#<- the vague memory of it but just to be sure

[littlcdarlin]

Who Will Love A Little Sparrow?

summary: Joel turns sixty.

warnings: girthy age gap (60 & mid 20s), Joel feels guilty about age gap, I cried while writing this, emotional fluff

note: it took one ask to convince me to actually write this lol hope you like it, anon! Title is from the Simon & Garfunkel song

Joel hasn't quite realized he's turning sixty – sure, he knows he looks it, feels it in his cracking joints, aching back and wheezing lungs, sees it in the stares the two of you get walking through Jackson hand in hand, but your company keeps him young. Three and a half decades between you will do that to a man.

He's never liked a big fuss on his birthday; even when he was half his age all the singing and balloons embarrassed him more than anything, so he didn't mention it was coming up during the weeks beforehand. You knew, of course, and so did Tommy, but he figured patrols would keep the two of you busy enough to prevent anything more than an extra kiss from you and a teasing comment from his brother – maybe birthday sex when you were done with your work for the day.

When he wakes up, it's his first thought, though not in excitement, but resignation. Sixty. The number feels like a chasm between the two of you. It makes him feel dirty for having touched you the night before, and he wishes humanity hadn't decided on the decimal numeral system.

You're scheduled for the morning patrol, so he doesn't expect you home before noon, which for the first time in his life feels like a relief. It gives him a couple of hours to bury the guilt about your age somewhere deep and secure, under vague childhood memories and the first thirteen decimals of Pi, where it won't come bubbling up while you're laughing your sunshine-laugh. He doesn't want to dim your spark, not when you seem to just have found it again.

He scuffles downstairs, dragging his feet as if he's turning ninety instead of sixty, just to wallow in his self-pity while nobody is around to see it. If he's lucky, he'll have two more decades, maybe even three, though that kind of hope is practically brazen.

He sighs, making his way over to the kitchen, thinking that if he makes his coffee strong enough, it might make him feel fifty again.

"Happy Birthday."

His head snaps up, and he's staring at you instead of his toes, your youthful face a little blotchy from the excitement.

"Here," you say, and thrust a cupcake in his direction. There is a single purple candle on it, and the frosting isn't draped across the dough in artful swirls the way they did it before the outbreak – still, it's the best cupcake he has ever seen.

"I couldn't fit sixty candles on this thing, so you get one."

Your smile is a little lopsided, a little too understanding, and Joel swallows.

"Thanks," he mutters quietly, staring at the blue part of the flame. "Geez."

"Blow it out," you say, "and make a wish."

He doesn't believe in that, but he obliges because you somehow found him a cupcake in the middle of the apocalypse at the crack of dawn.

"Now," you say, almost business-like, as if the first bullet point of one of your little lists has been crossed off, "I got Tommy and Maria to cover us on patrols today. What do you wanna do first, drink outrageously bitter coffee, or carve a wooden sparrow?"

He stares at you. You must have found the little bird he made during his many sleepless hours – he put it on the very top shelf in the living room where it wouldn't attract attention. It's not that he's embarrassed about it, he's just not sure it's a part of himself he wants to share with the world.

You put the cupcake on the kitchen counter and turn back around, that same knowing smile on your lips.

"I got you something," you say, and Joel frowns.

"You shouldn't trade for–"

"I didn't."

You hand him a small package, wrapped in some old newspaper you decorated with tiny, drawn-on hearts.

"Tommy said you used to wrap presents in colorful paper just to throw it away," you explain, that sense of wonder in your voice, as always when you talk about the before, "I didn't have paint, but I found a pen that works."

Joel stares at the package. He remembers the last birthday present he unwrapped perfectly, can see it catch the morning sunlight on his wrist.

"I–Geez," he just says, again, and starts to carefully peel away the newspaper without creasing your little artwork too much. His thumb traces one of the hearts. There is a hint of red inside the paper, and then he's holding something small.

"Where did you get this?", he asks, voice quiet with awe and something else that seems to thicken his throat.

"I found it in an abandoned raider's lair," you say softly, "I know I should have handed it to Maria, but I thought you could use it for your sparrow. Give him a face, you know, some feathers."

Joel traces the little cross on the Swiss army knife, and feels his chest tighten.

"Don't tell on me," you say teasingly, but with a hint of self-consciousness at his lack of a response. Joel swallows, and drags his eyes away from his present and to your face.

"Thank you," he says quietly, unsure of how to voice the thoughts rushing through his head, "I– thank you."

"Yeah," you say gently, "'course."

You accept his gratitude, understand what he means by it. You don't make a fuss with your un-swirly cupcake and single candle and no singing. All of a sudden, Joel feels his eyes prick and burn, and he rubs them quickly, wipes away the wetness. You touch his shoulder, make him look at you, and he clenches his jaw in embarrassment.

"Sorry," he mutters, "you just...know me so well."

There it is, your sunshine-smile, and you press a kiss to his naked chest, as high as you can reach.

"Sixty isn't that old, Joel. Don't even think about using it as an excuse to stop chopping firewood."

He chuckles and cups your face in one of his massive palms.

"No ma'am."

[waylamia]

Growing Pains

recommended listening: Ribs by Lorde

"Why can't you just GO AWAY!" There is a resounding thud, as the door is closed in his face, and that's the end of it. He stands outside the slammed-and locked?-door in shock, shoulders drooping as the clear rejection settles in. Then he hears Josephine choke out a little laugh from her place in the kitchen. "She's at that age..." It takes everything in him not to snarl at her.

-> You reject Caleb's presence for the first time your shared lives. Caleb comes to terms with his role in yours.

reader experience notes: second person perspective. reader uses she/her pronouns, reader is MC but is not addressed by name in this fic, reader is not physically described beyond having hair of unspecified texture. reader is 12 and Caleb is 14.

content warnings: teen angst </3 #brocken, extremely brief and vague mentions of child experimentation/torture/death, my fascination with grandma Josephine as a character of questionable morality, Caleb and MC were raised as adopted siblings and I do and will continue to engage with the complexities of that dynamic in my work (if you don't rock with that scroll past or block freely. protect your peace and party on. <3) pip-squeak usage as I am a pip-squeak truther.

approx. 9k words

Thursday, Caleb decides, is the worst day of the week.

He's sat in the entryway of Josephine's house-two years and he still can't bring himself to call it 'home', not when you aren't around to hear it-after returning from his run. Waiting, now, for you too to return. He unties the laces of his right shoe, slowly. Mind drifting, as it tends to, when you aren't present to keep him present.

The ink had hardly dried on the adoption papers before Josephine had loaded you both up with extracurriculars... Well, maybe that isn't entirely true and maybe it isn't entirely fair, she'd given you a few weeks to adjust. But what little time she was willing to give wasn't nearly enough in Caleb's opinion. Not for two kids who's whole world (at least as far as your memory served.) consisted of the walls of the orphanage and an overgrown garden.

He remembers the first time she'd brought you to a playground. Your face settled in confusion, processing the presence of the colorful plastic structures, their cleanliness and distinct lack of rust. He remembers your little hands darting to cover your ears when two kids hopped on the seesaw, anticipating the familiar, grating screech that would not come from this parks well kept equipment. He remembers being worried. That it was too much too soon. Remembers glaring at Josephine as she sat nearby, watching, neutrally. Like if your little heart exploded again, right then, it would make no difference at all.

He doesn't notice he's practicing the speech until you speak.

'It's okay if you forget... I'm Caleb, I'll always be by your side.'

'Even if you don't remember anything, I can always say it again...'

'I'm Caleb. I-'

"Caleb!" Your voice jerks him from his thoughts, eyes darting around the playground to find you. Tenseness he hadn't even realized he was carrying falling away when he spots you. You've climbed to the highest point, not on the playground-where the other kids are giggling and racing and shoving at each other-but on a nearby tree. He squints up at you through the harsh light of the midday sun. You're smiling, full of pride at your successful ascent. He laughs. All these shiny new toys and you take to the tree. Just like the one in the garden of the orphanage. It's awful smart of you, he thinks, to find something familiar to cling to in the midst of all this uncertainty. He races to the base of it. Knowing your eyes will follow him, that when your gaze lowers down and down and down you're courage will waver and you'll need his help getting back to the ground. It's a bad habit of yours.

Cheeks puffed out at the dinner table from too big bites bites of your food, always a little more than you can chew.

Sure enough, the next time his eyes lift you're own have widened, a barely there tremble where your fingers cling to the branch supporting you. He grins up at you, making no effort keep the little bit of smug amusement at this familiar game from his expression. "You want down?" You do. You always do. But you've gotten wise to the meaning of that particular look on his face, and he can tell you don't want to give him the satisfaction. You've started to take issue with him knowing what you need before you do. Telling him it doesn't make any sense at all.

But how couldn't it? He's spent more time with you than you have.

"I can do it myself." You huff. Stretching your leg in an attempt to reach the next lowest branch, only just grazing it with your toes. Caleb folds his arms and waits. This is a part of the game too. It will go one of two ways, and in the end, the way of it will make no difference at all. Two roads always leading to the same destination.

At the table, he cuts up your food. From the treetop, he catches you.

'...Must be feeling particularly stubborn today.' He thinks as he watches you extend your arms to lower yourself down. All you'd have to do is ask and he'd get you grounded. He wouldn't even make you say please. He's not going to tell you that, obviously. You get away with enough as it is. But it's always true. You've made it half the way back when you slip, the sudden jerk you make to recover causing your load-bearing branch to snap. Your startled shriek catching just as it starts when a soft pressure envelops you. Gravity warping around you until your feet are flat on the ground.

The clanging of pans draws him back to the to the entryway. He blinks down at his shoe, which he has seemed to unconsciously retie, brow furrowing as he moves to undo it once more. A cabinet creaks shut. Josephine is in the kitchen, preparing supper. An increasingly infrequent sight, with her too long hours at jobs that pay only just well enough to provide for the three of you, often keeping her out of the house long past dark. He supposes very few things are as lucrative as groundbreaking human experimentation... But he's a little too preoccupied to tug at that old thread at the moment.

Your new schedules keep you busy from dawn to dusk. Every morning: your stretches, breathing exercises, and pills-vitamins for you both, heart medication for you-then school, then your assortment of extracurriculars. 'To make up for all the time you lost at the orphanage.' Right. The orphanage. Caleb rolls his eyes at the memory. 'It will give you an opportunity to get to know the other children in the area.' He could almost laugh. Maybe, to an extent, there is some amount of truth in her words when addressing you, but when it comes to him... She can try to spin it however she'd like, Caleb hears the message loud and clear.

'I'm doing you a favor, letting you stay here. So keep out of my hair.'

He gets back to untying his shoes, ignoring the presence in the kitchen. He'd seen her car in the driveway when he'd made it back, hadn't said a word when he came inside and neither had she. It was always like that, always quiet between the two of them, words only ever exchanged out of necessity and, whenever possible, through you. He could comfortably call it loathing, on his end, but he could never quite tell what exactly she felt about him. From where he stood she didn't seem to feel much of anything beyond whatever twisted attachment she had to you.

You were the only thing to ever make her eyes soften at the lab. At the orphanage, you were the only one she had wanted.

He was panicking, running down the hall to the Director's Office, told by one of the younger kids that you were 'having a test'. He'd had to rack his brain for what that could mean. Shook off memories of evol experiments and observation pods until it hit him. Adoption interview. He skids to a stop at the door, knob collapsing in on itself before he's even bothered to check the lock. It crashes heavily into the wall as he bursts in. Shouting, already, as he takes stock of the room's occupants.

"You're not taking her!"

The Director, stern set of her features uncharacteristically disturbed by the suddenness of his entrance. Brows raised, eyes wide, mouth agape. It is seconds before she schools her expression. Tells him this is 'none of his concern', demands he 'leave at once'. He thinks of the doorknob he just reduced to nothing. Thinks she would be just as easy to-

You move into his line of sight, head poking out from behind the woman sat in the chair beside you. You tilt it at him, curiously, sat very politely on the uncomfortable leather chair in front of the Director's desk. To your right, occupying the other seat, is-

His right shoe is undone again, he peels it away from his foot, moving to set it neatly on the rack by the door, gaze pulled to the sturdy wall of wood on his way, hoping to see it finally, blessedly swing open. No such luck.

Taekwondo had been Josephine's idea. All of your activities had been Josephine's idea, really. Options laid out and organized for you to look over, ultimately not a choice at all, she demanded the time be filled with something. He'd resented it-mind reeling with images of padlocked rooms, meals pushed through quickly closed shutters. 'Time's up' and 'lights out' and 'test complete'-and he'd have fought her on it, if you hadn't been so awed. You, thrumming with energy over the possibilities, asking an unending string of questions about each option. 'do you get to dress up all fancy for dance class?' 'is sewing the one with the machine or the big sticks?' 'do you have to swim even when its super cold?' 'what about-' His defiance had died on his tongue in favor of trying to convince you to sign up for basketball with him. It made him feel better, the idea of doing these things together. Josephine could take you to as many playgrounds as she wanted, you'd find a tree, and when you couldn't, he'd be one. In his focus in the planning of your new schedules, he hadn't noticed Josephine pursing her lips.

It took a good few hours of back and forth and cross-referencing school and activity times before you'd come to an agreement. On Monday's you'd go to ballet and on Wednesdays, your study groups. Piano lessons on Tuesdays and Thursdays, then on Friday, basketball. All of it done together. Josephine had made a face at that, one he could not name but knew he didn't like. His instincts were good, he'd discover, when just after a month into this new routine she'd called him back to the table after supper.

"She should know how to defend herself." She spoke flatly, Caleb wasn't sure she could speak any other way. Not to him at least. His brow furrows.

"...From what?" He's daring her to say it, more than anything. He knows 'from what'. Had lived through 'from what' already. Hasn't heard a word about 'from what' since Josephine brought you both into her home like it was normal. Like she was normal. Like anything she'd helped everyone at 'from what' put you through was normal.

She sighs, leaving the question to die on the table just like you. Over and over again. He scoffs. She can play pretend all she'd like with you, he is never going to let her get a do over, not really. Not when he still remembers everything.

Silence occupies every bit of space between them, gazes fixed on each other through it. Beacons on separate shores, never to meet. Caleb scowls as Josephine studies him. Like some sort of equation. Something with a solution, rather than someone with a well earned grudge. Always an obstacle, never a boy.

In the end, he'd agreed with her. You should know how to defend yourself. You won't need to, not ever. Not as long as he's around, but just in case. Everything in case.

He didn't understand why she'd felt the need to run this one thing in particular by him first. She'd been plenty comfortable making your decisions up until then, and he harbored no delusions about who held all the power here. Who's will it was that allowed you not to be separated. It is only when he goes to untie his left shoe that he notices his leg bouncing anxiously.

He doesn't like being apart from you. Always afraid when he cannot see you. He's not ashamed to admit it, at least to himself. He has every reason to be scared. Two years of uninterrupted peace. Two years since Josephine clasped your little hands across the hard metal arms of those squeaky chairs in the Director's cold office and promised you a home. Two years and he still sees bright white lab lighting in the back of his mind. Feels static in the air when he jolts awake, gasping, from his sleep. 'Don't... take her away.'

He unties his shoe, takes it off, and just holds it. He can't put it on the rack with its pair. He can't leave the entryway until you get back.

He didn't understand why she'd bothered to mention Taekwondo classes to him, to get his assent, until they had finished with signing you up.

It was an all girls class. Caleb would not be attending with you.

Josephine was very good at solving problems. And that's what he was, wasn't he? An exponent attached to you? A negative factor that needed canceling out?

It will be a very long time (a lifetime, his first) before he understands what it was she was after, what she had already started to see in him-what she was afraid of, for you.

From then, their relationship settled-like scum on the surface of water-into what it is now, which is not really a relationship at all. A family, by law. But by circumstance, by experience, something worse than strangers.

He's still adjusting to being away from you at school, now that grade division has seen you sent to different campuses entirely. The daily relief of the final bell sounding, signaling he's soon to see you, quickly stolen by the dojang with it's bolded sign reading 'WOMEN ONLY' at the door. For the first few weeks, when he'd walk you to the building after your piano lessons, he could swear that instead of the soft thud of the double doors swinging shut he'd hear the shrill beep of an observation room door being unlocked. That while he waited outside for it to be over, when he heard your name called it wasn't your name at all, but your number, or one of the other not-your-name's they used to call you. He'd still be waiting outside the dojang now, instead of the entry to Josephine's home, if the workers hadn't started shooing him away. The world, like he's always suspected, seeming to exert every effort to keep him from you.

That was when the running had started. Going straight back to Josephine's house to stew in all of his anxiety and overthinking was an unproductive and unappealing prospect. He had to find some way to get the energy out, to save himself from rumination. The first day, it came to him like instinct. You'd finished your piano lessons, he'd walked you to the dojang, the workers stationed at the door watched to be sure he'd leave, and he took off, running. By the time it was exertion making it difficult to breathe and not the fear that you wouldn't come back out of those double doors, he would return and your class would be over and the pair of you would walk home, together, how you were meant to be.

That schedule, that routine, got you through the better part of two years, and then you decided to introduce a new variable.

You've made some new friends at the dojang. Which is... good, of course. He's trying to let it be good. Trying to ignore the scratching in the back of his skull that says what your lived experience thus far has shown, that everyone is out to get you.

There'd been an argument at the dining table over it, your request to walk home with your friends instead of Caleb. The two of you locked in a silent glaring contest after you'd asked Josephine and he'd said 'No.' and you'd said 'Why?' and he'd said 'No.'

"Caleb." Josephine's voice is stern. It gives him pause, even as he refuses to break eye contact with you. It's not her tone, though he could never shake his irritation at her seemingly unshakable neutrality, it's just that he's trying to recall the last time she'd addressed him directly. Three weeks ago, he thinks, Sunday afternoon. He'd been caught sneaking an extra soda for you. "Caleb." She tries again. This time, he hears what she means to say. 'Who do you think is in charge here?' Caleb is 14, and Josephine is however the hell old she is, and he harbors no delusions about who holds the power here. But it's you they are talking about here, your safety. Of all times, of all things it should be now that the two of them see eye to eye.

"Grandma, she-"

"Is nearly a teenager herself. If you can walk twice that distance to the grocery store alone, there is no reason she can't make it back here with the company of her friends." Always hyper-logical. Always leaving little room for argument. Always serving her own ends. Either unknowing or uncaring of the turmoil he is under. Probably both. Everyone is out to get you. Josephine's continued presence, continued control of your lives, his constant reminder.

That's the end of it. The table is quiet.

'Fine,' he thinks, 'he'll just have to run farther.'

And so it becomes: get out of school, pick you up, go to piano lessons, walk you to the dojang, run the distance between there and the house and keep going after that, until he's pretty sure he feels his lungs starting to collapse. Then he'll turn around and run the distance back to Josephine's. This way, when he gets there, you're already back. He steps through the front door, you call out to him, and he can breathe again. It was a system that'd worked every Thursday since, up to and until today. Hence the sitting by the door, and the issue of his shoes.

He's back, Josephine's back, the sun is going down, and you are nowhere to be seen. In the weeks since this routine began you've never been this late before. After class corner store and park visits with your little pals never keeping you out this close to supper.

"Your time would be better spent working on your assignments or helping prepare the meal than standing idle at the door." Josephine is matter-of-fact, as ever. And as ever, Caleb is unmoved, he's still cradling his left shoe. She sighs, not having to look up from her work to know she is being ignored. "She is perfectly fine. She'll be home soon." A statement made with the surety of someone who has a tracker in your flip phone, a heart rate monitor on your little wrist watch. But Caleb really doesn't give a damn what the data points on her phone screen are telling her when its been 2 hours and 43 minutes since he last saw you. Of course he's been counting. "She needs to be allowed to find her place in the world." He frowns at that. You had a place, both of you did. Next to each other. What else is there to have?

He raises his left knee, poised to slip his shoe back on. Glancing briefly toward the kitchen. Josephine couldn't stop him, if he chose to go look for you. And the longer he spends in her home, the older he gets, the less afraid he is she'll try to send him away. Try, being the operative word, he wouldn't go without a fight. He thinks you'd fight too.

He's just begun retying his laces when the door bursts open. Nearly sending him straight to the floor, collapse halted only by quick activation of his evol. Though it isn't his influence over gravity that finally lifts the weight from his shoulders.

You look like you went running, like you ran all the way back home. Which doesn't make a lick of sense to him, considering the hour. Something's off.

"That was a dramatic entrance." His tone is light, relaxed, like he hadn't just been preparing to rip a hole through the fabric of the city to get to you. He stands, looking you over. The anxiety that's been threatening to burst from him like foam from a shaken can of soda not dissipating so much as he crushes it down, just as he would a can that'd dare to spray at you. "Having such a good time you almost forgot supper, they said it couldn't be done!" He ruffles your hair, the action familiar, playful and purposeful. He draws himself closer to you, inspecting for damage, reading you for signs of discomfort or discontent.

Your breathing is ragged, the first thing he'd noticed upon your arrival-that and your shaking-which isn't uncommon after your classes but is never so... noticeable. Especially so long after the class itself has concluded. His mouth curves downward. You're also not looking at him, which is weird for you. You've always had kind of a staring problem. Josephine has a theory about that, about you taking in as much information-data. is the word she'd used-as you can to make up for all of the blank spaces left in your memory. Caleb tries not to think about it during the day time, it only makes him angrier at her. He lets his hand graze your cheek as he removes it from the top of your head. It's warm... and wet?

"Pipsqueak, what's wrong?" He's on his knees in front of you in an instant and, yup, you're crying. The hairs on the back of his neck raise at the same time as his eyes soften. Caught between wanting to make someone hurt for the expression on your face and wanting to help you forget why you're making it. You still won't look at him, no matter how he angles his head, and you won't speak either. Josephine is quiet from the kitchen. Listening, surely, but making no effort to intervene. The first step of the scientific method is observation. Caleb prefers a more direct approach. "Hey, talk to me." He moves to wipe the tears from your cheeks, attempting to hold your head still enough to make eye contact. This appears to be the wrong move.

"Stop it!" You swat at his hands. Rubbing at the tear tracks he'd failed to sweep away. Your gaze still lowered. "Just leave me alone!" You take a single step forward, but make no other effort to get past him. Mostly because you can't. The entryway is small and Caleb is making himself as wide as possible to block you. Unwilling to let you go when you are so clearly upset. There's a way that this is supposed to go, has always gone. Tell him why. Let him fix it.

"Not until you tell me what made you cry." He's using what you call his 'don't-do-dumb-things' voice, though it cracks in the middle, betrayed by his age and the depth of his feelings both. It is a voice that has always left admonished enough to raise your white flag. Today though, it just seems to further incite your ire. You huff, show your teeth like a cornered animal, shaking your head aggressively as you wipe a fresh wave of tears away with your sleeves. When the task is done you leave your arms high, defensive.

...defensive?

He's shrinking in on himself before he can put conscious thought behind it.

"Just move!"

He does, a little. For show more than anything, a vain attempt at compromise. He is torn between wanting to abide by your wishes and feeling that this is all wrong wrong wrong. Your behavior today... it's all so weird and backwards. He's left scrambling to keep up.

You're quick to take advantage of the gap he's created, attempting to wriggle past him, all sniffly and tense. He has this feeling that if you make it to your room it will be hours before he gets the chance to get to you, he has to stall you long enough to get you talk to him. "You need to take your shoes off before you come inside!" Does he care even a little whether or not you track dirt or mud or grass into Josephine's house? No. Is he going to lay awake in bed tonight thinking about how stupid it was to reprimand you when you were so obviously at the end of your rope?

Yeah.

You look at him for the first time since you got home, which feels like progress until you full on growl, crouching down to untie your shoes in the most comically angry way he thinks anyone has ever done it. He mirrors you out of habit, reaching out to where your hands, in all their shaky frustration, struggle to undo the knots in your laces. "Let me-" This is another, in his growing series of wrong things to do.

"I told you to leave me alone!" You shriek, and then there's quiet. Caleb freezes, making note of his mistake and your reaction to analyze later, and giving you a second to process what just happened. Usually, this is the part where you take a deep breath, cry harder, say you're sorry for being mean, and let him hold you and stroke your hair and tell you 'shh shh its ok' until you're ready to talk. Today, you take your finally undone shoe and throw it at him.

...What the hell is going on?

While he's left stunned from your surprise attack, you shove him. Pushing him into the wall, more from the way it feels like you really mean it than the actual force applied, regardless it is enough for you to dart past. "Hey-hold on!" He's quick to recover, to follow your hurried steps through the living room and down the hall. He catches up, he's always been faster, and all that running- "Wait, can't we just-" He reaches for you before thinking better of it, fingers just grazing your arm before pulling away, every time he's tried to touch you you've just gotten more mad. It takes you only a second more to cross the threshold of your bedroom, not sparing him a glance as you shut him out.

"Why can't you just GO AWAY!" There is a resounding thud, as the door is closed in his face, and that's the end of it. He stands outside the slammed-and locked?-door in shock, shoulders drooping as the clear rejection settles in. Then he hears Josephine choke out a little laugh from her place in the kitchen.

"She's at that age..." It takes everything in him not to snarl at her. She almost sounds... relieved. Like a breath exhaled after too long being held. Does she think this is funny? He turns his gaze back to the door, the lock. He could just... open it. Could break the door down, if he felt like he needed to. "Give her time to settle." It bothers him that she knows what he's thinking. It bothers him more that she's right. He sees your face in his mind, eyes all teary and red, brows drawn and lip curled, all teeth.

"She doesn't shut me out. Not me... Not ever."

"Come cut the vegetables." There has always been a distinct difference in Josephine's treatment of the two of you, though it could be noticed only by one who knew to look for it. She is always straight faced, always composed. She does not strain herself in speaking, neither out of joy nor agitation. It is down to the choice of words. To the order of them.

Josephine offers you guidance. Suggestions, advice, requests. To Caleb, she gives orders.

And Caleb, who has always known his place, follows them.

With a sigh and a final glance at your door, he turns to pad over to the kitchen. Josephine studies his face, that same clinical manner that makes him tense even now, before smiling and handing him a knife. "She's growing up, Caleb." She gestures toward the cutting board, the assortment of washed veggies. "There are things she'll want to work out on her own." Her gaze is focused on the bubbling pot, stirring diligently, steadily. She contains what would otherwise overflow. He understands, in theory, but can't reason why 'on her own' can't include him. The thought alone turns his stomach. He redirects his attention to the work provided to him, the rhythmic movement of the knife, the repetitive thud of it hitting the cutting board. "I had... thought you'd be the first one to want for distance." The knife slips, crashes harder than intended into the board. He looks up to her, face drawn.

"Why." It is a question as much as it is not. Leaves him in the same robotic manner as small talk. 'How are you' and 'what nice weather' and 'why would I ever try to be without her?'.

"You're at that age." The non-answer of someone who has been alive longer, who has seen more, and believes themself superior for it. He can't bring himself to care. Even as she turns to him with that familiar, analytical gaze. Seeing him, standing beside him, but never with him. The relationship between the lens and the slide in the microscope.

"What age Grandma?" He jolts at his own words. The title he only deemed necessary to use when you were in earshot. Reasons with himself that maybe you can hear from in your room.

She pauses, gazed fixed but unfocused, before finding the words. "Older brother's start to find little sisters more obnoxious than cute." Up and down her eyes go, then briefly to the counter, before she turns back to her work. She sighs. Whatever she was searching him for she cannot seem to find. "You're pretty good at that." She says, not bothering with another look up. He observes his progress. Vegetables finely chopped, a small collection of which have been cut into the shape of flowers, hearts.

He hadn't realized. He bristles, feeling in some way caught. "You work late. Someone has to make sure she eats." He means for it to be a barb. As with everything else, she accepts it neutrally.

"You take care of her Caleb, very well." A pause again, a call to attention. "Like a good brother." His brow furrows. That word keeps coming up. Ever since she brought you two home. You've started to use it too. There's something that feels not quite right about it.

He's not your brother.

Before the orphanage and the lab and the orphanage, he was nothing to you. You were nothing to him.

The train of thought cuts off abruptly. That isn't right either.

Josephine watches, quiet. The scientific method demands observation first.

It isn't right for you to be nothing to him. Not ever. So there is no before. He's fine with that. But what was he, to you, at the orphanage and the lab and the orphanage again? What is he now?

Josephine turns on the radio.

It strikes him as odd. She is someone who does not need outside stimulus, someone who takes no interest in distraction. When he looks to her, watches as she stirs the pot, he tilts his head in question. She does not face him as she responds.

"She is a very special girl." Caleb knows this, resents her saying it anyway. To him, you're special because you're you. Because your eyes are your eyes and your hands are your hands and they took his without needing a reason to. For Josephine, for the other scientists, for the company that funded them, you're special because of what you do. What they can do to you. What it means that what was done could be done and you could live.

You are a breakthrough, not a person. A future, not a girl with one.

"I know you aren't fond of me."

He won't argue that. Without you present there is no need to pretend at anything else. Josephine turns the radio up.

"You understand the work we were trying to do. Whether or not you agreed with it." She lowers her voice to a whisper. Caleb stands silent, wires crossing, gears turning in him.

The mechanics of the conversation click into place.

"I didn't. And I don't." The music is a cover, in case you can hear from your room. Their separate work is a cover, in case the discussion pulls expressions from them they'd prefer the other not to read. It is oddly compassionate of her. Oddly just.

The expectation, for the first time in two years of wool and shutters and roses, is honesty.

"Perhaps because you didn't see it for yourself." There is a dreaminess to her voice that makes him feel ill. "It was... remarkable. Like watching the birth of a planet in the flesh." 'Watching,' He thinks. 'like some kind of god.' But he can't say it, not through the growing tightness in his throat. How she speak so casually about it, find any sort of beauty in it, is lost to him. He hadn't seen, no, but he'd heard. Still hears you screaming in his sleep, still wakes shaking.

"You should know that I protested." There is a creaking, cracking sort of sound, and when Caleb goes to bring the knife down on the half of uncut leek before him he finds it has been twisted beyond recognition. Josephine hums. A sound like a confirmation. "Though I suppose that wouldn't matter to you. Your concerns are more... present. Too young to be troubled with longevity."

He is concerned with your longevity.

With that, he tires of the game. Dropping the useless knife. Silencing the radio himself, a brief bout of whirring and static before all is quiet, all is crushed. Even still, when he goes to speak he finds himself whispering.

"There is nothing you could say to me that will make me think you were in the right. Not when you killed her over and over while she screamed and hurt and apologized." His breathing is ragged, has been for longer than he's been speaking. " I heard everything. I remember everything." He raises his head, evol dragging Josephine's gaze to meet his. "I remember for her."

He is met with the mask. Always the mask. He wonders if there is even anything to see underneath. If, with pretense peeled away, her face would be hollow and black, like looking into the depths of a well. From the surface, no way to see if it has gone dry. Or maybe, it would be better described as blank, like an untouched page.

No, not untouched. Erased.

What other way is there to live with what you've done.

"Do you care about her?" He doesn't mean to ask. Doesn't even mean to think it.

"More than I can express in words." There is no room for doubt in her tone. Nowhere to hide a lie in the silence surrounding them.

Still, he doesn't believe her.

"You... wanted to stop it. You protested." All of her assuredness is met with equal uncertainty on his part.

She nods slow. "I did."

"But you didn't." The whole room is heavy, ceramic dishware straining against the increased pressure, a low hum in the air, all around.

"And did you?" For once he has provoked an emotion, something unnamed, quiet and cutting. She sighs, aggrieved. "What could one person be expected to do. Even if I had voted against-" She cuts herself off abruptly, expression shifting to something calculating. Some sort of clarity settling over her. Focus. "It wasn't a failing, on your part. To not have saved her. What could you have been expected to do? Knowing so little, watched over as you were?" Something new breaks through the usual, almost robotic, calm. A fraction of a fraction of the warmth she brings to her voice when speaking to you. The shift in attitude causes his control of the space to falter, a weight lifts, pressure lightening over everything but him. Josephine takes a step forward, he takes one back. She hums, low, gathers up his chopped vegetables to deposit into the pot. Temperature lowered to a simmer. "...You're old enough to be told. Smart enough, I believe, to understand." The knife, the one he'd mangled, scrapes across the cutting board. The practical, evenly sliced bits and cute, carefully shaped pieces of veg falling indiscriminately into the vessel. Everything about the scene unsettles him.

"Caleb, I need to know that I can trust you." He doesn't respond. He knows he isn't seeing the full picture, that in whatever game they are playing she is dozens of steps ahead. 'It wasn't a failing ... to not have saved her ... what could you have been expected to do? Knowing so little ... You're old enough ... Smart enough ... to understand.' Josephine cuts the heat on the pot, steam rises, simmer receding. There is no relief in the realization that everything he believed is true.

"I don't trust you. I'm not going to trust you." He gazes at the ground, head lowered. A small sign of submission. "But that doesn't mean I can't... understand." His eyes flick up and back. A half a second not enough to see a deceptively gentle smile settle on her face.

The deal is made. Transparency traded for cooperation. Information for compliance. There is the feeling of something wrapping around his throat. Invisible, but nonetheless felt, over faded scar tissue, the memory of the buzzing and beeping collar he'd earned after he'd-

"The food will get cold, and it is getting late." Josephine says, content. Pointedly avoiding looking at him, lest she have to extend herself to offer him care on top of everything else she's done for him. "Just for tonight you may eat in your room." She prepares three plates, portions entirely equal, but only one carefully arranged, specially shaped veggies in neat little piles.

In exactly one aspect, she and Caleb are identical.

"Take this one to her door on your way." She holds two plates out to him.

'And be on your way.' Goes unspoken.

He takes the offerings wordlessly. Turning to walk, stiff and careful from the kitchen and down the hall.

"Caleb." she calls as he reaches the arched threshold between the kitchen and the living area. He freezes, but does not turn. "Be a good brother."

His brow furrows. It is said like a command, like a fine print term to their agreement he'd missed.

"...I will."

He could swear he hears the smile in her voice when she replies. "We'll talk on Thursday. When she is out."

He thinks he nods, or he tells himself to nod, but the only action of his body he is cognizant of is the falling of his feet as he covers the distance to your room.

----

He isn't surprised when his knocking at your door is met with silence.

His mouth is drawn into a line, empty hand still raised as he debates knocking again, knowing you won't answer. Your plate of food hovers at his side, held in the air by his evol.

"...Gran said we can eat in your room tonight, I brought your plate." He waits, for a beat and then longer, nothing. He frowns. Barely swallowing a frustrated sigh. You'd had a long day, a physically demanding class, and you would still rather go hungry than see him. 'Alright then,' he thinks, 'other means.' He grabs your plate from the air.

"Okay, okay... I'll leave it at the door for you." He lowers both his plate and yours to the ground simultaneously. Righting himself slowly, and taking one, two, three, four and a half steps in place before your door-the distance his stride measures between his and yours-lowering himself to the ground with each step. He sits, arms and legs crossed in front of him, uses his evol to open and close the door to his own room, and waits.

It isn't long at all before your door clicks open and you come, as he guessed you would, crawling out-low to the ground, like a little mouse-to retrieve your supper. Your hand freezes, half extended, when you notice two plates instead of the expected one, and the pair of legs folded just behind them. You sigh, like someone bested, but otherwise remain unmoving.

Caleb waits patiently for you to decide the next move, hopeful that your lack of shaking is an indication of some amount of calm. That you have settled, like Josephine said, and will let him in. While the silence drapes over you both like a blanket fort, he busies himself looking you over. Searching for clues pointing him toward the problem. Whatever left you worked up enough to shut him out entirely. You aren't hurt, not anywhere he can see, and he does feel some relief at that. Nothing physical seems to be wrong with you. The only visual difference he can find between earlier and now is a changed shirt, and a significantly less tearful face. Your head stays low, body shrinking in on itself the longer the silence looms. Behavior from you, finally, that he has a frame of reference for.

You get quiet after you yell. It's one of the first things Caleb figured out about you. A burst of emotion followed by shyness, worry. Josephine commented on it once, and only once, halfheartedly joking under her breath that perhaps it was 'just your nature to explode'. Her mug had shattered in her hands, ceramic slicing into the tender flesh between her right thumb and pointer finger. Neither of them spoke a word about it.

"...'m sorry-" you only barely get the word out before he is reassuring you.

"-it's okay." His arms unfold. Hands sat in his lap, open, always ready for you to take.

You don't say anything else. Apology as far as you had planned, as far as you are willing to go, and then you are stuck. Caleb grabs both plates, holding them out to you.

"...Food?" You growling stomach replies for you. You nudge open the door.

----

Your chopsticks are placed gently onto your emptied plate. As you ate in your-relatively, considering the day you've had-companionable silence Caleb has been careful to keep his tracking of your movements to the corner of his eye. For all of your staring you don't particularly enjoy the favor being returned. He takes the last bite from his own plate-his pace set to match yours-before stacking the dishware and utensils in the space between your bodies on your floor. A physical barrier providing you the distance you require to be open and honest. Caleb, once more, exercises his endless patience.

"...I'm mad at you." You finally say, knees hugged to your chest. And, yeah, he kind of figured.

"Aw man, really?" The frowning emoji is all but spoken aloud in his tone. You look at him, expression somewhere between glaring and baffled and he snorts. Maybe it isn't the time to play with you, but you just make so hard to help himself.

And maybe, secretly, there is a small part of him that thinks you deserve to be poked at, just a little, for scaring him.

"...You're the actual worst." Your head falls over your knees, face tucked in. He's grateful you don't see his mouth twitch downward, the furrow he quickly straightens out of his brow. He shuffles around the remains of supper over to you.

"Alright, alright. 'm sorry for teasing..." He pets your head, smoothing your hair as he goes. "...do you wanna tell me what happened?" You tense and his hand freezes, afraid to have re-triggered whatever part of you didn't want him touching you earlier, but you are quick to relax again. He moves his hand to rest on your shoulder, thumb tracing a heart over the peak of your arm before stilling. He should tell you that you don't have to talk about it, if you aren't ready. But he doesn't want to, can't bring himself to.

Tell him why. Let him fix it.

"...they don't like me." You whisper, a choked little sound immediately following. Tears still left to shed, it'd seem. He puts an arm around you, hugs you into his side as best as he's able with you all folded over yourself.

"Who doesn't like you?"

You mumble something into your knees.

"Huh?" He leans into you, cheek resting on your shoulder.

"The girls in my class."

"...your friends? Or other girls?" Your head lifts with an annoyed huff. Like the problem is him being slow and not you being extremely cryptic.

"They aren't my friends and its your fault." He turns his head to meet your eyes, face twisted in confusion. You're glaring, again.

"My fault? What did I do?" He'd only even seen the girl's on maybe three occasions, crossed paths while seeing you off or meeting at the door on your return home. And he'd been polite even though, if he's being honest with himself, he kind of wished they'd never shown up.

You shake your head. "It's not what you did it's what I said I wouldn't do." You turn your head away from him, gaze dropping to your fingers drawing shapes into the floor.

His jaw drops. "Okay. Pip. You've lost me." You shut your eyes, take a deep breath, and shove yourself out of his hold. There's no real aggression behind it, not like earlier, but he allows it all the same.

He thinks he might still get yelled at.

...Or, he would think that, if you didn't look so shy.

You've turned to sit facing away from him now. He leans back and watches you with a tilt of his head. You take another deep, steadying breath before your hand shoots out to rip the comforter off of your bed, huddling yourself under it completely. He blinks, and, afforded the security of you being unable to see his face, grins a little.

Silly girl.

"Uh oh. My pip-squeak got swallowed by a blanket monster. Now I'm gonna have to eat all the cookies and chips in the house by myself." He nudges a lump of covered extremity with his foot.

"Caleb..." You groan, muffled by the thick, downy barrier between you and the world.

"Pip!" He replies, with all of the enthusiasm of a guy who would really like to know what's going on.

There's no further groaning or sighing or huffing from you. Just quiet. You're sat so still for so long that he's almost worried you fell asleep sitting up. He opens his mouth just as you finally speak up.

"They were only being nice to me 'cause they wanted me to introduce them to you. 'Cause they thought you were cute." He hears you, even through the muffle and your keeping your voice intentionally low. His lips purse. "They asked me to, while we were hanging out today. Got mad when I said no." He stares at the blanket pile that makes up your body. "They said... a bunch of mean stuff about me over it... I forgot most of it already. One of 'em threw her juice at me, and they laughed when I started crying about it." Your hand reaches out from the wadded comforter, pointing at your discarded shirt on the floor, the front stained pink. He worries himself over not having noticed, and as if you can hear his thoughts you continue. "...I turned it backwards before I came in, so my jacket would cover it. I don't know. It's embarrassing."

It's silent. In the wake of your confession. You stewing in your mortification, and Caleb trying to get to somewhere more useful than really angry at a collective of little girls.

As usual, he grounds himself by focusing on the most important thing he can do, taking care of you.

"...Does the blanket monster have room in its stomach for one more?"

You contemplate it, for a moment. Caleb is already gripping at a corner of the comforter, waiting for your permission to move in.

"...yeah... I guess."

He lifts the comforter, slides underneath, and places himself in front of you. The limited space leaves your noses all but touching. Your gaze is on your lap, where your hands sit, you're picking at the skin of one of them. Caleb keeps one arm raised above you both, providing what little structure he can to your makeshift tent. The other, he uses to swat at yours. "Hey, don't do that..." He takes your hand in his to stop you, to steady you, an anchor.

"If they got to hang out with you for a month and they still don't like you then they don't deserve you. And frankly, I think they should have their brains scanned, something is clearly misfiring." It's dark under the covers, but even still he can see you trying to fight down a smile. He smiles too, no fight at all. "And if they don't like you, I don't like them." You start to giggle and his grin widens. He doesn't tell you that he didn't like them regardless. That he is, in some part, relieved that the last few miserable weeks of Thursdays are finally over. "You can tell them I said that. Or I can, next week. When I pick you up." Silence falls. His smile slowly falling with it.

"I still... want to walk home by myself. After Taekwondo." To his great misfortune, you choose now to look directly at him. Leaving him to hope desperately that the relative darkness, covers him trying to school his expression.

"...how come?" He asks, quiet and making great efforts to suppress a whine. "I'm gonna be 13 soon. And I have to... I want to... be able to do some things by myself."

'She's at that age...'

He had been doing so well, not thinking about his conversation with Josephine.

'She's growing up, Caleb.'

'There are things she'll want to work out on her own.'

'Be a good brother.'

He doesn't know how.

He doesn't want to.

He wants to tell you no and to walk you home and to tell those little brats from your class to fuck off and-

"...alright."

You perk up, surprise clear on your face. "really?"

"I have conditions." He looks at you seriously. You nod, a single, strong movement of your head. He raises his hand to count. "One, you get a 30 minute window after class time to make it home. Two, if those girls say or do anything else to you you have to tell me. Right away, no exceptions. Three, if it rains or snows I will come to get you. You don't leave the dojang alone when the weather is bad." He lowers his hand. "If you agree to the terms, your request is accepted."

"...what happens if I don't come home in 30 minutes?" Your smiling when you say it. He scoffs, you must be feeling better if your already feeling mischievous.

"Well, pips its seems that the obvious outcome is that I would come find you. And you'd lose your privileges. Indefinitely."

"What? That's not fair? What if its super windy and I-"

"Clause 3."

"Well fine, no weather but what if I wanted to-"

"Clause 1 Pip, come on."

"You are such a meanie!" Your pounding at his chest with your little fists, but your both laughing, and there's no venom behind it. "Fine, whatever. I accept your stupid terms." You hold your hand out to shake his. The verbal contract warranting seriousness, a real seal. He rolls his eyes like he isn't the one that started it and gives your hand a firm shake. Neither of you bothers to let go.

For a moment you just sit there, quiet under the comforter together. A somberness falls over him, a resignation.

Being a good brother... kind of sucks.

He doesn't know where the thought comes from, what part of it is difficult to swallow, but regardless he shakes it off. Pulls up the roots before they can dig deeper into him. Josephine was right about everything else. Whether he liked it or not, she was probably right about this too. All he wanted was to be what you need. If this is what you need, he can be it. He'll be happy to. He won't ask for anything else.

Actually, that's a lie.

"One more thing." When he turns his eyes back to you he catches that you've been staring, a familiar warmth washes over him.

"Hm?" You tilt your head. He makes sure you intend to hold his gaze before speaking, a finger brushing your cheek affectionately.

"Next time you're mad at me, don't run away. Don't hide from me when you're upset." He tucks an errant strand of hair behind your ear. "I don't care if you throw things, or hit me, or yell. Just let me..." Fix it. "...just let me help."

You look him over, he doesn't know what for, what to show you, just hopes you find it. Whatever you need, whatever you want. He'd give you anything. You extend your pinky to him. "Promise?" A question. Another contract. More serious, even, than the last.

He locks his with yours, mouth lowering to rest on his hand. "Yeah. Promise."

...

This fic did everything but take me out back and shoot me I swear. I estimated this concept to run me a clean 2.5k words. Brother. It has been a long week. Will be crossposting on AO3 hopefully tomorrow. (And checking for spelling and grammatical errors... listen I just needed to be FREED OF THIS.) But for now, thats all I've got. love ya <3

[lady-of-ithilien]

I'm not sure if anyone has posted about this previously, but I was re-reading the Houses of Healing chapter in ROTK today, and noticed an interesting detail: the scent of athelas changes for each person upon whom it is used.

When Aragorn uses athelas to awaken Faramir, the text notes that "a living freshness filled the room, as if the air itself awoke and tingled, sparkling with joy." And for the observers in the room, "the fragrance that came to each was like a memory of dewy mornings of unshadowed sun in some land which the fair world in spring is itself but a fleeting memory." (ROTK 865).

Yet, when Aragorn next uses the herb to rouse Éowyn, the observers note something different: "it seemed to those who stood by that a keen wind blew through the window, and it bore no scent, but was an air wholly fresh and clean and young, as if it had not before been breathed by any living thing and came new-made from snowy mountains high beneath a dome of stars, or from shores of silver far away washed by seas of foam." (ROTK 868).

And finally, when Aragorn awakens Merry, the athelas smells "like the scent of orchards, and of heather in the sunshine full of bees" (ROTK 869).

What I think is interesting here is that for each person, the scent is different, and could be seen to evoke a landscape that is dear to them: for Merry, the description of orchards, heather, sunshine, and bees seems quite clearly linked to the Shire. And for Faramir, the "living freshness" and "dewy mornings" might describe the vales of Ithilien.

What's interesting to me is the description Tolkien chose to give Éowyn's version of the athelas, because it doesn't seem immediately connected to any landscape with which we can associate her. An alternative explanation is that Éowyn is consistently paired with winter and ice imagery, so the idea of "new-made, from snowy mountains" could simply be an echo of that same imagery; in a similar vein, the "shores of silver far off" could just be a vague allusion to the blessed lands of Valinor, and not really specific to Éowyn at all. Moreover, either of these images could simply be a poetic way to convey a sense of renewal and cleanliness; i.e. Éowyn being washed clean of the Black Shadow.

However, my pet headcanon is that perhaps the description of Éowyn's athelas is meant to suggest that she has a special emotional connection to at least one of these landscapes. In my mind, this is most likely the mountains; after all, the White Mountains are not far from Edoras and it is conceivable that she either visited there at times, or at least admired them from the valleys below. Perhaps the sight of the high, snowy peaks were a source of comfort and inspiration to her as she struggled against the confines of her life in Edoras. Along those lines, I suppose it's also conceivable that Éowyn visited the sea at some point; or at least that she dreamed of it, and that to her the sea represented an escape from her intolerable situation.

Either way, we'll never know for sure, but this was a fun little detail to read into.

[0viraptoraskblog]

Listen, I just needed ideas for a fanfic where MC is pregnant and ends up keeping the child 💔

I was just saying what I think his reaction would be, like the ask said, but I can do this too.

It is debatable, but I think Fox would try and keep his home and work life separate while the child is growing up, at least for a while. He’d be vague about where he’s going each day and wouldn’t show them anything murdery until they’re mature enough.

Some of his workers might become errand runners when they’re not busy on a job. If they’re not out kidnapping someone, they’re going to the store to pick something up. (Fox will just get busier now that he’s balancing two jobs and raising a kid.) It felt weird to them at first, but he’s their boss, and they’re still getting paid, so…

He can be sweet when he wants to; he’d take care to make sure the kid is healthy and happy. He has a lot of money, so he’d buy expensive toys and outfits for sure. They’d be spoiled beyond belief.

When the child is old enough to be exposed to his work a bit more (he wouldn’t show them streams or anything, but he’d let them see his office/bunker and the auction room. Seeing the actual ‘products’ kept there will come much later though), they’ll probably get to know some of his guards and see them as family friends.

Even though he might not have planned on this, Fox does have parental instincts. He’s very protective of his child and wants them to be happy and safe. If someone made them cry? Even another kid? He automatically resents them. Do not get on his bad side with that.

I think he’d have his child homeschooled, at least up until high school, if not all the way through. He doesn’t want any secrets about his life to slip out and have the school call a meeting. MC might end up doing most of the teaching, since you’re a stay at home parent by default.

MC would do most of the basic care too since Fox has other things on his to-do list, but he does help out when he’s home. He can’t always be there, but he does his best to not be distant (unlike his father). He wants to be there for all the milestones.

He takes lots of pictures! He wants memories preserved to look back on, especially since he has no childhood pictures of himself.

Even if they’re homeschooled, Fox would take them out to have fun in public. He doesn’t see the child as a prisoner, they’re his baby, and he wouldn’t keep them cooped up their whole life. I think having a family would be a breakthrough for both of you, in the sense that you gain a lot more freedom.

Honestly, I think having a family is the best outcome for MC (given that they wanted kids, of course). You don’t get hurt nearly as much, maybe not at all— and you can make nice memories together, grow together, etc. It makes your life feel alive again.

Again, these are just headcanons. This is a very ‘what if’ scenario so anything could happen, really.

[wren-kitchens]

the sweet old hereafter

1342 words

grian's never sure what to say anymore, not when it comes to joel.  he thought he'd had it figured out in last life, but then he became almost an entirely different person after etho and he were soulmates. limited life was frankly the easiest, because whilst grian wasn't always sure, jimmy so obviously was, and the three of them were always together, so it was hardly difficult. but then they weren't all together. jimmy went off with martyn, and joel with the mounders, and it took a session or two of floundering before grian even had a team, which had never happened before and threw him for a loop. he and joel were basically soulbound for a session, but joel didn't seem to care as much as grian did — a trend that continued into wild life, even after he and joel were the final two. gem was always that much more special.

listen i really tried to make this romantic but aro joel has me in a permanent chokehold. i still love their dynamic though, so whatever

entirely inspired by @ludolka and their gribeans art and ramblings!

grian's never sure what to say anymore, not when it comes to joel. 

he thought he'd had it figured out in last life, but then he became almost an entirely different person after etho and he were soulmates. limited life was frankly the easiest, because whilst grian wasn't always sure, jimmy so obviously was, and the three of them were always together, so it was hardly difficult. but then they weren't all together. jimmy went off with martyn, and joel with the mounders, and it took a session or two of floundering before grian even had a team, which had never happened before and threw him for a loop. he and joel were basically soulbound for a session, but joel didn't seem to care as much as grian did — a trend that continued into wild life, even after he and joel were the final two. gem was always that much more special.

so now, in the eternal void of victor's limbo (well, it's not eternal, but it certainly feels that way when you're the first to join it), grian doesn't quite know what to say. inconvieniently, it seems, because scott went and won the april fool's game, meaning there are no new faces to spruce up what has swiftly become a pretty stagnant party. at least he has scar, but he and pearl are taking it in turns to braid each other's hair right now.

"i wonder when etho's gonna win." joel says out of the blue, sending a jolt though grian.

grian turns to him, and finds joel looking in the direction of the other winners. "i- what do you mean?"

"y'know," joel says vaguely. he gestures at the others, as if that's supposed to mean anything at all. "just- everyone has their soulmates, right? scott and pearl, you and scar, martyn and cleo. then there's just. me."

a beat, as grian's mind frantically tries to figure out what on earth to say to that. well- they're not exactly on earth now, are they? "you're not just you."

finally, joel looks back at him, almost curious. his ear flicks. "yeah?" he gives a grin. "i tend to be."

brief memories of the previous games flash through grian's mind: joel and his wolf army in 3rd life, joel on his bridge after magic mountain dissipated in last life, joel killing grian in the hopes of gaining a friend after so long alone. oh. "not anymore though, right? y'know- etho, jimmy, pearl. gem." he can't bring himself to meet joel's eyes as a spike of jealousy shoots through his chest.

"i.. yeah. you might be right." joel says, as if he hadn't considered it. grian can't help but sympathise — not a game goes by without scar feeling like his rightful partner in crime, regardless of the alliances either of them actually hold. "and i have you, 'course." he adds, and grian's heart practically stops.

"yeah- of course." grian can't suppress the smile that worms its way onto his face. "just- y'know, out of curiosity. why 'of course'?"

joel glances away in the way he does when he's embarassed by something. "i- just- it's always us, right?" a subtle flush makes its way up joel's cheeks, and grian couldn't tear his eyes away if he wanted to. "allies in 3rd life, died together in last life. bad boys- and we were the last two when i won. and- simple life, y'know, we were together the whole time." he looks back, and seems suprised by how intently grian is watching him. "i- is that-? that sounds weird, i didn't-" joel is definitely blushing now.

"you missed soulmates in secret life." grian says, as if he doesn't care at all and definitely hasn't also been cataloguing every single time they ever teamed — however brief. joel just blinks at him. "i- that task, where i had to take the damage you did. and then you went and fell off a pillar of one hundred blocks-"

"it was my task!" joel splutters, and grian can't help but cackle — so relieved is he to learn that joel doesn't just hate him or something. "and i had to reroll- not that i minded you being my soulmate, grian, but you're not exactly stealthy." he grins.

"and we were- kind of a team after mumbo and skizz died." grian says, deciding to ignore that last bit and focus on that joel didn't mind him as his soulmate. "i like to think so anyway."

joel scoffs. "we were a team, c'mon." he nudges grian in the ribs, far gentler than he usually is. in fact- his voice seems gentler too. huh, weird. "gem called you our side widow." he grins, and grian snorts.

"i was a bit of a widow, wasn't i?" he gives a smile, hoping it doesn't convey the slight hollowness of being considered joel's side anything.

unfortunately for him, it seems he's just as bad at acting as he was when he tried to pretend to pearl and bigb that he totally didn't care that his whole team just died, leaving him stranded with a stupid leather jacket and too many memories to ignore. joel frowns for a second, before seemingly realising something. "are you- are you jealous of gem?"

"wh- i- why would you- of course not!" grian splutters, panicked all of a sudden. "i had-"

"you are?" joel exclaims, as if he was only guessing before and grian's complete lack of composure has given the answer away. well, there goes any hopes that his acting skills had improved.

grian buries his face in his hands, knowing he is bright red and nowhere near as subtle as he would like to be. "i- maybe. a little."

there's a long stretch of silence, and the horrible thing in grian's mind all but yells that he's finally gone and ruined it when joel mumbles, "you. i can't believe gem was right- i thought she was just trying to make me feel better."

"you- what?" grian moves his hands away from his face to see a very flushed and embarassed joel, who clearly wasnt expecting to be percieved quite yet.

"just. 's not like you're the only one who gets jealous- i mean." joel clears his throat, desperately looking anywhere that isn't grian's face. "it- mumbo and scar, i- they have it.. pretty good. with- with all the, um. attention."

grian gapes at him, struggling to comprehend this seemingly impossible information. "you're jealous of- you? you're jealous?" he squawks, much to joel's humiliation. the thought that joel is actually quite sweet when he's flustered passes grian's mind, which- isn't wrong, but really does not help his rollercoaster of emotions.

"alright- you don't have to let everyone know-" joel starts, but he doesn't get the chance to finish, because grian has decided he can't quite wait and has pulled him into a hug.

joel splutters in suprise, and then embarassment, but returns the hug readily, burying his face in grian's hair. grian is learning that the void is the best place for this kind of thing, because it's quite impossible for gravity to get in the way and mess everything up; neither of them are squished or at odd angles or anything.

"were- um. was this.. a thing?" joel mumbles from somewhere behind grian's ear, voice softer than he thinks he's ever heard it. "y'know- that.. weighed on you, or something."

"might've been." grian says, closing his eyes and pressing closer. to his pleasure, joel responds by holding him tighter. "you know i love you, don't you?"

a pause, in which grian can practically hear joel hesitating. "i- you know i can't-"

"i don't care." grian mumbles, and he means it. any way joel will have him- that's all he wants. "'sides, i'll still love you. so."

joel gives a huff that holds more emotion than he probably wants it to. grian runs a hand through his hair. "i- i love you. too. just-" he cuts himself off. "you know."

"i know." grian can't help smiling. "i know."

[drop-dead-dropout]

okay i am having a weirdly hard time sending the emojis for the headcanon meme so i'll send them the really wordy way: for Jean Viquemare

when was the last time they cried? how do they laugh? what would they want on their gravestone but never admit aloud?

hahaha the fucking emojis. it's okay I honestly prefer it this way so I don't have to go back and check lol. so anyways:

1) I think jean is the type of person where it's hard to say because he's often doing that half-cry thing where one or both of his eyes is a bit teary but he's not really crying if that makes sense. but if you want to know the last time I think he had an actual, honest-to-god, punching the walls and sobbing meltdown (as of a vaguely post-canon timeframe)?

my opinion: he and harry have a fight before martinaise. it's not then. harry calls the station and reveals he's gotten piss-drunk and sold his gun (in my mind, jean absolutely understands the implication of I Was Going To Shoot Myself even if harry never realizes it). it's not then, either. jean shows up at the whirling-in-rags ready to smooth things over and see harry laugh again, and harry doesn't even fucking know him; jean sees the crashed mc and realizes harry found another way to try to kill himself; jean watches as harry heaps praise onto his new partner, a respected lieutenant from another precinct, kim's way cooler than you; jean eventually leaves, full of rage, only to find out that as soon as he left harry got shot and almost fucking died without him there; jean stands across from the vacant mannequin shaped like his partner, realizing possibly for the first time that harry's memories aren't going to come back this time and his best friend is fucking dead, forever. and it's not any of those times.

but a week or so later, when harry's back from his too-short medical leave, and kim's transfer paperwork is still going through, jean is in the basement trying to get this damn printer to work and suddenly it hits him, that he was waiting. he hasn't cried yet because ever since that shitty goddamn fight he's been holding on to a little piece of agony, the kind that only fucking harry could ever give him, because of course, harry's just sooooo fucking special isn't he, but—

he's gone. he's not coming back. jean will never have a chance to— to what, exactly? punch him? hug him? grab him by his stupid fucking face and and force him to hold jean's gaze, to really see him, to see how fucking miserable he is, to see how much it killed him, to never look away again? would that have fixed this feeling? it doesn't matter. if it would've, he'll never know.

needless to say, he cries. a lot. and he kicks the ever-loving shit out of that printer. (harry gets him a mug that says "#2 destroyer of company property" to match the "#1 destroyer of company property" mug torson got him when he first came back.)

2) it depends on the situation. most of the time jean laughs like he's not actually capable of laughter. especially when he's annoyed. he'll straight up say "ha ha" out loud, not always sarcastically, he just genuinely cannot fucking laugh bro but he's trying so hard to emulate real human behavior. but if he's comfortable, and something REALLY sets him off, he'll damn near fucking fall over with the force of it, laughing until his stomach starts to hurt and his smoke-rotten lungs are begging him to stop. the first time harry makes him laugh like this post-amnesia, he gets an empathy passive that tells him that jean hasn't laughed this hard in 439 days, and he has to pass a 17% composure red check just to stop himself from doing something incredibly stupid like tackling jean in a hug and blubbering into his shoulder.

3) not sure about this one bc in my opinion I think he'd want to be cremated & I don't think he'd want a gravestone but here are his general postmortem wishes (as of the game's events) in order of most normal to ??? okay???

1. he'd prefer his ashes to be kept by a family member/lover/friend rather than scattered in any particular location (pretty normal thing to want, completely understandable)

2. he already has a container picked out to store said ashes (a bit morbid but sure)

3. he wants his horse, if still alive, to be present for the funeral, if there is one (... that's cute, but it kinda just sounds like you're expecting to be dead within the next 10-20 years my guy)

[ashortdropandasuddenstop]

Jamie grumbled incoherently in response to the tea slander, something about “blasphemy” under his breath, but lacked the energy to properly argue the point. His body was heavy with exhaustion, his limbs sluggish, his mind cotton-stuffed from the mix of alcohol and emotional fatigue. Normally, he’d have a comeback, something sharp and British and smug — but not tonight.

He didn’t even dignify the comment about Eddie’s arms with a real answer, though a muted scoff escaped him. “Didn’t stare,” Jamie mumbled against Eddie’s shoulder, voice muffled and low. “'ad to look somewhere. They’re just… there all the time. Out in the open. Flauntin' themselves.”

His words had no real heat, his tone more resigned than defensive, like a man caught red-handed and too tired to lie convincingly. There was comfort in Eddie’s teasing, though. Familiarity. Like the banter they used to share when they were younger, before the weight of the world and agencies and orders got between them.

The moment Eddie shifted to build the pillow wall, Jamie gave a vague noise of protest, a weak and grumpy little grunt as he was momentarily displaced. But when Eddie settled back down, Jamie followed like gravity had a personal pull toward him. The exhaustion took over. He curled closer again, face tucked against Eddie’s chest, one hand curling lightly in the fabric of his shirt like he didn’t quite trust the world enough to sleep without an anchor.

He didn't need to be told twice.

As soon as Eddie reassured him—quiet and steady like he used to be when they were stuck out on long missions—Jamie let go. His body softened completely, the weight of stress and protocol and responsibility slipping off his shoulders as his breathing evened out. His brows smoothed, the lines of his face less drawn now that he wasn’t trying to hold everything together.

It was instinct. Muscle memory. In another life, another time, he’d fallen asleep like this more than once—tucked close to the one person he trusted to keep watch. Some part of him, buried under layers of Kingsman discipline and pride, still remembered what it felt like to be safe. To be guarded.

Tonight, Eddie made him feel like that again.

And so he slept—curled against him like a man not used to having the chance, but taking it fully when it came.

The night hadn’t passed quietly.

Sometime after midnight, Jamie stirred with a groan, the warmth of sleep giving way to the cold grip of nausea. “Think I'm going to --be sick,” Jamie mumbled, voice cracked and dry.

James got up without another word and half-stumbled to the bathroom. There was nothing graceful about it—just the rough sounds of retching, the scrape of knees on tile, the low, miserable curses of a man paying for one too many drinks.

Eventually the storm passed. Jamie had flushed, rinsed, and wandered back out with a dazed look, hair mussed, face pale and clammy but his eyes a little clearer.

He collapsed onto the couch again, murmuring something incoherent as he sank back into the same spot he’d occupied before. And then, like the night hadn’t clawed through him at all, Jamie had fallen asleep again—his body warm, breath steadying. A fragile peace reclaimed the room.

It wouldn’t last.

The knock came just as dawn broke, clean and surgical—rap-rap-rap—cutting through the stillness and peace.

Jamie jolted awake, blinking against the light, the haze of exhaustion still wrapped around his limbs. Hangover clinging just behind his eyes. But instinct moved faster than thought, and he was already pushing up to sit, already reacting.

Surely the sound had woken Eddie if he had been asleep, But Jamie was faster to speak. “Fire escape,” he hissed in a low whisper, jerking his head toward the window. “Now. Go Eddie. I’ll handle it.”

It wasn’t a request. Jamie was already up on shaky legs, tossing the last of the couch cushions off to make the place look less like a security blind and more like someone had simply fallen asleep on their own.

The knock came again. Louder this time.

Jamie turned toward the door, running a hand through his hair to feign some sense of composure, breathing through the last dregs of his hangover. He barely managed to get his shirt straightened when the voice on the other side called out:

“Agent Lancelot. HQ requires your immediate return. We need to speak to you about Rutledge.”

Jamie’s face hardened at the name. “No idea what you’re on about,” he called back flatly. “Haven’t seen him.” A lie. The kind Kingsman would see right through, but it bought Eddie time before he opened the door.

“Never really understood the hype over tea.” Eddie had commented, more so to shock Jamie than anything else because how dare he say anything bad about tea. “Coffee any day for me.”

Before long both men were settled on the couch, Jamie having had his glass of water and Eddie knowing he’d need to keep watch for a while. A silent ask, but he knew. Jamie was in no condition to fight nor talk his way out any situation right now. He needed to rest and sleep it off. Sober back up. Which left things to Eddie, to watch over his old friend just like he used to do back at the academy.

He tensed only slightly when Jamie leaned against him, not because it was unwelcome, but because Eddie couldn’t recall the last time being close to someone like this. Platonic or otherwise. He wasn’t usually the type to give in to that sort of thing. He was a man of action, a man of war. He wasn’t even sure if he knew how to care in a way someone else needed. Yet he quickly relaxed again, soon noticing when Jamie scooted closer, removing more and more of the space that had been between them. If the drunk bastard moved any closer, he’d be sitting on a lap.

The comment about his arms earned a questionable brow as Eddie snickered. “Heh, liar. I noticed you staring often, I just never said anything. You’re not good at hiding it, Jamie. Never were.” He said with a smile, glancing over. “Oh, absolutely. Incredibly dangerous.” He reached over and playfully poked Jamie’s cheek. “Such a threat.” He teased, the Brit having been reduced to an exhausted mess. Though Eddie didn’t fault him for that. He got it. He understood. Restless nights, alcohol a friend. He’d been in Jamie’s position many times over the years.

Eddie stilled as he felt that breath against his ear and heard the whisper. Of course the flag had bugs, he wasn’t surprised at all. He knew the risks of being here, that the Kingsman could barge through the door at any moment and try to take him away. If they caught word that he knew where Jamie stayed, they’d have security around the clock monitoring the place. It was stupid of him to step into what was technically enemy territory, yet Eddie made no moves in leaving. They’d be fine. It would be fine and all work out. In the morning, they’d go their separate ways again and that would be it.

Probably.

“Of course there is. The Kingman love nothing more than keeping their pets on tight leashes.” Eddie rolled his eyes, taking Jamie’s advice to grab some of the couch cushions and stack them to block the view of the couch at least. In doing so, poor Jamie would be disturbed and have his own cushion temporarily removed until Eddie settled back into the couch again. He ran a hand through his blonde hair and sighed, then chuckled softly. “Never thought you’d end up being a rule breaker, mate. In the bad books and put on leave for not killing me, only to use that as excuse to have me around. Hm. And you said before you weren’t obsessed with me. I dunno, I’m starting to see a pattern here.”

A silence fell between them, Eddie sitting and relaxing in his own way. Yet his eyes were open, just staring. He was cautious, alert because he had to be. Jamie was in no condition and as time went on, the more tired he became. “Look, catch some shut eye, alright? You need it. I’ll keep watch, just like old times.” He said, though his voice was low, quiet. He was encouraging Jamie to let go and give in, to get the rest he clearly needed. As both men of action, true rest was a rarity. It was a gift all on its own. This wasn’t the first time they’d taken turns to keep watch, and while Eddie hadn’t expected his night to end up like this, he wasn’t against it either.

Tomorrow and the days after were uncertain. Eddie was aware this could very well be the last time he saw Jamie, both of them once more going their separate ways in the morning. And if this was the last time, at least it was a time to remember, a time to add to the collection of memories Eddie had of Jamie. He crossed his arms over his chest and settled into the couch, getting as comfortable as possible. His gaze was focused on the door, watching like a hawk. While he didn’t expect anyone to show up least of all the Kingsman, Merlin or whatever, one could never be too careful.

[felilydae]

❛ hey... easy, dear. it'll be okay. ❜ a gentle, sturdy hand finds itself on lily's shoulder. ❛ take a deep breath with me, okay? y- you're safe. ❜

It scarcely happens anymore. Just a few times a year, if that, thanks to therapy. Waking in a cold sweat, fingers digging into her stomach so hard it hurts, fighting for each breath— it always comes in the night, without warning. A poison in her sleeping mind.

(The scar itches. Lily digs her palms into it in hopes that she can push down the phantom hollowness in her belly.)

Their apartment isn't shoddy, per se, but the wall separating their bedrooms is still notably thin. She shouldn't be surprised that Anya heard her— though Lily isn't even sure when she started crying, especially loudly enough to be heard at this hour. The midst of her anguish sees that she doesn't notice any signs of her roommate's approach until there is a hand on her shoulder and a kind voice telling her to breathe.

While Lily flinches at the touch, she doesn't shrink away. It's Anya's voice, so it must be Anya's hand trying to soothe her. She must be at home. As her roommate says— she must be safe.

...Did Anya call her 'dear'?

Lily's vision comes back into focus as it flits to her friend, locking onto the rise and fall of her chest as directed. It's hard, really hard, but she tries. Inhaling and exhaling slowly, attempting to time it the same. Her breathing slows. But the instant she gets one good breath in, it's coming back out in a patchy rasp.

"I—h s—hry. I'm— s— I-I'hm sssor—rry," stumbles out of her mouth at less than a whisper, only pausing so that Lily can take in another slow, guided breath before continuing. The panic expands in her chest and she needs— she needs to hold onto something, where is Kitty?

She can settle for the next best thing. Trembling fingers reach up blindly until they find Anya's sleeve, digging in, squeezing the fabric in a search for something grounding as she tries to calm down. I'm sorry. Did I wake you up? I'm sorry. Were you busy? You shouldn't have to take care of me. I'm sorry. Please don't let go of me.

[captain-krow-drozdov]

Danny Is An Alternate Version Of Ra's Al Ghul And Flash Already Called Dibs On Adopting Him

Danny In All His Sleep Deprived Slightly Scuffed Up From A Fight Glory Is On His Way To Clockworks Tower To Hopefully Get A Nap And Maybe Some Homework Done When A Natural Portal Opens Up In Front Of Him And Proceeds To Unceremoniously Drop Him In The DC Verse Just Outside Of Central City Before Promptly Closing Leaving A Tired Danny Behind In A Run Down Abandoned Parking Lot.

It's Times Like This When Danny Regrets Putting Off Learning How To Make His Own Portals, Cause Now He Is Very Much Stuck For The Foreseeable Future And He Has No Idea Where Or When He Is. Luckily For Him However Central City Isn't Too Far Away, Unlucky For Him However Is That Once In The City He Realizes This Isn't His Dimension. He's Pretty Sure He'd Remember Something Called The Justice League.

So What Do You Do When Supernatural Bullshit Fails You? You Fall Back On Your Mad Scientist Roots And You Make A Portal Gun. So That's Exactly What Danny Plans To Do.

Unfortunately Staying Alive And Building Questionably Safe Portal Technology Requires Money And Supplies, So He Ends Up Wandering From City To City Doing Odd Jobs/Fixing Up Busted Tech For Cash Or Unwanted Electronics For His "Operation: Get Home" Needs. This Obviously Ends In A Few Superhero Encounter Shenanigans.

Though He Always Ends Up Back Near Central City, Both On The Off Chance The Natural Portal Will Open Up Again And Because Out Of All The Superheroes That Apparently Exist In This Universe The Speedsters Are His Favorite (Red Robin Is Solidly His Second Favorite Ever Since The Gotham Vigilante Gave Him A Large Coffee Filled With Enough Caffeine To Kill A Man).

Unbeknownst To Danny However Is That Every Hero/Vigilante He Has Encountered Has Come To At Least One Of The Following Conclusions; 1. Run Away Meta Who Is In Desperate Need Of A Good Meal/Adoption Bait. 2. Possibly Red Robin/Tim Drake Clone 3. A Good Kid But Could Possibly Be A Future Rouge If Left Unsupervised. 4. Did Bats Get A New Kid And Why Is He Here?

All Flash Knows Is That He Saw The Kid First And Therefore Has Dibs. Suck It Bruce.

Fast-forward A Few Months And Danny Gets Hurt During A Rogue Attack While Trying To Help Some Civilians Get To Safety (Old Hero Habits Die Hard (Ha Die Hard) And All That Jazz) And He Nopes Out Once Everyone Is Safe And When The Paramedics Are Busy With Other People Unaware He Left A Blood Sample Behind.

One DNA Test Brought To You By Paranoid Bat Concerns Of A Possible Red Robin Clone Later And They Find Out That Dannys DNA Matches One Ra's Al Ghul.

They Now Think Danny Is An Escaped Ra's Al Ghul Clone.

Memes For The Vibes:

[hey-heigo]

hello peggers

[delta-orionis]

A theory I've seen about Voidspawn is that they're attracted to memories, which is why they seem attracted to the Memory Crypts. They might also be attracted to thoughts or brain activity in general, which is possibly why they started showing up in more regions after Looks to the Moon was reactivated (iterators are basically giant minds after all, and there's a lot there for voidspawn to be drawn to. This does beg the question of why there aren't any voidspawn around Five Pebbles' structure, though, aside from at the base of The Leg where it meets the Memory Crypts. Something else to think about but not really relevant to the Hunter question).

I've also heard Hunter's illness compared to prion disease before (idk exactly where, but I'm pretty sure this is a theory suggested by @iteratorsex). Ignoring the DP interpretation of Hunter's illness, it's possible that their disease is deteriorating their mind and disrupting their thought patterns (which also could explain their seizures when their cycle timer runs out). This deterioration of Hunter's mind might make them less attractive to voidspawn.

Though, if we go with the DP lore and say Hunter's illness is definitely Rot, it could also be affecting their mind. (Disregarding any of the Watcher stuff because I still haven't finished it, sorry) I personally think the Rot is implied to be corrupted neural matter, based on the instructions for circumventing the self-destruction taboo laid out in the Gold pearl:

Five Pebbles' Rot is damaging his structure, and I mentioned earlier that iterators are basically like enormous minds. So the Rot is eroding his mind, something which might explain the lack of voidspawn around his structure as opposed to Looks to the Moon's. That, or voidspawn are just naturally avoidant of Rot.

If Hunter also has the Rot, it could be the thing that seems to be driving voidspawn away from them. Or, possibly, the Rot's effect on their mind is making it harder for them to perceive voidspawn at all.

(I'm tempted to theorize that Hunter has the Rot as a result of neural modification done by No Significant Harassment, possibly a botched attempt to give them the mark of communication, or program the instructions for delivering the Green Neuron to Moon. But this post is getting long enough already.)

As for why the voidspawn are more aimless... I'm honestly not sure. In the case of Survivor, the voidspawn are vaguely pointing them in the direction of the Void Sea, towards enlightenment. Another theory about Hunter I've seen is that they are karmically imbalanced, so it's also possible that in that case the void spawn don't really know where to point them. Though, that's just me spitballing trying to come up with something. It's mysterious.

Voidspawn and the Hunter

Recently, @iteratorsex and I discovered that Voidspawn behave somewhat differently for the Hunter compared to other slugs. I decided to do some digging to figure out exactly what the differences are, and thought I'd present them here. There are a few different ways you can encounter Voidspawn in Rain World:

First of all, there are a number of rooms in Shaded Citadel where free-swimming Voidspawn spawn naturally. Specifically, they swim towards SH_D02 (the room with Monster Kelp and a karma flower at the bottom of the region) and mill about there. These Voidspawn do not appear at all for the Hunter.

Next, In the caverns beneath the Depths, Voidspawn are seen swimming towards and down into the Void Sea. These Voidspawn behave identically on all slugs, with some slight adjustments due to the state of Subterranean in the Saint's campaign.

Finally, there are the Voidspawn Eggs, small, round objects that can appear at specific locations throughout Shaded Citadel, Subterranean, and Shoreline. These locations are fixed across all campaigns, but for the Hunter, each individual egg only has a 6% (~1/17) chance of actually appearing. This is compared to a 100% chance on all other slugs. When the player touches a Voidspawn Egg, its Voidspawn is released and slowly wanders offscreen.

Normally, the Voidspawn released from eggs make their way out of the room through a designated exit, one chosen by Rain World's developers when they placed that particular Voidspawn Egg. However, for the Hunter all Voidspawn released from eggs are aimless: each one swims offscreen in a different, completely random direction. In the screenshots above, I artificially added many Voidspawn Eggs to a shelter. As you can see, for the Survivor they all swim in generally the same direction, while for the Hunter they each have a different heading, and far fewer Voidspawn spawned overall.

So, what does any of this mean?

I'm not sure, though it's all clearly very intentional. I can think of two general ways to explain the differences, at least. Either:

There is something special about the Hunter that makes it more difficult for them to see Voidspawn. It could be their disease, or related to whatever prevents them from encountering Karma Flowers.

Voidspawn are simply rarer outside of Subterranean prior to the Hunter's campaign. Perhaps the reactivation of Looks to the Moon drew more Voidspawn to the adjacent regions.

What do you all think? Which sort of explanation do you lean towards? Any ideas why the Hunter's Voidspawn should be so aimless compared to other campaigns?

[catthattalks]

Ouside of giving the keyknife and comforting Mirabelle, The Change God doesn't do much else for their worshippers. They are just happy to watch what happens.

Meanwhile The Universe saw The King and Siffrin making a wish and went 'Sure I'll grand BOTH of your wishes!!'

[tj-crochets]

Do y'all ever have a book series that you know you've read, sometimes even more than once, but it's like the memory is broken and just Will Not Stay? This brought to you by two different series I read while sick and then simply cannot retain memories of the plots of: the Percy Jackson series (actually I think I read that one with a concussion) and the True Blood books (my very last day working at the library before I got too sick to work* the head of the volunteers handed me a box of books to read while I was sick, which included the entirety (at the time) of the True Blood series. I read the whole series and watched the whole series of House while sick and retained absolutely nothing of either lol) *turned out I had mono and was basically couch-bound for a solid month, month and a half

[blxxmingrose]

that meeting kept replaying in hans’ mind despite all efforts to shake it off. he went back into his kitchen and let his hands go through the familiar tasks of baking, even washing the piled up dishes after he was done. and then, he did it all over again. trays upon trays of pastries, piles upon piles of dishes. his hands started to complain, the thin layer of skin covering his fingers dry and calloused from all the kneading and the washing.

but still, june’s memory lingered. his last words before the door closed kept hans on edge. 

why didn’t he just say he will have a good life? why did he have to point out how hans had meant it—as an ending? 

why, after all these years, couldn’t he give hans that mercy? 

knowing that he had intentions to come back—for the cookies—unraveled hans in ways he did not think were even possible after so much time had passed. it made walking the familiar steps in his kitchen, in his bakery, feel like a minefield, when it should have been something safe. he felt like everyone had dropped thousands of eggs all over the floor and now he had to walk on the shells to get to his home. which was just upstairs, not taking him far from this sacred-turned-unholy ground. 

a head poked into the kitchen, calling his name, pulling hans back from his self-imposed living nightmare. “yes?” he rushed out the word, apologetic about the clear lack of focus. 

“all the pastries are sold out, should i close for the day?” the woman manning the counter asked politely, apologetic too in her intrusion of hans’ space. he would often come out and tell her to lock up before she had to seek him out like this. 

hans wiped his hands off the hand towel that was ever-present on his left shoulder and nodded with much more enthusiasm than the moment called for. “yes, yes, please do that.” he looked at the time. half-past five. they usually closed earlier, but hans’ baking spree had given them more to sell today. 

he usually made sure everything was in proper order before he retreated upstairs, but today, he didn’t feel like stepping through those doors again. june was still there, smiling, waiting, his still-familiar scent winning over the comforting smell of cinnamon and nutmeg. today, hans needed to hide. 

his hands shook as he fished for his keys, his foot impatiently tapping on the floor as he tried to open his door. and when the lock finally clicked, he let out an exhale he had been waiting all day to release. safe. here, in this apartment, there was no june to haunt him. his safe space might have gotten smaller, but at least he still had this. 

he fell to the couch unceremoniously, letting the poor furniture feel the full weight of the day that clung to hans. why did june have to find his bakery? 

“have a good life, june.”

his own words haunted him, echoing in his head like the only thought there, bouncing off walls and invading cavities, leaving no space to think clearly. did he have a good life? was leaving hans the right call that set him off to a good path? 

he didn’t know anything about june, and he didn’t want to. oh, but god he wanted to.

his hand itched to fish out his phone, and despite himself, he did. it felt unfamiliar, typing a name that used to be the first person he called or texted whenever something happened. his fingers had to re-learn how to travel from one letter to the next, and finally, there it was. a small picture of june on his profile, revealing to hans the life he’s had that hans was not a part of. 

there were pastries, of course. a few of them from time to time, and some locations hans vaguely remembered talking about but hadn’t visited himself. a photo of a bus on a busy street. a street sign that was supposed to be funny. june, in clothes hans didn’t help him pick, in streets they didn’t walk together. eating food hans didn’t get to taste. there, on hans’ phone screen, were all the what-ifs that he told himself to stop thinking of.

and then—

he nearly dropped his phone. he was convinced his heart had stopped. that time had stopped. there was no faint birdsong from a distance, no sound of car horns at rush hour, no buzz of the heater. there, among the more recent posts, was the photo of a ring. on a finger hans didn’t know. on a finger that wasn’t hans’. his own finger--bare of any rings, because they got in the way of baking--traced over the ring and how beautiful it looked. how happy it looked. how it gloated.

see this ring? this isn’t yours. 

june didn’t love you enough to propose. 

the tears came then, and once they started, hans didn’t know how to stop. 

he was back to that night, tapping on his phone screen repeatedly, questioning why his messages weren’t going through. the symbol haunted him, unsent messages apologizing, begging, pleading, as he sat on the floor, the light from outside disappearing just like the light from within him. “please,” he heard himself saying over and over again. but even that came unanswered too. 

and now, june has come back to haunt him, to poison the air that hans used to breathe. to make waking up and sleeping hard again, his nightmares bleeding into his reality. hans sobbed quietly, curled into a ball, no “please” coming out of his lips this time. there was nothing more to beg for. 

he’s getting married. he really did have a good life. good for you, june, hans thought this time. good for you. 

the words hung in the air like smoke after a candle’s been snuffed out — have a good life. it shouldn’t have stung. it was gentle. polite. kind, even. but it twisted something deep in him anyway, like an old wound he’d been pretending wasn’t still sore.

he didn’t want to walk out. that was the truth of it. he didn’t want to leave behind the soft way hans smiled, even if it only lasted a second. didn’t want to close the distance between now and never. and yet, hans had handed him an ending. tied it up neatly with a parting wave, as if that could be enough.

june stared at the box of cookies in his hands like it could anchor him. he should’ve turned around. should’ve walked through the door, let it close behind him, taken the comfort of the bakery and the sound of hans’ voice and let it become memory again. but his feet were lead. his chest, worse.

he could tell hans that he had a good life. that it had been fine. busy. stable. full of all the right things on paper. he had a quiet apartment and a job that gave him purpose, and someone who smiled when they saw him in the morning. but there were nights — plenty of them — when the silence pressed too tightly against the walls. when he’d wake up and look for someone who wasn’t there. when he’d scroll through pictures he hadn’t deleted, not because he hadn’t moved on, but because they still meant something. even now.

he hadn’t come here for closure. he hadn’t come here for anything, really. it was just a bakery. just a door he walked through because he liked the smell of fresh pastries. and yet, here he was, holding years of grief in one hand and a box of cookies in the other.

“you say that like it’s the end,” june said, voice quiet but steady. “like it’s the last time.” he wasn’t trying to ask for anything. not forgiveness. not even a second chance. but he needed hans to know that this wasn’t easy for him either. that walking through that door had felt like closing a book he never finished knowing the ending still hadn’t been written.

he glanced down at the cookies again, then back toward the kitchen before he turned to leave before he could say more. before he could let the ache in his chest get the better of him. before he crossed a line that might unravel them both. but as the bell above the bakery door chimed and the cold morning air greeted his skin, june glanced back over his shoulder — just once. “i’ll come by again. for the cookies,” he said, with the barest hint of a smile, and left, letting the door close behind him.

[thespacelizard]

listening to the obedience playlist and got to "crush" and listen i know jennifer paige is american but this is one of those songs that is so UK radio to me. i feel like i hear it all the time. americans can't possibly be listening to it that much in 2025

now i need to know if ashenivir would listen to the sugababes. the spice girls, even. in a theoretical AU where the obedience cast is hanging out on modern day earth, what's shen's music taste. what's rizeth's. send help

crush is peak childhood back of the car radio to me, a Very UK Person. i only own that song because it was on an album of similar Types of Songs i had when i was a kid and i've been listening to it for YEARS

modern AU Ashenivir absolutely listens to BOTH of those. he's the coolest boy in the world but he is such a pop girlie and i cannot lie about this. much as i want to just give him my music taste, i don't think he enjoys metal as much as i do. he's chilling out in the girl bands and gay bands section of the playlist store - he is 100% a Marina and the Diamonds Electraheart type of Guy. Kim Petras, Icona Pop. he's got like 2 Pussycat Dolls songs on there.

he definitely had an emo phase, as most of us are wont to do. it didn't stick, but that single G note is a sleeper activation, and he still has a much-played Three Days Grace album kicking around that he puts on if he's feeling particularly angsty

modern AU Rizeth is classical music and classic rock to me. he's such an old man. he has Specific Opinions about versions of various classical songs (opinions i cannot give because i am not a classical music nerd). he enjoys a bit of like. Fleetwood Mac. REO Speedwagon. Crowded House. that kinda thing. maybe some REM or Blondie if he's feeling daring. i think his guilty pleasure artist is Robbie Williams. i just feel that in my heart.

[spookierz]

tbh the rapture could happen without me and i would just assume everyone was out buying groceries. it would take me a while to notice.