs Will's chin with the tips of her fingers.

"Why," Will says.

"Hm," says Lou Ellen, again. She moves his face from side to side, inspecting. Will does not protest, but does choose to make an entirely unintelligible gesture with his hands. "You are hot, aren't you."

"Gah??" Will says. The confusions shifts rapidly from his face; his eyes widen, pupils narrowing, he tries and fails to pull slightly away and generally makes a collection of noises that boil down to hey, pardon. "I'm??"

Cecil choses this moment in time to tuck his comic carefully away, facing his friends in full. He also chooses to take this time to appraise Will's slightly squished face, nodding smugly.

"Yeah, he's a babe."

"Right, okay, that's what I thought. It's the bone structure, right, it totally --"

"Yeah, yeah, and the pouty lips, that definitely --"

"--you're so literally right --"

"You ever watched his shoulders?"

"They're biteable! Biteable, and when he plays volleyball it's like --"

"--yep. And his legs are approximately the length of the equator."

"Freckly, too, it's so --"

"His eyes??"

"I know??"

"Honestly wild."

They turn to him, twin dark brown eyes glowing amber in the sun, appraising him from his golden hair to his bare toes. Will, unfortunately, seems to be right on the urge of passing out, so red he has begun to glow, so warm Lou is forced to let go, and so lightheaded he has begun to sway.

"Hngg-what," he mumbles, eyes far away. "Wha -- I'm --"

Cecil pokes gently at him with his toe.

"I think we broke him," he observes.

"I see," Lou Ellen agrees, chin in her hands. "That's kinda cute, too."

"Oh yah. He's like -- he's never not a smokeshow, you know? Like he's hot when he's mad."

"Smoking."

"And the whole -- it's diabolical to say, but he's like..."

"Movie star pretty when he cries. Yeah, yeah, I hear you."

They turn to each other, lips pursed in thought. They turn back to their slightly dying friend.

"Hm," they say, together.

Will begins to pray. His father, intrigued, only shifts to better the lighting on Will's face. Will agonizes, shifting to pray to his aunt. This too proves useless.

"You know," says Lou Ellen. She taps her manicured finger against her cheek. "We could always share him."

Cecil raises his eyebrows. "We could?"

"Do I??" Will gestures wildly, face now glowing so brightly he is kind of hard to see. "Get a say??"

Cecil and Lou Ellen look at each other. They look back at Will.

"No."

"Nah."

"That's! I am -- taken, okay! I!"

Cecil snorts. "A long-standing crush on greasy Gerard Way does not count as --"

"It's not his fault he's greasy!"

Lou Ellen observes the boys. She hums to herself, rocking back on her knees.

"-- and he's hardly ever here, you met him like twice --"

"Four times! And he's charming!"

Hm indeed.

"I have an announcement to make," Lou Ellen announces.

Both boys stop immediately. Lou Ellen nods graciously, sitting regally on Will's bed. Will pouts a little, but says nothing.

"I am considering converting to lesbianism," she says solemnly. "I'm not sure yet, but I have been presented with a case and it is compelling."

Will and Cecil shrug, making noises of agreement.

"Yeah, fair."

"I mean, girls. I get you."

Will clears his throat. "But, uh. No boys? For sure?" His pout returns. It is indeed very cute. "Did I do a bad job?"

Lou Ellen reaches over and pats him very gently on the head. Her bangles get in his eyes a little. He blinks them away politely.

"Aw, no. You just seem very hung up, and I'm not sure how well dating Cecil would work, and no one else will talk to me yet."

"Dating me is an amazing experience, I have references," Cecil says, at the same time Will says, "Wait, still?"

There is a pause. Again, they speak at the same time:

"Stop using me as a reference, Cecil, gods."

"You want me to vandalize their possession for you, Lou? I would love to do that for you."

Lou Ellen moves to pat Cecil gently and condensendingly on the head.

"I'm good. Thanks, though. Chiron says they just need time. And perhaps an ass-kicking, if I feel so inclined."

"Sage."

"Good advice, that."

They all nod at each other. Wordlessly, they stand, returning to their earlier positions: Cecil, reclining on Will's bed, having abandoned the comic book for a nap; Will, poking at his math; and Lou Ellen, passing a green spark around her fingers and carefully Observing.

It takes her several minutes of reflection to blink and realise.

References.

Her eyes widen.

"Hey, wait a second --"

I could never and I'm an artist

Friends:  Do some D&D art! Me:  Like this? 

A Future Beyond War Starts With You 💙

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My name is Naser AbuThaher , and my world has been shattered by war. I lost my beloved mother and sister in an attack that took them away fr

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