#(should i be working on my protocol analyzer? maybe)

[callmearcturus]

okay the Eye of the Duck for each of the MI films

Mission Impossible:

I promise I really thought about the Vault Scene and I could go on for ages about it and I maybe should since it's the marker of what separates MI from other action franchises.

But my heart lives in this scene as the emotional core of the movie, where Jim comes back from the dead and tries to spin a tale that Ethan is too smart to fall for but is still tempted by. The way Jim says one thing but Ethan's already pieced together what really happened-- and doesn't like the answer, rewrites it in his head to make it fit what he wants.

Ethan's emotions and how much he cares about people is his ultimate weakness and it remains so for the entire franchise, so to see him wrestling with that all the way from the start is crunchy.

Also Ethan soulgazing the camera for that long is very affecting.

Mission Impossible 2:

the point of the EOTD is to find the scene at the movie's center that reflects its core back at you. I think Woo's vision of MI is exemplified by that final fight scene between Ethan and the villain. I remember the first time I watched the movie, this scene made me go "NO" out loud several times.

I mean, mostly because absolutely not that handgun will not fire after being in the sand for that long, there is not enough gun oil in the world.

but since I have wisened up and realized MI2 is not the worst MI movie, I think I get it more. The over-the-top motorcycle jousting, the slow-motion, but especially the cuts to the roiling ocean-- everyone shut the fuck up and let your bodies tell the story, even if the 'story' here is as simple as "I'mma fuck you up." It doesn't have to be original, it just has to be a cohesive vision, and honestly I think people would like MI2 a lot more if they acknowledged Woo accomplished his specific vision here.

I don't love MI2, but I respect it. Way more than, uh.

Mission Impossible 3:

god i hate this fucking movie but the EOTD is really obvious.

The only scene in this movie that works 100% is after the stupid vapid villain is gone and when the movie returns to the two fucking actors who carried this horrible script on their fucking backs.

Ethan has a charge in his head that is about to detonate and kill him. He's asks Julia to kill him and then bring him back to life to defuse it.

I... My hatred of this movie is legendary but I love this scene. I love Ethan staggering around like a drunkard bc he's blinded by pain. I love the way he explains how to shoot a gun to Julia. I love his little "Don't point it at me" and the way he likens the reload of a magazine to the flashlight in their kitchen, something both of them understand. I love the absolute trust here--

Esp bc I think it's clear Ethan could die right now, but he'd rather go out trusting his wife to save his life than to worry about it too much.

And Julia actually fucking saves him, and it's good! It's the only good scene in the movie other than Benji's second scene. And if MI3's goal was to dig into the Emotions of the franchise, then fine, this is the scene that's best at it.

Still the worst movie. Someone stop JJ Abrams from ever writing scripts.

Mission Impossible: Ghost Protocol

holy shit i am stunned someone clipped this bit

I am straight up stealing Brendon Bigley's EOTD scene because he's right.

This moment, right after Ethan and Brandt have escaped the river, there's this incredible lull in the action where Brandt asks "Why would that work?" about Ethan's ridiculous flare trick to misdirect the KGB dudes with the rifles.

Ethan's confused about Brandt's question because... he didn't know it would work, he played a hunch.

Brandt's bitchy lil "'kaaaaay.... so what was your scenario" and the way Ethan actually smiles as Brandt tries analyzing the logic of what just happened and why.

This is the EOTD of GP because it's the film tipping its hat to everything its doing (and everything MI will become moving forward) in microcosm. MI is not about metriculous clockwork plots and spy intrigue, it's about heart and instinct and the fucking motto of the IMF: "I'll make it work." Tacitly, this convo between Brandt and Ethan is Brandt as audience surrogate and Ethan as filmmakers' surrogate.

Why did that work? Don't worry about it, just keep saying yes and we'll get through.

(Also the bit immediately after with the best Tom Cruise Is Short joke in the series, immaculate physical comedy, love it.)

Mission Impossible: Rogue Nation:

fuck all y'all I'm going to pick a single joke and obsess over it

FIRST 15 SECONDS

THAT'S IT THAT'S THE EYE OF THE DUCK

I'm not even remotely kidding, but this is related to BTS info about the gag. The script apparently only said "ethan and benji get into the car" but when it came time to film, TC was like "I can't just get into the car, it's the waste of a moment. hang on, i got it" and for the next take just DID that stupid flail across the car. Pegg's stunned look is real because no one knew he would do that.

As a writer, I love this moment because yes, just climbing into the car would have been a waste. It would have been an opportunity to put in a character moment just forgotten.

This is related to that lovely lil moment in Fallout where the team are meeting up with Walker after catching Lane, and there's no dialogue, but as they come up the stairs, Benji spots Walker, and he immediately flattens himself to the wall to get out of Ethan's way and looks back at Ethan for guidance. Ethan gives Benji a nod to say we're good, don't worry and they continue up the stairs.

These are little moments of characterization that are mostly built from actors who are just very comfortable with their characters, and this expediency of storytelling. Cut all the unneeded seconds, and make sure every second that remains in the movie is doing some kind of work.

so yeah that's the EOTD for RN.

Mission Impossible: Fallout

the EOTD for the entire MI franchise is the scene with the Parisian cop.

Ethan stopping everything to try to convince a bystander to leave and keep them from getting hurt. That's the soul of MI, the same emotional damage Ethan's carried since MI1.

Mission Impossible: Dead Reckoning

"I was hoping it'd be you."

shocker, I'm not picking the moment when Ethan literally Says The Fucking Theme Out Loud, nope. I'm picking the moment Ilsa decides she too will follow the new IMF's batshit "beat the trolley problem by pushing the trolley off the tracks" creed, and gives up everything for a woman she doesn't know who is in over her head.

History repeats, and Dead Reckoning's obsession with closing the loop and creating internal consistency out of a series that has had five directors and seven films works perfectly for me. Venice is a visual recreation of Prague in MI1, with Ethan racing down dimly lit streets to save someone but is just not fast enough.

I also have this personal read on the scene as a refutation of Gabriel and the Entity, who represent an almost Calvinistic philosophy of inevitability and fate. Gabriel tells a lot of fucking lies for a guy fashioning himself to be a prophet, and he taunts Ethan about having to choose between Grace and Ilsa.

But Ethan doesn't chose shit, he's busy getting almost suffocated by Paris in an alleyway. Ilsa is the one who makes a decision, and for a person like Ilsa who literally was the person to ask Ethan to run away with her because all this spy shit is useless and meaningless

Ilsa is the one who picks, and she decides to save Grace. Not Ethan and not the Entity and not Gabriel.

Ilsa died to save an innocent (well mostly) woman, and that's the entire point of MI. There is no such thing as acceptable losses and if you can prevent someone's death, you do it.

AND THEN ETHAN SAYS THAT OUT LOUD TO GRACE BECAUSE "YOU DON'T EVEN KNOW ME" "WHAT DIFFERENCE DOES THAT MAKE?" AND THAT'S MISSION IMPOSSIBLE

okay i'm done

[httyddragonfox]

Leola's Autism

it was confirmed that Leola was autistic. Autism is a spectrum, and seeing as autism is prevalent around me, I'm going to attempt to analyze hers.

My brother is autistic, but also has a learning disability. Meanwhile, I may be atypical autistic. I've also been to autism walks.

My brother likes to jump in place and kick out his legs at times. I stim on what's in my pockets (a smooth button, and a ball of colorful thread) and occasionally I flap 1 of my hands.

Autism you like to fixate on something, my brother it's large animals, for me it's storytelling.

We are both sensitive to loud (in my case also sharp) noises. My brother would occasionally sort beads, movies, his Figurines, etc. When I was younger I arranged all the picture books in front of me, to see and feel them all, I also sorted my fake food into groups, my lego into colors, my barbie objects into groups.

Details need to be exact, my brother (thanks to his learning disability) a fact is a fact, an opinion is an opinion, and it never changes. For me, things have to be done a certain way. If someone gets a detail wrong for something I like I get upset, and if something isn't done how I usually do it I get irritated (applying to protocols at work).

There's also when we get overwhelmed. I have an anxiety disorder, so normally when I'm very stressed I can't breathe and I clench up. My brother when gets frustrated or stressed he folds his ear. I feel calm when i muffle my ears.

There's a difference between high and low functioning autism, as well as male and female autism. I'm high functioning, but my brother has a learning disability. I've seen lower functioning autistics who can hardly talk, and higher functioning ones who choose not to.

I'm sensitive to certain things touching my skin, and I'm not sure about my brother. I don't like jewelry at all, meanwhile my brother seems to not like tight clothes or hair on his limbs. He prefers sandals, but wears boots when he feels he should.

That's all I know about Autism. There's Leola...

She had many friends, which is not easy for autistic people to forge bonds. However, she is female autistic, and they are more in tuned with their right brains (feelings and creativity), hence why my focus is storytellingand my cousin's is art. Girls are prone to be more emotional beings, so that might explain why she is so loving and accepting.

My brother only takes hugs because he was conditioned to be okay with them, meanwhile I love hugs. Which is probably why Leola sought physical comfort.

If I had to guess, Leola is a standard autistic, not atypical. She was also feminine autistic, so she's not closed off. Her focus maybe was on the stones of magic. When it comes to what we fixate on, we tell everyone we can about it. My brother loves spouting facts on large animals, I love sharing knowledge of stories as well as my own with others, so if her focus was the primal stones and how they connect to magic, of course she'd share it with humans. She'd want to share it with everyone.

[zalmoxis-the-great]

Careful what you wish for ! - Short Story -Orizyn

The C’tan looked at the shard of the Deceiver offered to him. He seemed pleased.

Your offer has been accepted by us, child. The knowledge that you seek is yours. Zarhulash said to Trazyn.

Dealing with free C’tans was incredibly dangerous. An insane thing to do. But Trazyn knew that great things came with great risks. Spying on the Archmagos Cawl proved fruitful, since the clever human gestalt released a C’tan shard that now hides in the far reaches of the galaxy.

Trazyn watched as the C’tan grabbed the other shard and hid it within his recesses. The star vampires were greedy and torturous, more than they hated other beings they hated their own kind. He didn’t want to think what kinds of torments were reserved for the lesser, smaller shard.

The free shard touched a canoptek after, pouring into it knowledge of the material real, raw data overwhelming its systems and whipping existing information to fit it.

‘Thank you, Potentate one’. Trazyn, surrounded by lychguards, said, not bowing. The weapon on his doom scythe was aiming at the C’tan.

He might be a risk-taker, but he was no fool.

He ordered one of his guards to retrieve the construct, so he could use and analyze the data safely.

It pleases me that you are unlike your treacherous siblings. Said Zarhulash, as Trazyn was about to start the translocation protocols. I will reward you, as one would reward a loyal hound. The archivist wanted to protest what was he compared to, but the intrigue stopped him.

‘I reward, you say?’

Yes, with the prospect that you will come again to bargain for my wisdom, I shall grant you a wish.

A wish? Although a shard, this C’tan was the master of the physical realm. He could undoubtedly grant him something of value.

A wish. Greed suddenly filled Trazyn’s engrams, he could wish for anything in the universe. He already saw the gallery for the Empire of Mankind getting its centerpiece.

He stopped the vector of ideas. The C’tan were untrustworthy. They give with a hand and take with seven. Asking for something that big would be unwise.

Maybe he could ask to repair Sannet’s memory engrams? Could he trust his arch-cryptek cognition to a shard? Absolutely not.

Trazyn thought, what could he ask for that wouldn’t backfire horribly?

After a moment he smiled, at looked at the C’tan, his wish prepared.

-------------------

‘Orikan, I need your predictions for the aerial attacks for the next 20 standard cycles’, Imotek asked, as he examined the battle charts in phos-green glyphs, all displayed in front of him.

‘As you wish’, the cryptek sitting to his left, answered as the Stormlord received packages of data on their interstitial channel.

His work was impeccable, like always.

There was a sudden shift in the air, for a fraction of a second. Imotekh noticed it, and turned to the astromancer, sitting in a meditative position, scrying the battlefield and feeding his hyperlogical algorithms battle predictions.

He seemed unperturbed.

‘What was that, did the scanners pick something ?’

‘Picked what? We are currently engaged in a battle', he answered, with barely enough tact to be considered respectful, like he usually did when interrupted.

‘Widen the planetary scans from the orbit. Something must have happened.’

‘As you wish. We should deploy the Doom cannons, the left flank will become overwhelmed.’

An astute observation. Imotek smiled, logical centers noting how the left side had a high probability of being pushed back if the enemy moved as predicted.

‘Good, when do you suggest we send them?’

‘Right meow, my Phaeron.’

Imotekh stopped, did his audio receptors glitch?

He rewinded the conversation. Did my cryptek meow at me? The astromancer didn’t seem to react.

‘Now? Did you say now?’, he asked, hoping the audio interference was from the battle raging outside.

‘Pawsitive’.

[wildgeese98]

I want to write down some of my thoughts about Magnus Protocol so far. I am definitely enjoying it. It's really fun listening as the episodes come out and screaming with everyone on here afterwards. I'm having a blast theorizing and analyzing. But my opinion of the show is still evolving. It's early days, but I am beginning to settle on the things I do and don't like about the show so far.

It's inevitable that Protocol will be constantly compared to Archives. It is of course a sequel and will suffer the heightened scrutiny that all sequals are subject to. The two biggest differences I've noticed so far have to do with pacing and characters.

Archives started slow, very slow, and I love that about it. Season one remains my favorite. In my mind nothing will ever compare up to the way the danger slowly creeps into the story, appearing in little drips and bursts until it suddenly explodes and everything gets turned upside down. Protocol has made no attempt to emulate this slow build up. We are almost immediately plunged into the thick of things. I think this was a good choice. As much as I yearn for that season one slow burn there's no way something like that could work now. Not when the majority of the audience is coming in champing at the bit for the story. I just hope they will be able to maintain this pace. After episode 7 things seem to be happening very quickly and I worry that too much might be revealed too soon in an effort to keep everyone engaged. I personally would love a bit of delayed gratification on some of these mysteries, even as I'm frothing at the mouth with curiosity.

As a consequence of this faster, more plot laden pace I have noticed something of a de-emphasis of the statements/cases in favor of plot progressing dialog. This isn't necessarily a bad thing. Nor is it something that sets Protocol totally apart from Archives. Seasons three and four had almost as much dialog before and after statements. However I do hope that the cases get some room to breath as the early season excitement evens out. I would love a few episodes that end on a case with little to no dialog afterwards. In some of these early episodes I feel like the dialog has kind of stepped on the cases and lessened their impact. As much as I am here for the plot and the mystery, the statements are what made me fall in love with Archives. Some of my favorite episodes are not relevant to the plot at all. It seems like there is less room for that in Protocol, which I figured would be the case but I would still like to see them allowed a little more space.

Speaking of the cases, my opinions on the eight we've had so far have varied for "oh this is very cool" to "meh, ok". Nothing has really wowed me yet but none have fallen completely flat either. My favorite so far is either Making Adjustments or Putting Down Roots. I'll be honest I have been a little sad about the lack of Jonny written cases. I know Protocol is much more of a group effort, but Jonny's writing is a big part of why I'm here. Granted he has had some hand in all of the episodes. Still there really is nothing like a fully Jonny written episode. Though neither of my two favorites were written by him so maybe I should be keeping a more open mind. It was an interesting decision to front load so many of the guest writers into these early episodes. There are 24 guest writers slated and we've already had three back to back. I suppose with almost a third of the episodes featuring guest writers they will be fairly frequent and It has gotten the audience used to the concept early on.

Side note: I was looking at the list of guest writers and it includes both Muna Hussen and Jon Ware, creators of I am in Eskew and the Silt Verses. I am positively wriggling with excitement to see what they come up with for their episodes.

The other big difference I've noticed between Archives and Protocol is the characters and how they're interacting. We knew already that we would be jumping in with an ensemble already established. It took Archives quite a while to build up to this many regular characters and even then Jon was the Main Guy throughout. Now, despite Sam somewhat falling into the main character role, we have a much more even focus on all the characters. This I think is what is going to truly differentiate Protocol from Archives. Broadening the focus to a whole group rather than just the one guy (as much as we might love that guy) feels like it will open up so many more directions for the narrative to go. We have the potential for side plots and multiple narrative threads happening at once. We are already seeing this play out as Sam and Alice, Gwen and Lena, Colin, and now Celia all have their own separate yet connected things going on. I'm excited to get more of everyone's back story and to see how they all react as the plot puts more pressure on them.

I really am enjoying Protocol however if I am being honest most of my enjoyment is coming from the mysteries and overarching plot rather than the cases. This is a total reversal from my feelings about Archives, where I was mostly there for the individual statements and at first tolerated, then eventually enjoyed the overarching plot. This isn't to say that the Protocol cases have been bad. They just haven't grabbed me like Archives did. There is also still plenty of time for this to change. The problem right now with comparing the two is Archives is a full, completed story and Protocol currently consists of 7 episodes (8 if you're a fancy early access person). It is just too early to fully judge Protocol, either on its own or in relation to Archives.

Overall what really matters to me is I'm having fun and I've got something to look forward to every week. I think to key to fully enjoying Protocol is accepting that it is never going to scratch the exact same itch that Archives did. Still, it has the potential to be its own different but equally satisfying experience.

[mallowstep]

1, 3, 40!

1. What font do you write in?

Typically, Alegreya. I find it a very comforting font to look at. If I’m using monospace (as I do for some things), Fira Code. (While rare, if I need to use sans serif font, I use Fira Sans.) Jauría is another font I love, but I use it in my flash cards, so writing in it would be strange.

While my preferred font has changed over the years (I used to use Georgia, and before that others I don’t remember), it is deliberately chosen. I consider myself a bit of a typography nerd, but moreover, I hate Ariel and TNR with a passion. I couldn’t stand to write in either. If you’ve ever worked on a shared document with me, I have changed the font.

3. What is your writing ritual and why is it cursed?

I’ve been informed quite reliably that my notebook system is cursed.

On a more explainable level, I think the way I end up writing the same scene for like five fics. What I mean is — let’s say I’m writing a scene for reuniting after torture. I’m kind of in a groove, and I have another fic that needs that scene, so I just keep writing. The cursed part is I end up using very similar dialogue.

Also, my general attention to detail. I don’t typically get to flex it when I write for warriors, because there’s only so much to know, but typically I end up downloading at least one paper per fic. These vary from psychology to malacology (the study of mollusks!) to released protocols of an FBI special unit. (Those three are all relevant examples.) I might take it a little far but there’s something soothing for me in it. (Also, anyone who follows my main will likely not be surprised by this, but I go a little insane for thinking out details.)

40. Share a poem

Aside from what I have on my main, hm. It’s been a long time since I’ve kept poetry on my phone. I’ll offer this, which is technically a text message, but a poem as well

I say “hypothetically wouldn’t it be fucked up if someone’s parents treated them this way” and they say “here is a complete tour of the hospital” and I say “I am going to tell you about how much of a nerd I am” and they say “I want you to braid my hair” and I say “I think love is supposed to be angry” and they say “I hope not” and i say “is it fucked up that I was relieved that it was just an allergic reaction?” and they say “I want my brother to give you a tour of my city” and neither of us say I love you because we know that would destroy me right now, but we mean it

Also, a list of some poems I’ve loved enough to memorize (apologies for the lack of authors, I’ve never been good at that part):

the envoy of mr cogito (English translation)

[i carry your heart with me]

Heartbeats (I need to add on this one, it’s worth reading out loud. Also, because of the steadiness of it, I used to mutter it under my breath when I was focusing, and my boyfriend had to alert me that saying “Today? Tonight. / it waits. For me.” was creepy and I should maybe not)

About the weather (another one with a note, I like this one so much I wrote an essay analyzing it)

I sing the body electric, especially when my power’s out

Crossing the bar

Do not go gentle

Queen mab speech (Romeo and Juliet)

I also really adore Walt whitman’s “I sing the body electric” but it would be…difficult to memorize, to say the least. I’ve considered adding it tho. And from Andrea Gibson, “Alaska says sun”, “good light”, “fight for love”, “boomerang valentine”, “I do,” and “say yes” are all some favorites. I wanted to single this out, though — “how it ends” is probably one of my favorites of hers.

I could probably keep going with poetry — if you can’t tell, I’m a fan. I’ve used poetry to keep the world stable under my feet since I was a child, and I’ve got some favorites.

<3

[ckameley]

This started as me airing out my trivial job grievances since my bf isn't available to talk but then it turned into me talking about my short term career goals. Let me learn how to bullet journal or something so I can write down and work towards my goals and manifest my dreams

There's a visiting researcher processing samples (some DNA extractions but mainly multiplex library preps for sequencing) this week but we didn't order enough reagents for her and it seems like the business team just went ghost once the semester ended last week

Yesterday before I left I talked to her for a bit about how the order wasn't even approved yet so the reagents definitely won't be in before she leaves by the end of the week

She shared how she only came for this week to fit the schedule of a grad student in the lab, but the student has no wet lab experience and honestly doesn't care to learn (even though her projects require people to generate the data for her to analyze). And the researcher said her postdoc PI was willing to let her take this week to do this work to follow up on this project that she started in her PhD but wasn't finished because there was no one in our lab working on the G. Project (we have 2 other major projects focusing on other species that we've been actively working on)

What struck me is that my PI talked to her about doing this work well over a year ago, but since we haven't actively been working on the G. Project he didn't relay ANY of this to us. I am currently the 2nd most experienced in the lab to process these samples since I'm the main person who does our library preps, but I have 2 weeks left here until I leave in-person. Had he put this on our radar over a year ago when he talked to the visiting researcher initially, we could've planned accordingly and maybe done most of the work so she wouldn't be in this predicament (and I happily would've done it since I enjoy doing the library preps)

It's just something that I'm now realizing my PI could be better at: informing the full-time wet lab staff of projects when he first conceives of them so he doesn't just bring it up a few months before a grant runs out. Cause the other lab tech is tasked with cell culture work for the G. Project that the grad student SHOULD help with but likely won't bc she has no wet lab experience and seems very laissez-faire about being involved in the process of generating this data (even though she's supposed to do computational analyses with them eventually). My PI (and maybe the grad student too) wasn't upfront to the visiting researcher about how the grad student is essentially useless if you expected someone else to help generate data in a short time frame; and I completely understand the researcher's frustration with the situation (not to mention there are discrepancies in our sample inventory vs the data sheets the G. Project provided which has been an ongoing issue because pre-2022 the people entering data in our record system were NOT consistent and did it relatively sloppily)

And let me not get into how seeing that grad student have no wet lab experience, say that she intentionally switched her undergrad major from biology to anthropology to avoid "harder" bio classes that she couldn't handle getting anything less than an A in, and now she does not seem to give af about learning the wet lab protocols to generate the data she will be analyzing for her PhD research further fueled me to figure out what I wanna get a PhD in cause seeing some of the white girls from out here who got into PhD programs without the credentials I have was eye-opening. The best thing to happen to me by moving out here is that it grounded me and showed me that I am 100% qualified to pursue/do whatever research career I want

For my next job I want to get some experience working in a neuroscience lab to see if that's something I can see myself doing for 5+ years in a PhD program. I may not have the neuroscience education as a foundation, but I can be successful working in a wet lab and know that I can learn what I need to in grad school, plus my background in biology is solid enough to get me by

Yesterday I received an email asking me to fill out this survey for an organization I applied to. The survey was a mess but I answered as honestly as I could and it shouldn't even matter for the positions I applied for. So the fact that I got the survey lets me know that I'm still in the applicant pool at least. And my PI very kindly messaged a PI friend of his who is looking for a research tech in his lab that harmoniously blends my interest in behavioral ecology with neuroscience. Hopefully that becomes an option along with the other positions I applied to

I planned on making this move to be with my bf so that I work for 2 years, then I enter a grad program and we relocate to wherever if need be. And to be clear, I'm not pushing off grad school bc of him (I would never do that - my parents raised me to be my own independent person and my grandma, great aunts, and the other women who came before me in my family lineage would be rightfully disappointed if I had all this access to resources to be independent and I actively gave it all up just to be with a man). Given that I've had my own doubts and uncertainties about what I want to commit 5+ years of my life doing in a PhD program since I was an undergrad, all this time has been for me to test out research fields, gain experience, and develop personally

I can proudly say that atm I am done developing personally. I am ready to get into a grad program, train to successfully conduct research in whatever field I'm focusing on, and continue advancing in my career as a researcher

[overnightheartbeats]

"Well yes, but—" to no avail. He was on a roll, and there was nothing that could stop him. The more he spoke, the more ashamed she felt. He was right. Her friends had been nice, telling her it wasn't her fault, but Isaac didn't know her. And, clearly didn't care enough about her to lie. This was on her. Her immaturity and irresponsibility caused this. She really was the reason his life was in danger. "We weren't going in blind, we had the intel! Our teams were on the same page." All that to say, Calhoun and Gleason did all the talking, because she had not talked much to Eli that day. Despite the bubbling frustration, she spoke in hushed whispers, reminding herself they were in a hospital. "Yeah sure it's strange, but I'm not—I haven't had a chance to analyze the case." At least they were also in agreement over that. He wasn't her superior, but the protocol did apply regardless. "Yeah," she huffed out. "I'd quit." Laurel couldn't think of it, what to do if he didn't recover. She knew, for a fact though, she wouldn't be able to return to work without him.

it was pretty obvious that she was hiding something. She knew the weird vibes Gleason said were just her feelings come forward. The same feelings she had wanted to talk to Eli about. Part of her was willing to tell his brother, if that helped in any way to help him understand. But, no she refused. Laurel hadn't had the chance to tell Eli, the one who mattered. She'd be damned if she told someone else first. "Maybe I should. Memory loss would keep me from returning to work," she countered, feeling his narrowed eyes on her. He didn't believe her, and she knew he had good reason. There was something she hid, but it was only meant for Eli to hear. No one else.

"I wouldn't." She agreed that she had hurt him, but the way he phrased it fired her up. Laurel couldn't pinpoint why, perhaps because he still questioned that she cared. "He means a lot to me. You're accusing me like I set off the damn building and purposely left him in there. I would never do that. I'm guilty of not talking to him the night before, a petty reaction sure, but I would never want this for him. You don't think it's crossed my mind? That my partner abandoned me, and that I'm only alive because Eli came back for me? It's all I've been thinking. I know that should've been me, and not him. He'd be okay right now." Survivor's guilt, or just the helplessness of seeing the guy she loved in danger. It was probably both. "That's all I ever want for him. I love him too, it's not just you."

Laurel's attention was drawn to the nurse before inevitably returning to endure more of his brother's wrath. She had no good answer for him, nothing she hadn't answered for him already. She wasn't standing as tall anymore, hands crossed over her shoulders and looking away from his accusing gaze. Laurel's head quickly shot up when she saw Julia marching right over to them. Being his brother's current reason his anger was fine for her guilty self, but Laurel couldn't deny the relief she felt upon seeing her friends. She was trying to find a good time to but in and tell Julia who the guy was. After all, she had made that mistake earlier too. When she turned to her, Laurel leaned in, "Juju, this is Isaac. Eli's brother."

Aaron didn't hesitate to let go of her hand as she walked off to step in for her friend. It seemed odd, for him to be the one to stay behind. He was perfectly capable of stepping up for Laurel too. Even from here, it was obvious. Whoever this was was not giving her any breathing room, and she was shutting down. But, he knew that of the two, his girl was the one to fear. So, he just watched as she effortlessly told off the man in the FBI jacket. He couldn't help but be proud of her, how protective she was of those she loved.

"You were upset with him. Ah, so yet another failure of communication with a co worker." To be honest she was racking up points the more she talked. "So, you rather have a co worker go in blind then push aside differences for a night and talk it out to make sure everyone was on the same page before said mission happened. Not only that but you were all operating on different mediums. Don't you think that's a little strange?"

He shook his head, he wasn't in the business to order her around. "I'm not your superior so I've got no say on the matter. I'm merely pointing out protocol in case you forgot." He hummed annoyed and let out a slow breath. "Well, what if he doesn't get in the clear? Going to quit?"

Eyebrows rose as suddenly Laurel fell into the don't know category. "Interesting. Memory loss, maybe you should get that checked out since you're here." He eyed her suspiciously knowing for a fact that she thought he was stupid. Contrary to belief, he and Eli did talk even if they weren't always on the same time zone.

"You wouldn't hurt him? Really, are you sure? From where I'm standing he may never wake up or recover from this. There's a one in a million shot this is one of those 72 hour cases where the person doesn't in fact make it. He went in after you knowing he was breaking about a thousand protocols, even though whatever petty bullshit was happening between the two of you was hanging over him. He still went in because your own partner was seemingly careless enough to let you fend for yourself." This was a pained brother speaking. This wasn't an agent telling it like it was. This was a brother who was terrified he was about to lose him over something that could have been avoided talking. "It seems like training and common sense went out the window."

Issac cooled down as a nurse confirmed Eli was now transfered and in his room. He thanked her and turned to Laurel. "Why are you fighting so hard to see him when you were just fine not being within feet from him just a day ago now."

When Julia and Aaron came down she didn't expect the sight she encountered. Her best friend cowering before a giant of a man. It was when she overheard him that she went into fierce protector mode. Letting go of Aaron's hand she went over and stood right in front of the guy, pushing Laurel to stand beside her. "Because she cares. Being upset at someone doesn't mean you stop loving them. Do you have friends, siblings? Ever had a fight with them? Did they stop loving you or you them? Don't think so. More apt question is what do you think gives you the right to talk to her like that? Think you're all mighty because you're a man. She doesn't have to answer to you either. You don't own the hospital." She turned to Laurel making sure she was okay before facing the man again. Unafraid.

[hacker-willie-manifesto]

Willie JATP is a Hacker: The Manifesto - Part One

all right, kids. it's time to do the thing i made this blog for, mostly because one (1) person indulged this hc (@crybabyddl this is your fault). as always, thanks to the ghost squad server for putting up with my rambling as i put this post together.

but the tl;dr is: willie jatp was one of the early generation of hackers as well as a skater, and this is how it happened.

edit: if anyone wants to use any parts of the as basis for fic/art/contente in general, feel free! please tag me and i'll boost it and make the rest of the ghost squad boost it ^_^

readmore below this line ^_^

first things first, my headcanon is that willie died in 1989 at the age of 19 (missed the moon landing by just a wee bit, which he's highkey bitter about).

second things second, his parents were college professors in the 70s with access to computers and ARPAnet (precursor to the internet that connected several major US universities).

and third things third, willie grew up spending time in his parents' classrooms and offices because they homeschooled him. mostly because he struggled in a regular classroom setting due to adhd and being a gifted kid tm.

anyways. so he's in the lab with his parents. chilling. when they get a message from a colleague at MIT (blech). and his parents, wanting to encourage his curiousity, let five-year-old willie send a message back.

this was, as the kids say, a Mistake.

willie became FASCINATED with computers. absolutely enthralled. so when one of the computers in his dad's lab broke and was written off by the university, willie went dumpster diving for it, snuck into an electrical engineering lab, and fixed it.

he was 9 at the time.

his parents, being supportive and also very happy to have something safe (hah!) to keep their son occupied, got him a programming guide and set him loose in their friend's office, a computer scientist who was amused by the small child in the corner with his computer and let him borrow whatever books he wanted. he learned very quickly how the computer worked... and how it differed from the way it was SUPPOSED to work. he became OBSESSED with that gap.

(he also became the unofficial anthropology department tech support, but that's another story)

when he's 15, the movie War Games comes out, and really thrusts computer hackers into the public's consciousness... and willie's. willie discovers that his little programs that took advantage of gaps in his computer's programming could be used for a purpose, rather than just to prove a concept. at the same time, the internet was beginning to boom at universities, which meant that willie, the unofficial tech support of the anthropology department, had a direct line to a major university's internet connection.

this was, as the kids say, Another Mistake.

("but when does he start skating, lilac?!" hush, children. we're getting there.)

willie made a few friends online. hacker friends. hacker friends who were part of one of the many hacker collectives to spring up in the 80s. it was his first time Having Friends, so of course when they decided to hack a major corporation as a joke, willie went right along with them.

this was, as the kids say, Another, Much Larger Mistake.

two months later, at 1 AM, the FBI broke down his front door, confiscated his computer equipment, and arrested him. He managed to avoid going to jail because he wass only 16, but he was banned from using the internet until 1990. his parents were... displeased, to say the least. his computer, they said, was not his until he earned enough money to replace the front door's hinges, which had suffered rather catastrophic damage when it got. yknow. kicked in.

willie was not a fan of that, and had already been barred from his main motivator for using his computer, since violating the terms of his sentence would mean (at best) being forced to work for the feds or (at worst) actually going to jail this time.

his mom was one of the original skateboarders, who could rival tony hawk in straight-up skill. one weekend, when he was complaining about being bored and missing his friends (many of whom were now in jail), his mom dragged him to the skate park and taught him to skate.

willie got good. really good. he was competing in the local scene, hoping to make it to the x games.

then. well.

he died.

[thexanwillshine]

a;lskfjdk

Author: thexanwillshine (twitter, ao3) Pairings: Levi x Hange Cross-Postings: AO3 Notes: made for Day 2: Confessions of Levihan Week 2021

“But Levi,” Hange whines as she slumps her head on the back of her sofa and closes her eyes. “Kissing scenes are so tricky to write.”

Perhaps it’s the fact that it’s almost 5:30 in the morning. It could also be because he's tired from lack of sleep. Whatever the case, Levi Ackerman’s filter completely disappears when he asks, “Do you need a demonstration?”

Levi Ackerman can argue that every writer he’s met is always a little bit more eccentric than the average person, but no one proves his theory more than Hange Zoë.

Hange wakes him up in the middle of the night, voice screeching on the phone in her excitement. He responds groggily—as one does when their sleep is disturbed at an ungodly hour by an overly-excited author who acts as if they’ve just found out the answers to the universe—and tries to keep himself sober enough to understand what in the goddamn fuck Hange was talking about this time.

“Levaaiiii,” she says, drawling out his name in a manner that was both annoying and endearing, “I’ve figured it out!”

He can almost imagine the look on her face: starry-eyed in her joy, mouth stretched wide into a grin, fingers shaking as she bounces in glee, shifting her weight from the heels of her feet to the tips of her toes . . .

And Levi exhales in both relief and the tiniest hint of delight, because this is exactly how he wants Hange to be: happy .

Nevertheless, he replies “Figured what out?” snarkily.

Hange’s response comes out quickly, as if she needed to say everything that had to be said in the span of five seconds or less. “So you know how I’ve been trying to write a fiction novel because I wanted to get out of my comfort zone?”

Levi hums in acknowledgement as he fixes the covers over his legs before turning on his bedside lamp. He leans back on the bed frame and closes his eyes to listen to her ramble.

“So I was thinking, I wanted to write a romance novel, because you know how people fall in love and stuff?”

“No Hange, I’ve never heard of that concept in my entire life,” Levi says in a deadpan voice.

Hange laughs, because of course she would know that’s his pathetic attempt at lighthearted conversation. Levi is glad that she knows him better than most people, and it is this sense of familiarity that made him feel particularly comfortable when graced with her presence.

“Just because you’ve never fallen in love before doesn’t mean it’s not real, Levi!” Hange tells him in jest.

Wrong, Levi thinks.

“After all, you’ve probably never wanted to kiss someone your entire life!”

Wrong, Levi thinks.

“Sure, Hange.”

He rolls his eyes at her teasing, because yes, Levi has fallen in love—and maybe, just maybe, he’s still on the road to understanding what it meant to treasure someone far more than just a regular friend.

He shakes off such thoughts before maneuvering Hange back to the initial reason why she had called. “So, what did you want to tell me?”

“I finished,” she proclaims on the phone, her voice proud, “I finished writing the first ten chapters.”

Levi blinks in confusion before sitting straight up, the information processing in his mind that was still a bit drunk with sleep. “You what?” “I couldn’t stop writing,” Hange told him sheepishly, detecting the slightest hint of concern in her editor’s voice, “I’ve been writing for the past 24 or so hours. Maybe more.”

Levi grunts in annoyance, pulling the covers away from his body and jumping out of his unmade bed. He runs a hand through his dark locks, sighing. “Four-eyes, you need to get some sleep.”

“But Levi,” Hange says in protest, “I need you to read my draft. There are some parts I just don’t think are super natural.”

“And I was sleeping like a regular human being,” Levi retorted as he shrugged off his shorts. After that, he put on jeans that he had recently washed before patting down the shirt he was wearing in a pathetic attempt to get rid of the wrinkles that had accumulated while he tossed and turned in bed.

“Oh my gosh, Levi, I didn’t realize the time!” Hange replies, and he can almost feel her guilt starting to set in. “You should go back to sleep,” she immediately adds. “Take care of yourself!”

Levi slips on his rubber shoes and grabs his umbrella before answering. “Coming from you? Not that credible.”

Hange laughs light-heartedly, and his heart flutters just a tiny bit. Levi pushes the feeling away almost as quickly as it had come.

“Have you eaten?” he asks, almost dreading the reply.

There was none.

“Hange,” he calls, but there’s still no response. “Hange. Answer me,” he says firmly, prodding her on. “Have you eaten?”

The laughter that comes out from the other end is nervous. “Woops.”

Levi sighs. He opens his car door and slips inside smoothly, grabbing his keys from his pocket and starting the engine. “Hange, you’re supposed to eat.”

“Sorry,” she tells him honestly. “I really didn’t want to ruin my momentum. I can’t believe I forgot.” She mumbles her second sentence, sounding almost deep in thought. “I’ll go find food now! Want me to email you the working draft? You can look at it in the morning when you wake up.”

“No need,” Levi tells her, placing his phone on his dashboard and accelerating his car. “I’m on the way.”

“Levi!” Hange exclaimed excitedly as she heard her doorbell ring at around four in the morning.

She rushes to the door in delight, opening it to reveal Levi standing in front of her, a paper bag in his hand and a jacket half-heartedly slung over his shoulder.

“Hi,” he greets calmly, before walking inside and letting himself in.

Inwardly, Hange thanks whatever god is out there for her foresight. Her unit was relatively clean since she hadn’t really done anything since Levi’s last visit. The place seemed to pass Levi’s health protocols, since he sat on her couch and placed the paper bag on the table right across from him.

“Eat,” he tells her, crossing his arms over his chest.

Hange grins, before plopping down beside him and opening the paper bag. “What did you get me?”

“You’ll see.”

She raises an eyebrow at his ambiguity, before taking a glimpse inside the paper bag.

The smell of quesadillas immediately fills the room, and Hange lets out a soft squeal, taking out the food from the bag quickly.

“Oh my gosh,” Hange says as she nudges him on the shoulder. “You also got me onion rings! You know me too well, Levi.”

“Unfortunately,” Levi responds sarcastically, and Hange laughs almost automatically.

As Hange hums in glee, picking apart the paper wrapped around the food items, Levi maintains his silence. They stay like that as Hange eats. Every so often, she would comment about how the amount of cheese was perfect and how the onion rings just about melted in her mouth. Levi alternates between watching her eat and scrolls through his phone placidly.

Soon, he chooses to break the silence. “So where’s your draft?”

Hange is munching on her last piece of quesadilla when she glances in his direction. “Oh, it’s on my laptop! I can’t believe I forgot to tell you, this food was just so good.”

Levi stands up and heads on over to Hange’s room, gently pushing the door open and scanning the area for her laptop. On top of her unmade bed was a half open Macbook Pro, which he gently took before returning to his seat beside Hange.

Without hesitation, Levi opens the laptop and inputs the password. For some reason, Hange made it his birthday—1225—because she claimed that no one would guess such a random date. He is greeted with a blaring Google Docs document entitled “a;lskfjdk.”

“Nice title you got there,” he comments, and Hange chuckles.

“I didn’t want to think of a title yet, okay!” Hange pouts, and Levi nudges her foot gently in an attempt to comfort her from his own teasing.

He scans the document first before reading it. Hange is a good writer, but fiction is an entirely new genre for her. Immediately, he notices common habits from writing research papers leak into her new work: overexplaining, using words that are too formal for her target audience, sentences a little bit void from emotion.

He takes note of these comments on her notes app before going over her draft again, this time more meticulously than he had done previously. During this time, Hange finishes eating, wraps her trash and tosses them all inside the paper bag before standing up and dumping the entire thing inside her garbage bin.

“Levi,” she calls as she washes her hands through the sink faucet. Levi gives her the smallest hint that he’s listening by raising his eyebrow, but he doesn’t take his gaze away from her laptop. “I’m going to take a shower,” she announces, and he waves his hand dismissively.

Hange smiles to herself. Levi is always nagging her whenever she would accidentally hyperfixate on her writing, but he acts the same way when reading her works.

When Hange stepped inside the shower, Levi was already conducting a deep dive in her third chapter. The gears in his head slowly begin to turn as he begins to analyze her work.

The story revolved around the tales of the people who went to the clinic. The first chapter was a brief introduction on who the main characters were: There’s Janelle, a bright-eyed psychologist whose passion influenced the people around her. Together with El and Bea, her trusted assistants studying under her guidance, they would aid the people who went to the Hopiatria Clinic seeking care.

Meanwhile, the second chapter featured a child who felt as if she was being blamed for the death of her mother by her father. Her mother had died in a plane crash shortly after the young girl wished that her mom could go home on her sixth birthday. Janelle talks to the child gently while El and Bea provide emotional support, offering the child toys and biscuits whenever the need arises.

The third chapter was trickier, and it was there that Levi noticed a twist in Hange’s writing. The story revolved around a boy busy getting her doctorate, and a young girl who had been in love with him ever since they were in college. It’s the young girl who comes to Janelle’s office, and she relays the tale of her unrequited childhood romance to the psychologist.

The young girl is passionate, and wanted to take a step forward in order to guide her towards falling out of love with her best friend. Janelle presents two suggestions: (1) confession, while being fully-open to the possibility of rejection, and (2) accepting rejection without confession. The young girl decides to go with the first option, but to her surprise, the boy returns her feelings.

Everything seemed well-written up until the end of the chapter, where Hange had written,

And then they kissed.

Levi scrolled down the page, tilting his head to the side in slight confusion. That’s it? He thought, trying to find the rest.

Everything had been so well-described; from the girl’s internal turmoil—caused by her fear of destroying their friendship and the pain that came with unrequited love—to the boy confessing his own emotions for her.

The ending was anticlimactic, to say the least.

As he blinked at the google document in confusion, already typing out his comment on her notes app, Hange emerged from the bathroom. Her hair was loose on her shoulders, wet from her shower. Wrapped around her waist is his bathrobe, which she had borrowed from him long ago and never bothered to return it.

Levi scoffs as he glances in her direction. Here she was, parading with the cloth on and rubbing that specific fact in his face.

“Hey,” Hange greeted, smiling as she ran a hand through her brown locks, “How’s the reading going?”

“It was okay until the third chapter,” Levi says honestly, pointing the laptop screen in her direction. “The ending’s anticlimactic.”

Hange hummed, pursing her lips together. “Yeah. I didn’t really know how to end it,” she tells him as she opens her cabinet and grabs a few pieces of clothing. “Give me a bit, I’m going to change.”

She disappears into her room and Levi focuses on her story, trying to think of a way to spur Hange on and perhaps actively improve the ending’s writing.

Hange emerges in a loose t-shirt (which was, once again, his) and shorts. She sits down right beside him, leaning over his shoulder to glance at her laptop and read the specific line that particularly irked Levi.

“It’s that one, right?” Hange asks, pointing at the last sentence. “And then they kissed.”

“Yeah,” Levi responds, shaking his head. “Everything was so well-written up ‘till that point. You were able to describe the emotions perfectly, and the narration’s not that bad . . save for a few paragraphs that maybe should’ve stayed in your research papers.”

Hange chuckles. “Old habits die hard,” she responds, before taking her Macbook from his lap and transferring it to hers. “So what should I write?”

Levi shrugs. “I’m just your editor. You’re the writer.”

Hange pouts. “Yeah, but I don’t know how to make this better.”

“Maybe describe the scene more,” Levi suggests. “Everything ended so abruptly. Every emotion you’ve created and built disappeared in that one line.”

She nods in agreement. “But Levi,” Hange whines as she slumps her head on the back of her sofa and closes her eyes. “Kissing scenes are so tricky to write.”

Perhaps it’s the fact that it’s almost 5:30 in the morning. It could also be because he's tired from lack of sleep. Whatever the case, Levi Ackerman’s filter completely disappears when he asks, “Do you need a demonstration?”

Hange’s eyes shoot open immediately, and Levi’s face turns red just as quickly.

“F-Forget it,” he says, interrupting her just when he saw Hange open her mouth to speak. Any semblance of calm in his body disappears immediately, and his heart starts pounding against his chest in a rhythm that reminds him too much of a beating drum.

Hange, however, looks elated.

“You want to kiss me?” she tells him in excitement, blinking at him. “I’d like that. It could help me write this scene, you know.”

Levi looks away. “It was just a spur of the moment question.”

“So, you’re not going to kiss me?”

He actively avoids her gaze because he can already see from his peripheral vision that she looks sad, disappointed even. He grunts in response, closing his eyes and focusing his attention on a random spot on the wall.

“Oh,” Hange replies, “Well, I thought it was a good idea.”

Contrary to popular belief, Levi does want to kiss Hange. More than anything.

There were many reasons why: Because she looks so handsome and beautiful at the same time, and her very smile could light up any room she’d walk into. Because she says his name in the most endearing way. Because she understands his flaws. Because she has one of the kindest hearts he’s ever seen. Because she welcomes him with open arms, not a single thread of hesitation in her mind.

Most of all, it was simply because she was Hange.

He steals a glance in her direction, and she’s slightly fiddling with the hem of his shirt, her head downcast. Her sad expression tugs at hi

Levi thinks he’s already in this too deep, so he decides to speak.

“Did you want me to kiss you?”

From his periphery, he sees her look up at him so quickly he thought her neck would break. “What would you do if I said yes?”

He doesn’t dare turn his head in her direction when he replies quietly, “What do you think?”

“Would you kiss me?” Hange asks inquisitively, tilting her head to the side.

Levi’s heart skips a beat.

“Maybe,” he says in a voice barely above a whisper. “If you’d let me.”

Hange is silent for a moment, and Levi thinks this is it, I’m going to be rejected, but he feels a gentle finger touch his chin and turn his head in Hange’s direction.

He is met with her brown orbs, shining just a bit in what seemed like hidden glee. He cocks an eyebrow at her then, confused.

“I’m letting you,” Hange says, laughing. “Kiss me, I mean.” Her face is already slowly nearing his, and he can almost see the way her thick lashes brushed against her skin.

Slowly, Levi raises his head just a tiny bit and responds against her lips, “Okay.”

Hange smiles and closes the distance between them, wrapping her arms around his neck as he does the same around her waist. She tastes like the peppermint of her toothpaste, smells like his shampoo (which he had kept in her apartment since he always found himself staying over), and felt warm as her skin made contact with his. Hange's lips are gentle, slow, and a little shy—so different from how she usually is. Levi knows it’s because she doesn’t want to scare him off, so he makes the first move and nips at her lower lip, taking it between his teeth and sucking it gently.

She lets out a moan, and Levi takes this as a sign to continue. He slides his hand over her back, and she shudders and deepens the kiss at the same time. Her tongue meets his, and they battle for dominance. Hange’s hand sweeps over his undercut and pushes him towards him, and it is then that he lets out a sound that vaguely resembles pleasure.

After a few minutes, Hange whispers “Levi,” as her lips make contact with his. He hums in response, pulling his lips away from her and connecting his forehead with hers.

“Hange,” he says, breathless.

“Is this you telling me you like me?” Hange asks, closing her eyes.

He doesn’t form a reply through words, but he nods and closes his eyes as well.

“Great,” Hange tells him, pecking his lips with her own. “Because I like you too. Ever since I met you, I’ve liked you. Even though you were so rude to me on the first day of college.”

He chuckles silently in relief, pulling her closer to him before placing his chin on her shoulder. “Think you’ll be able to write the ending now that you know what a kiss feels like?”

Hange laughs, and it vibrates against his shoulder as she hugs him tighter. “It’s exhilarating. I probably wouldn’t be able to put into words how good I feel that you like me back.”

“Try,” Levi teases.

“Well . . . you know that alternative title I wrote for the fictional novel?”

Levi’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “The keyboard smash?”

Hange nods. “Yeah. That’s exactly what I feel like right now.”

a;lskfjdk.

[libermachinae]

Night Shift

Also on AO3! Summary: Prowl and Jetfire analyze leads on a Decepticon smuggling operation, working together late into the night trying to find the missing connections. A sleep deprived slip of the tongue leads Prowl to revisiting old choices. Word Count: 2146

---

Prowl didn’t keep track of his chronometer this late in the night. Morning was inevitable, and he knew he could rely on a burst of messages from Orion to let him know when it had arrived. As such, he had no idea what hour it was when Jetfire broke through the productive silence.

“How did you come up with these predictions?” Jetfire asked. Worst of all, he was speaking with his mouth full, apparently too incensed by Prowl’s logic train to be bothered with common decency. “Every gun you’ve pulled in has been running on fumes; I’ve had to scrape the insides of the barrels just to figure out what they’re fueled on.”

The impressive thing about Jetfire was that even as a voice over the comms, he sounded like the biggest bot in the room. It wasn’t just that his voice was deep; Orion, who wasn’t that much taller than Prowl, had a voice you could feel through the floor panels. It was something about the way Jetfire talked, deliberate and straightforward, rarely stuttering even when caught off-guard. It was refreshing.

“I’ve outlined the logic process in my report. I won’t be repeating it,” Prowl said, scrolling back through his files.

“What are they teaching in the enforcer academy that reports don’t need to communicate anything?” Jetfire grumbled

It would be a reasonable estimate to say they spent 50% of these near nightly calls complaining about their targets, their coworkers, and the administration, and another 40% about each other. Prowl sat through them strictly as a matter of convenience, being a faster mode of communication than the intermittent data bursts preferred by the sanctioned enforcer agencies.

Having someone at the other end of the line also assisted the rust sticks and nucleon microcubes in staving off recharge protocols.

“It’s as I explained to Tumbler: it communicates everything I intended it to.” Ideally, very little to anyone who couldn’t have worked it out themselves. That way, the important information stayed with those who could actually use it, and the rest—

“Who’s Tumbler?”

Prowl lost his train of thought as the rest of his processor caught up to what the .5% he reserved for conversation had said. He froze, rust stick halfway to his mouth.

“No one,” he said.

“Okay.” Jetfire drew out the word. “Did he buy that line?”

No, of course not. Tumbler was always relentless about that sort of thing. His curiosity and drive could have lent to the makings of a detective or captain if he’d dedicated them more often to investigations and less on critiquing Prowl.

“He was young and failed to grasp the necessity of efficiency in our line of work.” Prowl had tried to be patient, but he’d been young too, and Tumbler was the first partner he’d had who would listen to him. Even if it was just to argue that Prowl’s opaque writing was the cause of their inefficiency.

“Hmph.”

Jetfire liked to intersperse their conversations with meaningless noises, and although Prowl needed more samples before he was certain of his explanation, he believed they meant Jetfire didn’t agree with something he’d said but was ending the discussion prematurely. It was illogical, leaving a matter unsettled for which a solution existed, but normally Prowl’s priority queues were ordered such that work came before ideological disagreements.

“What?” he asked, finally setting down the rust stick.

“You’re normally terrible with names,” Jetfire said without hesitation. “I’m just trying to imagine what a bot would have to be like to leave that much of an impression on you.”

“He was talented,” Prowl admitted.

“Do you keep in touch?”

“No.” Prowl straightened his back and flared his sensory panels, ready to move on. “It was not a practical partnership. Being together diminished our respective abilities and prevented us from fulfilling our responsibilities. It was for the betterment—”

“Hey, hold on, Prowl,” Jetfire said, his rolling voice enough to draw Prowl up short. “I know that you—but, you know what that sounds like, right?”

Prowl frowned, immediately recognizing Jetfire’s social theory tone.

“Pragmatism,” he said. “We can’t have everything we want in an ordered society. I—we did what Cybertron needed of us.”

“By disposing of a part of yourself?”

Tumbler hadn’t liked that explanation either.

“We weren’t conjunx.” And for very good reason. There were more important things in life than feelings or fleeting commitments, and it was idealists like Jetfire who—

“Just because it didn’t have a name doesn’t mean it wasn’t important.”

Prowl’s thoughts stumbled. He hadn’t expected Jetfire to say that, not because it was out of character but because he was right. That was the exact sentiment Prowl had tried to put to words maybe half a dozen times and now it was being turned on him like a spotlight.

“There are things that should never be sacrificed,” Jetfire went on. Prowl felt his silhouette thrown into sharp relief. “Things we’re worse off for letting go of.” He paused. “A while ago, I was made an offer: instant entry to the academies. No exams, no fees. Everything I’d ever wanted. In return, though, I would’ve had to give up my wings. My… sponsor, I guess, knew I had the processor for science, just not the frame. They asked for me to give up one part of myself to let the rest go free.”

Prowl shook his helm, leaning away from the speaker. Jetfire’s tone was the same one he occasionally used with Bumblebee. With Prowl, he was hard edges and warning lights. They weren’t this for each other. They didn’t do this.

“You were nearly the victim of a scam,” he said, searching blindly for familiar ground.

“I’m sure it seems that way,” Jetfire said, unperturbed. “Do you get it, though? Giving up any one piece would’ve meant tacit agreement with the Functionists, that I wasn’t fit to do my work in any form but what they prescribed. Even if I’d told myself it was for Cybertron, it really would’ve been a sacrifice in their honor, and nothing would ever be worth that.”

Prowl wasn’t entirely obtuse. He understood what Jetfire was saying, but he couldn’t afford to hear it, not with everything he had already done and the plans he had yet to set in motion. Maybe Jetfire had found a way to live that allowed him to maintain his idealistic commitments, but most mechanisms weren’t so lucky. Everyone had to give up something.

“And now you’re here, working on behalf of the Senate,” Prowl said, just to prove that point.

Jetfire made his noise again.

“Right, I forgot,” he said. Annoyed or frustrated: the usual feelings they brought out in each other. “Waste of time. Forget I said anything.”

Prowl wouldn’t, but he also wasn’t going to give Jetfire an excuse to keep pontificating.

It would have been a waste of their time, anyhow, because however sincere Jetfire was in his admission, Prowl had never understood the hypocrisy of bots who would claim to reject Functionism while maintaining an almost fanatical devotion to their frames. In some intangible sense, maybe he did enjoy the opportunity to go for a long drive, but he couldn’t imagine himself grieving his tires for their own sake. He tried to compare it to what he had felt when Tumbler had said going to Kaon was a selfish, pretentious idea and immediately recoiled.

“Results are exactly what I told you,” Jetfire said. Prowl realized he hadn’t gotten any work done in the last several kliks. “Not nearly the concentration of materials to support your theory the Decepticons have contacts in Uraya, and a few that will probably trace back to Kaon, like everything else.”

“I’d like to see for myself,” Prowl said, standing. He didn’t often get this badly distracted, and it was easy to pin it on the state of his desk: used energon cubes and wrappers from the cheap snacks he kept fueled on littered the spaces he should have been using for case notes and displays. When was the last time he’d cleaned?

“Really?” Jetfire asked. “The data’s pretty clear.”

“Humor me.”

“What do you think I’ve been doing?”

Neither said goodbye before they hung up: another of their customs.

Prowl cleared the mess into the trash. Exhaustion was nibbling at his processor like a corrosive. Another couple shots would get him through his morning meetings, and then a regular midday fueling would carry him over until he could recharge properly in the evening. Before that, though, the day had to begin, an event he discovered was closer than he’d expected when he stepped outside and saw the horizon just tilting toward the pale blue of an oncoming dawn.

The air was gentle, the pleasant cool that foreshadowed a blistering day. Jetfire was a dot over the Rodion skyline. Prowl glanced up at the few stars that could punch through the light pollution and was reminded, suddenly, of the time he and Tumbler had discussed getting a little patch of metal out on the Tungsten Moors. The barren sparkfields had felt nonetheless fertile with possibilities, and they had gotten hung up on whether it would be more practical to live in a house with two stories or just one. It had been a fantasy, nothing more; even on their joint income, it would have taken millions of years to save up. But there had been something, if not fulfilling, thrilling about it, making plans that didn’t hinge on work or promotions.

He wondered if Tumbler remembered that conversation.

Jetfire’s slow approach gave Prowl time to dwell while keeping an idle optic on his teammate. There was nothing spectacular about Jetfire’s flying: Prowl had worked with and chased down fliers who were faster, more maneuverable, and flashier in every way. But there was something resolute and sure about the way Jetfire coasted, a steadiness that Prowl would have appreciated sooner if he’d noticed it, his thoughts of Tumbler and past mistakes and pointless sacrifice sliding away as he watched Jetfire’s flight.

Jetfire’s flying was beautiful, in its own way. Its understatement reminded Prowl of his own assembly line colors, but with an underlying confidence that left Prowl feeling inadequate. Though technically strong, his power was limited to what he could siphon off Orion and their other high-level contacts. He’d experienced a taste of the real thing under Sentinel, but that had been an especially tenuous connection, liable to snap had he ever tugged too hard. Jetfire’s power was all his own. Not overwhelming, not enough to make the changes Cybertron needed. Incomparable, really, to what Prowl had wielded. But it radiated from the tips of his wings to the burn of his thrusters, self-realized, without reservation or concession.

Prowl’s tac net pinged him with the results for a problem he hadn’t realized he’d plugged in: 50% Prowl should have been strong enough to find another way, 50% choosing Tumbler would have made him stronger.

A perfect 50-50 meant his systems were badly in need of defrag. He cleared the cache and set his tac net to reboot, shaking his helm to dispel the resulting vertigo as Jetfire landed on the steps below him. Prowl waited patiently for him to complete his mode switch, taking two steps back so they would be at optic level with each other.

“Pleasant flight?” he asked.

“Wouldn’t trade it for anything,” Jetfire said with a smugness that allowed Prowl to scoff as he motioned for the datapad.

Jetfire handed it over. Prowl knew he was being watched as he powered it on and reviewed its contents, but he took his time, using Jetfire’s results to run through a few warm up calculations as his tac net came back online.

“You didn’t check for copper fluoride,” he commented.

“No,” Jetfire said slowly, “because it wasn’t one of the compounds we were investigating.”

“Run the tests again.” Prowl tried to return the datapad, but Jetfire refused to take it. “The chances we would find evidence of materials native to the Urayan region were always slim to none. However, the old blackmarket pipeline between Kaon and Yuss ran directly underneath the city. Does that make more sense?”

Prowl saw the moment Jetfire finally saw the case as he did, a knotted web of deceptions meant to dissuade even the most seasoned detective from untangling its core. Jetfire took the datapad from Prowl and stowed it, though the hard look in his optics did not waver.

“Could’ve said that from the beginning,” Jetfire griped.

Prowl didn’t bother to respond. What was done was done. Talking so much about the past was a waste of time neither of them could afford, because for all that it might have mattered, nothing they said could change any of it. All they had was the future, and the possibility of starting each day stronger than they had the one before.

[universemarvel]

The time Peter should have FIRST called Mr. Stark “Tony.”

By @universemarvel for @sdottkrames

Rating: general audiences

Relationships: Tony Stark & Peter Parker

Characters: Peter Parker & Tony Stark

Summary: an irondad one shot where Peter gets... hurt., and handles it in a Peter Parker Way™️. Tony is honestly just trying his best okay?!?

Part of the @friendly-neighborhood-exchange

Read on ao3 here

Or continue reading via tumblr here...

~

“Peter!”

The kid jumps and his head snaps towards his mentor. He smiles sheepishly. “Yes, Mr. Stark?”

“What are you doing?” Tony held his coffee mug up in front of his mouth in a poor attempt to hide the smile on his face.

Peter looked down to his messy table, which was occupied by empty blue and silver snack wrappers, drinks, and his Spider-Man suit, which he was currently scrubbing with a sponge. He picked up one of the wrappers that still had some did in it. “I’m... trying all the pop tart flavors,” he said, taking a bite out of the pastry.

“You feeling alright?” It’s not often he could walk up unnoticed upon Peter.

But Peter just smiled. “A little lightheaded from the sugar rush, but otherwise fine;” his smile disappeared as quickly as it had come. “Why?”

Tony rolled his eyes. “Why are you scrubbing your suit with a sponge? I’m sure there’s a dishwashing machine somewhere in this building,” he finally revealed his smile.

Peter’s eyebrows scrunched together. “Is the suit dishwasher safe? Because that would actually be great.”

Tony laughed. “I’m not answering that. What happened? And please don’t tell me you’re hand scrubbing your multi-million dollar suit because you forgot to put on deodorant.”

Pink painted Peter’s cheeks as he smiled and shook his head. “No, I just got something on it and it stinks. Do you want to smell it?” He offered the suit up, and Tony took a step back reflexively.

“No thanks, kiddo, I’m rather enjoying my coffee at the moment. However, I do have a decontamination gadget for a reason, so let’s throw it in there for a few hours so we can go back upstairs for dinner. That is, if you’re still hungry after eating New York’s entire stock of pop tarts.”

“Of course I’m hungry,” Peter smiled, “and if your cleany-box doesn’t work, can we try the dishwasher?”

“Absolutely not.”

__________

After dinner, the pair found themselves scrolling through Netflix. Peter’s lightheadedness from earlier had slowly been developing into a headache, but he didn’t want to bother Tony with it.

He didn’t feel like watching a movie, which he figured was a red flag, but he picked a Star Wars movie to avoid raising suspicion.

“Are you sure?” Tony’s voice pulled Peter from his attempts to distract himself from his headache.

“Am I sure...about what?”

Tony eyed him suspiciously, and Peter tried to think of what he did that was out of the ordinary so he could reverse it.

“Are you sure you’re feeling okay?” Tony squinted his eyes.

“Of course.”

“Correction-“ his mentor rolled his eyes; “do you have any pain at all?”

Peter shook his head, still trying to figure out what his giveaway behavior was. “Why?”

Tony crossed his arms. “Because we watched this movie last night.”

Peter’s breath caught, and he reached for a lie. He shrugged. “I feel like you didn’t appreciate it enough the first time.” His mind replayed the evening before. “Aaand you fell asleep, so technically you can’t say you watched it last night.”

Tony’s mouth was still pressed in a thin line, revealing his doubts, but he just shook his head. “Okay,” he gave in, “but don’t make me regret this.”

Peter smiled, hoping the well-known noises from the familiar film would minimize his headache’s growth.

__________

Still in the process of waking up, he was glad the room was so nice and quiet. He knew he was still at the tower because it was always loud at his apartment. His headache was gone, and realizing he was in his room at the tower, he wondered with a start how he’d gotten back here from the living room; he figured he must’ve been pretty tired last night to have been so out of it.

He waits for the noises of the tower to reach him, but they don’t. He sits up quickly, somehow quietly. Too quietly. He looks down at the sheets, and runs his hands back and forth on them. He can’t hear them, and his eyes widen. He can see his chest is moving quicker with his increased breathing pace, but he can’t hear that either.

He brings his fingers to his ears and snaps.

Nothing. He tries again, watching his hand this time to make sure he snaps correctly, still nothing.

He feels true panic swell up in his chest, and jumps out of bed. He rushes to put a shirt and a pair of pants on, and the silence of his movements scares him; he feels like he’s watching a movie on mute, except he’s never not heard at least his own breathing. He opened the door, and paused; the silence of the hallway greeted him like a wave, rushing into his head with an overwhelming ringing he feels rather than hears.

It hurts.

On second thought, he closed the bedroom door again, shutting himself off from the hallway. It had to have been whatever chemical was on the suit. The suit which was now decontaminated and as clean as it had been new. How helpful would it be going to Mr. Stark without any information? Maybe if he could retrace his steps from yesterday, he could find out what the chemical was. He glanced at the clock, and saw it was 7:15. Tony wouldn’t be awake for several hours still, so Peter could get a head start until then. If all went well, Peter could even analyze the sample and neutralize it before Tony was up for his usual weekend 11 am breakfast.

__________

Peter made it to the spot he’d been sprayed by the bad-smelling stuff by 8 o’clock. He landed, slowly turning around to assess the area. It was a bright alleyway, lit from the morning sun’s reflection off a nearby skyscraper, but was still secluded and generally ignored by passerby’s due to it being a dead end street, blocked off by a wall of brick apartment.

He realized that he hadn’t said anything to Karen, who had no doubt been talking to him since he put the mask on; he wondered what she had been saying, and felt partly guilty for what was probably perceived as him ignoring her.

He didn’t want to tell her he couldn’t hear, however, for fear of some hidden protocol that would alert Tony, so he did his best to try to sound natural, a difficult task given that he couldn’t hear himself.

“Hey Karen,” he said, and paused. What did she normally say to him? Ask him how he was doing? How he slept? She would have for sure commented that she was glad to see him, but her usual trail of discussion had probably been derailed by the fact that he hadn’t acknowledged anything she’d said throughout the entire trip thus far.

“Sorry for ignoring you,” he said after giving her a chance to talk, “everything’s fine, I���m just trying to find something. Here. For Mr. Stark.”

He waited a beat, hoping he wasn’t cutting her off or waiting too long to respond, but honestly he had no idea.

“Could you help me find any synthetic chemicals on the walls or ground here? I’m looking for the stuff I got sprayed with yesterday.”

If she replied, he didn’t know, but he was glad to see diagnostics pull up as Karen began to highlight a plethora of invisible substances in the environment around him. With each one that pulled up, Karen did a quick calculation as to what it was.

He scanned his surroundings; urine, vomit, urine, blood, urine, some more urine, a few unidentifiable splotches, but he could tell from their location and position that they weren’t what he was looking for.

His shoulders slumped forwards, and he frowned.

He saw a shadow grow forward into the alleyway, and jumped around in a twist to see what was there. It was just a garbage truck, but the fact that it was now looming over him in the alleyway without him knowing it was even there still had his blood running cold. He jumped onto the wall and started climbing. Halfway up, Tony’s face appeared on his display. He realized it was an incoming call, and too late requested, “Karen don’t answer!” As the call connected through.

He couldn’t hear anything of course, and knowing Tony was currently talking to him made his breath quicken. Also the fact that it wasn’t even 9 am, which was early — and therefore abnormal, for Tony.

“Hi Mr. Stark,” he greeted as happily as he could. “I’m, uh, climbing up this wall at the moment, can I, uh, can I call you back later?”

He hoped Mr. Stark said yes, and he wished he’d have video called so Peter could see his expression and attempt to read his lips, but he couldn’t. Instead he quickly exhaled “Karen, hang up,” and watched as the call disconnected. He climbed onto the roof, and hoped that Karen’s compliance to hang up meant that Tony hadn’t said anything too important. Besides, Peter should probably head back to the tower anyways to start figuring out what was wrong.

Now that he was on the roof, however, he was met with another wave of panic as the view of the skyline met him. He looked at the silent scene of a busy New York City morning, down the streets where he knew cars were still honking, people were talking, phones were ringing, and kids were yelling while they played on their weekend, a morning free from school. He knew it was going on, and he was missing it. Sure, this was every day for a lot of people, but he was Spider-Man. His job required his ears.

As if to prove his point, his spider sense flared up, and he fell to the ground. He looked around, not knowing why or where it had come from, but he didn’t see anything. Was he even the one in danger, or was it alerting him that someone else needed his help? After nothing happened for another moment, he ran to the side of the building and looked down. The scene he saw was normal, people walking, cars driving, even the alleyway he had come from was clear. His spider sense was still pulsing though, so he ran to the next side of the rooftop, frantically looking towards the street.

His eyes immediately found the scene, a car crash. It had just happened, and he wondered if he’d have been able to prevent it if he’d been able to hear. He didn’t know if they’d crashed before or after he’d felt the warning, although experience told him it was the latter. He swung down to the scene, and saw the driver open their door and fall out of the car. He ran up to her, seeing the passenger seat was empty, and helped her to her feet.

“Are you alright ma’am?” He asked, and not seeing any blood on her or problem with standing on her own, he thought so. Except her expression was still extremely worried, and she was talking, yelling maybe, but Peter couldn’t tell what she was saying. She then stumbled forward. Peter caught her, confused as to what she was going on for. She had just been in a motor vehicle accident, after all, so maybe a bit of odd behavior could be expected? He wished he could hear her to be sure.

She pointed back to the car. He looked, but didn’t see anything in the seats, besides boxes that had fallen in the back; other people were approaching the car now, too, trying to open the crushed back door. His spider sense was still calling, and he wondered what was in the back that could be dangerous. What everyone but him currently knew of. He turned back to face the woman, but she just grabbed his arm with a grip that told him that Something was Not OK and brought him around to the back, tears on her face now. The driver of the other vehicle ran up to them, saying something, before turning and walking anxiously with them. Confused, Peter cautiously followed them to the car, pushing past other people.

He suddenly saw behind the boxes in the back seat that there was a baby car seat, spider-sense screaming, and he was pretty sure he cursed out loud. He darted past the woman, pushed past the small, struggling crowd, and tugged the jammed car door, ripping if half off its hinges. He pushed the boxes out of the way to get to the baby. He tore the seatbelt in half to let the car seat loose, and handed the entire seat to the woman.

He glanced at the baby, happy and relieved to see her alive— crying but unharmed, and he let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. The mother unbuckled her, smiling now, and seeing that the scene was okay to go on without him, Peter left.

He swung away, away to a rooftop surrounded by nothing but open sky, and crumpled to the ground.

His spider-sense didn’t stop. He didn’t feel safe anymore. His chest tightened, and he felt like his airway was closing. He closed his eyes tightly and focused on breathing in, slowly, breathing out, slowly. Repeating it. His fingers dug into the rough artificial ground.

Someone could be screaming right next to him, and he wouldn’t even know it.

He could see something flashing even through his closed eyelids, and opened his eyes to see this at his display had changed.

Next to a transparent box showing his elevated vital signs, Mr. Stark’s concerned face was on the screen. He said something, but Peter shook his head.

“I can’t hear you, Mr. Stark,” he said, hoping his voice was louder than a whisper, “I can’t hear you.”

Tony frowned, typing something on his screen and saying something else Peter hoped wasn’t supposed to be directed at him, and at once a new message popped up on the screen, all systems online and functioning correctly.

Peter just shook his head again. “I’ll be right there,” he said, “I’m heading back to the tower now. Please meet me there, please.” And he hung up before Tony could try to tell him something again.

He had to take four breaks on his short trip back to the tower, just to breathe. He felt like he was dying, but he hadn’t been hit by anything, so he couldn’t be. It painfully reminded him of an asthma attack like those he used to have pre-powers.

But, unlike those past times when he wouldn’t have even been able to stand, every time he caught his breath even just enough to stand up again, he forced himself to keep going. He was so afraid to see someone get hurt, or worse, without him being there to prevent it from happening. His never relenting spider-sense made him feel like people were getting hurt around him; it made him feel blind, like he couldn’t see things he knew were there.

It wasn’t even 10 am when he arrived back at the tower, but Peter fell into the tower window, gasping. He saw Mr. Stark stand up in surprise at Peter on the floor, before rushing over to him. Peter pushed himself up so he was sitting, and ripped off his mask. He felt the tears on his face and didn’t know how long he’d been crying for. He just wished he could hear the voice of his mentor as he stopped in front of him.

Peter reached forward and grabbed his shirt, seeing that the man was trying to talk to him.

Peter cried, “I can’t hear, Mr. Stark; I can’t hear you.”

Mr. Stark pulled him to his feet, touching Peter’s chin so that Peter could see his face, and tried to say something else. Peter shook his head. “I can’t hear you,” he repeated, “I can’t— I can’t hear anything.”

Mr. Stark pulled Peter into a hug, where they stayed until Peter could feel his heart rate slow and his breathing calm down. He pulled away to wipe his eyes. Mr. Stark gently took his arm and led him into the lab, where he handed Peter a metal device shaped like a pencil. He pressed a button and a nearly (but not quite) opaque holographic blank screen popped up in Peter’s face out of the long side of the not-pencil, making a sort of hand-held paper in Peter’s hand.

Suddenly the words, “can you understand me now?” Typed into the screen, and Peter looked up. Tony said something else, and the words, “it usually works pretty well, just let me know if something doesn’t make sense” appeared. Peter raised a confused and interested eyebrow.

“This is neat,” he said curiously. “Why do you have this?”

Tony shrugged, and started speaking. Then, “It’s not the first time I’ve had deaf friends hanging out in the tower, you know.” Peter didn’t know that, but didn’t ask further. Whoever it was had his respect, though.

“So do you have any clues?” Tony’s question popped up on the holographic tablet.

Peter shrugged. “Pretty sure it was whatever I got sprayed with last night.”

“Makes sense. You were pretty out of it yesterday you slept through most of the movie and didn’t even wake up when I carried you to bed.” Peter scrunched his eyebrows at the image.

Tony went on. “When did it kick in?”

Peter cocked his head to the side; “what do you mean?”

“What time did your hearing go away this morning?”

Peter shrugged. “Sometime last night.”

He looked at the screen, then at Tony when nothing appeared. Tony was staring at him with an expression Peter had seen before, usually when he’d done something wrong.

Tony spoke, and Peter was for once glad he had good reason to look away to understand him.

“So. You woke up. Your first morning missing a pretty important sense. And decided to go out as the crime-fighting, life-saving, danger-seeking Spider-Man?”

Peter didn’t know if the punctuation on the screen was intentional, but it helped give him an idea of how Tony sounded.

“Ummm, not exactly,” he replied, keeping his eyes on the screen; it was weird talking and not hearing your own voice, and Peter partially wondered if he was talking too loud. “I went to see if I could find a sample of whatever was in the, uh, the spray.”

Tony turned to the table beside him and pushed a button. Silent videos from social media popped up of Spider-Man helping a woman to her feet, then pulling a baby from a crushed car. He had to admit that even without sound, he looked a little lost.

He glanced back at Tony, he was now looking at him skeptically.

Peter shrugged. “I got distracted.”

Tony rolled his eyes, but Peter could see a hint of a smile on his face. He thought he was going to say something but instead he walked around the table to where Peter normally sat, grabbed a paper towel, then reached under the table and grabbed a yellow cube from the trash can.

Not a cube. The sponge from last night, that Peter had used to try and scrub the suit clean. Tony held it up expectantly.

A sample.

“Oh.”

Movement on the tablet caught his attention. “Oh indeed,” Tony said.

____________

They had the chemical’s composition within the hour. They had the antidote by lunch. They were waiting for FRIDAY to make the dose needed, when Peter saw Tony laugh.

“What?” Peter hadn’t said anything, and he looked around to find out what he was laughing at.

Tony’s words appeared, “I think it’s time for lunch. Friday tell us when the dose is ready.”

He laughed again. The words, “sure thing boss” followed on the screen.

Peter frowned. “Why is that funny?”

Tony smiled. “Because your stomach growling is more reliable than my alarm clock.”

Peter rolled his eyes, glancing down at his abdomen. “Traitor,” he jokingly accused.

____________

FRIDAY had the dose ready sooner than expected, so Peter brought the rest of his PB&J down to the lab with him.

He’d forgotten the talk-to-text tablet upstairs, so he didn’t hear anything Tony said and hoped there weren’t any urgent special instructions when Tony handed him a glass of blueish liquid.

Peter raised an eyebrow. “I just drink it?” Tony nodded and opened a can of sprite, leaning it forward for a toast. Peter tapped the cups, and they both drank. Peter made a scrunched face at the nasty taste after emptying the glass, closing his eyes as he coughed.

“So I’m guessing it wasn’t blue raspberry flavored?” Tony asked.

Peter shook his head and coughed, but froze when he realized he’d heard the question. He opened his eyes to see Tony smiling in front of him.

“We did it Mr. Stark!” Peter exclaimed, his voice sounding wayy too loud in his head.

“We did it,” Tony replied, and Peter visibly flinched.

“Everything’s so loud,” he said quietly.

Tony’s smile faded a little. “Hm.” He spoke softly, “whatchya say we stay in for the rest of the day and watch movies with the sound turned way down low?”

Peter grinned, “I’d love that, but then you won’t be able to hear it!”

Tony put his fists on his hips in mock anger, “are you saying I’m old?”

Peter laughed. “Maybe in spider years.”

Tony rolled his eyes and smiled. “That’s what I thought. Now, what’re we watching? And please don’t make me watch that same movie for the third time in a row. There’s only a certain number of times I can listen to the jar jar lizard, and we’ve already exceeded that.”

“Okay. So how about that old movie Predator?”

“Okay, now you are calling me old.”

“Of course, now that I can hear your reaction.”

 

____________

30 minutes, 2 buckets of popcorn, and 1 pizza later, the duo finds themselves back upstairs on the couch, working on pulling up Predator with subtitles for Tony.

“So,” Tony began, “going back to that topic of reactions. How about I add this: don’t go out when you’re injured, as if that’s a new rule. Or impaired in some way. And if something like this happens again, come to me first. Please.”

Peter smirked. “Of course.”

“Nuh-uh, I need a stronger promise than that, bud. I don’t feel reassured at all.”

Peter sobered up, then. “Okay,” he said, “I will. Seriously. I was so scared.”

“Me too, Kid. Me too.”

“I thought I’d never hear you again. Or anything.”

“Aw, you’d miss hearing me?”

Peter rolled his eyes. “Just the good stuff.”

“Like how much I care about you? And how great you are? And I’m so glad you’re my kid?”

Peter’s eyebrows shot up before he could stop them. He quickly turned it into a frown as if contemplating something. “Nah, I was thinking more about the times when you’re like, ‘do you want food?’ Or, ‘here’s some pizza,’ is a good one, too.”

Tony narrowed his eyes at Peter, who grinned. “But that other stuff you were saying is nice, too,” Peter added, feeling a blush rise in his cheeks.

“I’m glad you think so,” Tony replied, “because I mean it.”

“Oh,” Peter responded.

“Oh indeed,” Tony replied with a smile Peter could hear in his voice.

The movie started, and Peter rested his head into Tony’s side.

“I care about you too, Mr. Stark,” Peter said quietly. He knew Tony could easily hear over the movie’s volume. “And I’m really glad you’re here for me and that you’re my, uh, my mentor. Well, and like a father figure person, too.”

Tony wrapped his arm around Peter.

“Glad to hear it, Peter. You make a really great kid, you know. And I’ll always be here for you.”

”Thanks, Tony. And you make a really great dad.”

______________

______________

[ashdumpsterpile]

ao3

It’s a sexy, sexy day when Beckett gets her promotion to the Cerritos.

She’s been a lower decks officer on the USS Vulker for six slutty years and it’s been the closest thing to paradise that she’s experienced since that time Marvin tried to snort Dorito dust and ended up summoning an ancient wish giving god when he sneezed it out on an alien substance Dr. L’Vertiss was analyzing as a possible cure for the parasites that were infecting the Academy.

Being a lower decks officer meant three things: contraband, causal hookups and constant disrespect of Starfleet Protocol. Everything Beckett wanted in a career. Fortunately, the Vulker was the bottom of the barrel when it came to starships, so they weren’t exactly looking too close to her record. Which was fine by Beckett, who was trying to fly under the radar ever since her mother had demoted her so hard, she’d ended up on a whole other ship, quadrants away from the Cerritos.

Thanks Mom.

So anyway, it’s a sexy, sexy day when her mother calls her, mainly because she’d just gotten out of alien jail and gotten a cool tat out of the deal, but also because she hasn’t heard for her mother in a while and, okay, maybe she misses her just a little bit. Even if she’s probably calling for Not Good Reasons.

Beckett flips her comm open and steels herself to get yelled at for whatever.

“I’m retiring,” are not the words Beckett is expecting. She squints suspiciously at her comm, vaguely concerned that a shapeshifter has replaced her mom.

“No, you’re not.”

“Yes I am.”

“I’m pretty sure you’re not.”

“Beckett—”

“You love being Captain and sitting in the chair and telling Ransom to stop giving himself sexy eyes in every reflective surface! Why would you retire?”

Her mom pinches the bridge of her nose, looking tired. “This is why I wanted to tell you in person—”

“Tell me what in person—”

“—Shaxs is dead.”

Beckett stops walking. Blinks down at her comm. Once. Twice. “What.”

“So is half the crew. This is less of me retiring and more of me…cutting my losses before Starfleet officially demotes my ass.”

Beckett’s day is slowly turning into an unsexy day. “And you’re just letting them!? You’ve been a Captain for what—”

“Beck—”

“Fifteen years and a Starfleet Officer for even longer! They can’t demote you—”

“They can and they will. Look,” Mom sighs. “They’re putting together a new crew as soon as the Cerritos is given the clear. There’s barely anyone left from the main crew who even wants to stay after this mess.”

“What happened?”

“That’s classified,” Mom says, which Beckett takes to mean hack my official report if you want to know. “And don’t go digging for it,” she adds.

Beckett resists pouting, only because the situation is so. Weirdly serious.

“I’m not calling you because of that, however. Ransom is being transferred to the Titan. It’s only thanks to his initiative and Officer Boimler’s quick thinking that we’re even alive right now.”

The sound of the warp core, buzzing in the background, seems too loud, all of the sudden. Beckett swallows, feeling sick.

“Officer Boimler is being promoted to Captain. I’ve recommended you as his First Officer.”

Beckett doesn’t realize she’s laughing until she starts choking from it. A group of ensigns, clustered at the end of the hallway she’s standing in, give her weird looks before quickly vacating the area.

“That,” she says, once she’s caught her breath, “is the dumbest fucking idea I’ve ever heard.”

Mom gives Beckett her Captain™ face.

“I’m an ensign. Lower decks. Bottom of the barrel.” Beckett continues, grinning. “Not officer material.”

“Top of your class. Present in the Dominion War. Only gets demoted because she cares more about people than rules.” Mom gives a smug smile. “Perfect match for the Cerritos.”

There’s a weird, hot pressure in the corner of Beckett’s eyes. “Mom.”

“Boimler has a stick up his ass, he could use someone who loosens him up a little. Pays less attention to protocol,” Mom adds.

Beckett shakes her head, smiling. “I’d give him a heart attack a week in.”

“I’m counting on it. At least think about it, will you? And for god’s sake, go shower. I can see the filth on you, light years away.”

Beckett laughs, but this time it’s real. “Yeah Mom, I will.” Then, “I’m glad you like. Didn’t die or whatever.”

Mom rolls her eyes. “Thank you, problem child. So am I. I’ll take to you later.”

The connection blacks out, leaving Beckett staring at her own dim reflection in the screen.

She does look like shit. Maybe a shower isn’t a bad idea after all.

_____

The letter stays in her inbox for six unslutty days before she finally clicks on it. Turns out, even though Mom is no longer a Captain, her recommendation must’ve meant something because there it is, a nice, shiny, transfer request.

It’s signed Captain Brad Boimler and that is where Beckett draws the line because she is not working for someone named Brad.

Maybe if you had been on the Cerritos, Shaxs wouldn’t have died, a snide voice sounds in her brain. Beckett immediately shuts that voice down because that’s fucked up and she didn’t go through four years of Starfleet mandated therapy to still be fucked up.

(She’s still kinda fucked up, but that’s okay.)

Dad finally starts spamming her inbox—and she really wants to know how Mom got him on her side, they’ve barely spoken since the divorce—so Beckett, with great reluctance, reviews the transfer request again.

It’s bullshit.

“This is bullshit,” she tells Dad.

“I know, but if I have to get one more message from your mother, demanding why you haven’t taken the position—”

“Okay, fine I’ll do it, but only because I want to see why Mom promoted Brad to Captain.”

_____

Mom either promoted Brad to Captain because he was that good of a suck up or because his hair is super distracting. Either way, Beckett is two seconds away from saying fuck this shit and demoting her own ass back to the Vulker.

He walked through the door like a minute ago and she’s already had him pegged. His clothes are neatly pressed, hair perfectly coiffed, and his hands nervously flutter around, as if he’s unsure what he should be doing with them. He can’t have been an officer longer than a few months before he was promoted Captain, that’s for sure. Beckett literally has no idea what Mom was thinking when she gave him the chair.

She waves him down toward her table.

Brad takes one look at her unbuttoned collar, nonregulation boots, and unkempt hair and sighs. “Captain Freeman recommended you?” his voice is disbelieving.

“That’s the word, my dude.” Beckett leans back, eyeing him over the half empty glass of whiskey she’s been nursing. “Captain Brad, take a seat,” she says, in her Serious voice.

Captain Brad sits across from her. “It’s Captain Boimler, actually.”

“Brad’s fine.”

His eye twitches. “Officer Mariner—”

“Ensign,” she interrupts, cheerfully.

Brad pauses. Blinks. She gestures to the single pin in her collar.

“Oh. Wait. What?”

“Yeah, I was lower decks on the Vulker before Captain Freeman emotionally blackmailed me into meeting with you.”

She snaps her fingers at the bartender and gestures toward Brad while she waits for the man in question to process the fact that a lower decks ensign was being offered a First Officer promotion.

It, surprisingly, takes only a few seconds before he bounces back. “I didn’t have time to look at your file,” he admits, sounding a bit frustrated. “I’m usually more on top of my work but—”

“Don’t sweat it, Bradthaniel. If you’d read my file, I seriously doubt you’d have agreed to meet with me.”

He raises an eyebrow. “You kill an Admiral or something?”

“Or something,” she agrees, mind flashing back to all of the redacted and classified sections of her file. The bartender places a glass of purple liquid in front of Brad and refills Beckett’s drink. Beckett salutes him lazily with her glass. “I’m more interested in you. How’d you land a captaincy at, what, twenty-six?”

“Twenty-nine,” he grits out, as if that still isn’t weirdly young to be that high in the chain of command. “How’d you get Freeman to recommend you?”

“Oh, I didn’t,” she flips her ponytail obnoxiously. “She called me.”

“Sure.”

“What, am I not ‘First Officer Material?’” she mocks, wrapping finger-quotes around her words.

He rolls his eyes. “No offense—”

“Complete offense already taken—”

“But you are the least promotable person I’ve ever met.”

Beckett grins. “Now you’re getting it. We got a Bridge Crew yet?”

“I—” he blinks at her for a moment. “I’m still trying to put the rest of the Bridge Crew together, but it’s been insane lining up schedules and—”

“Leave it to me.”

“Wait, what?”

“That’s my job. You manage me, I manage the crew. I’m basically a glorified secretary now.”

Brad looks like he’s seeing an error screen in front of his eyes. “So, you’re taking the job,” he concludes, voice hilariously defeated.

“Someone needs to make sure my M—uh, Captain Freeman’s ship doesn’t blow up.”

“I handled it fine the first time.” He rolls his eyes carelessly, which kind of pisses her off.

She gives him a smile. Knows it doesn’t reach her eyes. “Tell that to the 567 casualties.”

His face goes very pale. An incredible feat considering his already milky complexion. She can’t tell if he’s angry or about to cry. “Shut up. You weren’t even there, how would you know—"

“Yeah, you were there, so why the fuck didn’t you do something?” she hisses. All she can see is Shaxs’ scarred face in the back her head. She’d been a pain in the Bridge Crew’s asses, but most of them had been genuinely upset when she’d been transferred.

“You’re a pain in my ass, but you’ve got guts,” Shaxs had admitted once, looking impressed, which was his way of saying you’re fucking adopted go do 200 pushups.

Beckett has seen a lot of death in her 26 years, but this one hurts because this is her Mom’s family. Half of them are dead and she wasn’t there and fucking Brad was.

Fucking Brad is still staring at her, eyes unreadable, mouth set in a hard line. He snatches up the file and flips it open, fingers deftly shuffling through the printed-out paper documents she’d complied last night. “I’m overseeing ship repairs tomorrow. 0500 hours. Be there.”

“Wait what?” Beckett hears herself say, aware that she’s gaping at him.

“I’ll have to run these through background checks before I can approve them for transfer, and I’d like to meet with them in person before I make any decisions.”

“Dude.”

“What,” he snaps, eyes meeting hers defiantly.

“You’re seriously approving my transfer?”

“Do you not want me to?” his brow furrows in confusion.

“You called me the ‘least promotable person’ like ever! I just like insulted the fuck out of you!” she whisper-shrieks. “You’re supposed to get mad and tell me to fuck off back to whatever corner of the galaxy Freeman dragged my ass out of, not make me your First Fucking Officer.”

“Well I’m not. Congratulations First Officer Mariner, you’re expected to report for duty—”

“Oh fuck you—”

“On the Cerritos three weeks from now during her relaunch.”

Beckett is on the verge of stabbing this bastard in the eye with his own stylus. “But why?”

Brad pauses, halfway out of his seat, hands still clenched tightly around the file. “Why what?”

“Don’t be fucking coy, why are you approving my transfer, you absolute nugget,” she hisses.

“Captain Freeman recommended you.”

“Are you seriously that much of a suck up—”

“The Cerritos isn’t that great of a starship, but Captain Freeman is a good captain,” Brad interrupts. “We went through some real shit together. She didn’t deserve what happened to her. The least I can do is honor her last request.”

And with that, Brad stands up and sweeps out of the bar.

“Dramatic exits are my thing!” she shouts after him.

_____

She’s pissed, mostly because Brad had the actual audacity to approve her transfer, but also because how fucking dare he be an actual nice person?

Okay, maybe not a nice person, she decides, as she crawls out of bed at 4 fucking thirty am. Morning people are hell spawn, but he’s a decent person.

Whatever, it’s not as if she’s going to start liking him or trying to be his friend or whatever.

“If it doesn’t work out, I can get myself demoted in like two days,” she decides, out loud, tying her hair out of her eyes. Her reflection stares back at her, tired.

So of course, Brad is annoyingly awake.

“Of course you’re a fucking morning person,” she mutters, falling into step behind him.

“Haven’t had your coffee yet?” he snips back, eyes glued to his data padd.

She glares at his back, but makes no comment.

By the time Beckett is fully awake and functioning, she’s already dissociated three separate times and had a mini panic attack twice.

The ship is FUCKED.

The primary hull has been completely ripped apart, like something took a large bite out of the side, and both propulsion units are missing. Beckett peaks over Brad’s shoulder and gets a good look at the interior damage.

“You guys ejected the warp core?” she shrieks in his ear. “Dude that is so badass.”

Brad jumps and pushes her off him. “Wha—get off me, what are you doing—”

Beckett snatches the padd away from him and begins to rapidly scan through the damage reports. “Shit, it’s going to take weeks before we’re back in space. What’s the ETA on getting a new core in? Oooh, we should also add reflective panels, I hear the Enterprise is so bright, nothing ever gets done on there.”

Brad snatches his padd back. “Yeah, I think we can pass on that one.”

“You’re no fun.”

“Being a Starfleet Officer isn’t supposed to be fun—although I do find enjoyment in managing and organizing information—”

“Oh yawn, you’re a pencil pusher.”

“Did you just say ‘yawn’ out loud?”

“Do you need your hearing checked, Captain Brad?”

“It’s Boimler,” he hisses.

“Captain Boimler Brad,” she corrects, easily.

He stomps off, all huffy, but whatever. It’s not her fault Captain Brad doesn’t have a sense of humor.

_____

It takes about a month for the Cerritos to get back into working condition. Beckett would be impressed with how quickly Starfleet is able to get her back in commission, except for the fact that, well. It’s Starfleet. They’re great at what they do, even if what they do isn’t so great.

By then she’s already sent her Dad over seventeen furious voicemails and threatened her mother with six different kinds of legal action if she doesn’t “pick up her goddamn fucking comm.”

Mom does pick up her call and she does agree to meet with her.

“This is bullshit,” she says, after hugging the ever-living shit out of her favorite parent. “I can’t believe you’re making me do this.”

Mom rolls her eyes. It’s like looking in a mirror. “Kiddo, I’ve never been able to make you do anything.”

This was probably true, but Beckett needs someone to blame. “He’s worse than you. Or Dad. Mom he likes paperwork. He’s a morning person. Yesterday he asked me my opinion on the Oxford comma.”

Mom makes a complicated face. Beckett suspects she’s trying not to laugh. “That does sound like Boimler,” she admits, sighing. “Please tell me you’re playing nice.”

Beckett decides not to tell her about the whole “I was a bitch to him because I have no idea how to grieve” deal. “Hey, I can be nice.”

“Hmm.”

“Okay, maybe I’m giving him a hard time, but come on! You could have chosen anyone to promote. Hell, you should have picked Ransom, not transferred him!”

“Ransom doesn’t have the head to make tough calls.”

“And Brad does?”

Mom gives her a look that says she knows something Beckett doesn’t. Beckett hates that look. “I think he knows what he’s doing when he forgets he’s in charge.”

“What the fuck does that mean?”

“It means give him a chance before you decided to drop him in a wormhole,” is the dry response she’s given.

Beckett makes no promises.

_____

The Cerritos leaves Starbase 375 on an uneventful day. About eighty percent of the original crew has been completely replaced, most notably, the Bridge Crew. Senior staff is now complied of Officer’s Captain Freeman had promoted before her resignation, but there’s are a few that Beckett herself has recommended. Seems like Brad had actually taken a look at the file.

Beckett takes her seat next to Captain Brad and prepares herself for the madness that’s going to commence from being First Officer on the lamest ship in Starfleet.

The Cerritos has been in deep space for three boring, uneventful weeks.

The only fun Beckett has found in any of it is by torturing Brad. And she’s not even trying! Beckett just has one of those personalities that rubs well-organized people the wrong way. Yes, sometimes she thrives off chaos, and yeah she does things in her own time, but it’s just who she is.

Brad doesn’t seem to appreciate any of her suggestions, calling most of them illegal and dangerous and being all shouty about it.

He’s also a huge stickler for regulations and shit. It’s way, way worse than working with Mom. Beckett’s about to start climbing walls from the sheer boredom of being a First Officer. The only thing she does anymore is sleep, paperwork and fight with Brad, rinse, repeat.

And then she meets Lieutenant D’Vana Tendi.

The first thing Beckett thinks when she runs into the hyperactive Orion is that if Dr. T’Ana had retired along with the rest of the senior crew, Tendi could have easily picked up the mantle. The girl’s a fucking prodigy, mad scientist level of genius.

The second thing Beckett thinks when she meets Tendi is I am way gayer than I thought I was.

“Hey, you’re Mariner!” Tendi chirps, excitedly bouncing up to her. Dr. T’Ana, who had been discussing something medical and boring with the Orion, groans and stomps off the minute she lays eyes on Beckett. Which, rude. Beckett didn’t want to talk to her anyway.

“Oh nice, my reputation proceeds me,” Beckett grins, brushing off her hurt. “As does yours, Lieutenant Tendi.”

Tendi’s cheeks turn a little blue.

There’s an amused snort behind her. “Already flirting with the locals, Mariner?” a familiar voice dryly asks.

Beckett’s mouth drops open. “Rutherford?”

Rutherford, who was messing anxiously with a cyber implant over his eye that he definitely did not have three years ago, grins at her. “Long time, no see!”  

Tendi whirls around. “You know Mariner?”

“She used to be lower decks with me,” he explains.

“Yeah, back in the day,” Beckett agrees, examining her nails. “It was pretty badass.”

Rutherford snorts and gives her a look which clearly conveys I know why you were transferred dumbass. Beckett gives him a look back and hopes it communicates to shut the fuck up.

“You driving Boimler crazy yet?” Rutherford asks, instead of spilling her dirty secrets.

Tendi does this cute snort/giggle thing behind her Padd. “Like you haven’t been present for his ‘daily complain about Marin—‘”

Rutherford lightly kicks Tendi who quite promptly shuts up.

Beckett frowns suspiciously at them.

“Anyway, it’s great to see you Mariner!” Rutherford continues. “Congrats on making First Officer by the way,” he adds in a tone of voice that implies that she will be telling him exactly how she had landed the position later.

“I guess my record speaks for itself.” Beckett smirks.

“Uh hu,” he eyes her disbelievingly. “See you at the bar after our shifts?”

Beckett sighs. “I’ll have to pass. Brad gave me so much fucking paperwork to do that I’ll never get a day off again.”

“Look at you following the rules!” Rutherford punches the air. “I knew you had it in you. I guess I’ll see you around!” He hops off the bio-bed and heads off toward Engineering.

Tendi frowns after him. “At least he still sounds like himself, right?”

That’s a weird thing to say. “Huh?”

The Orion blinks up at her, startled. “Oh, you don’t know? He was in an accident. Full year of his memory completely wiped. He remembers Brad, and you, I guess, but.” She looks down, defeated.

“Oh.” Beckett feels squeamish at the sudden emotion present in the conversation. “That, uh, that really sucks.”

“Yeah.” Tendi shakes herself. “Well, enough buffer time, I’d better get back to work. It was great meeting you, Mariner!”

“Likewise, Lieutenant Tendi,” Beckett flashes her most charming grin. “See you on the Bridge?”

Tendi glances back at Dr. T’Ana, who’s impatiently glaring at them. “Yeah, we’ll see about that.”

_____

The next few weeks go by in rapid succession. It’s either very very boring and leaves Mariner missing her life as a lower decks officer or it’s incredibly fast pace with weird shit that leaves her chasing the next adrenaline rush.

But of course most days it’s just Brad yelling at her.

“If you could have your report for Second Contact with the Diququeue’s by tomorrow morning, that would be great.”

“Uh huh.”

“Also, I need you to stop trying to pet J’viv, his culture finds it offensive.”

“Sure thing.”

 “Are you even listening to what I’m saying?!

_____

“Officer Mariner could you—what the fuck are you wearing.”

“Oh yeah, the Padroiques gave me this cool jacket.”

“I don’t even—what—Mariner, go take it off!”

“But it’s pink!”

“It’s putting hair all over my Bridge!”

“That’s not hair it’s—”

 “Oh my god just get rid of it.”

_____

“What the fuck was that!”

“That was me. Doing my job. First Officer stuff.”

“That was you practically starting a war with the Gorgonvians. Again.”

“Dude, their government is super corrupt!”

“That’s their problem! Stop antagonizing alien Ambassadors!”

_____

“Why would you tell them to go fuck themselves?!”

“They pissed me off!”

“I actually can’t handle you right now. Get off my Bridge and go irritate someone else.”

“Fine!”

“Fine!”

_____

“This isn’t working,” she tells Rutherford, snatching at his drink. He gives it up with a sigh and wearily watches her down the purple liquid.

“Maybe start listening to him for once? He is the captain.”

“And that isn’t weird to you? Dude, didn’t he start out lower decks?”

This gets an eye roll out of her usually positive friend. “We all started lower decks. That’s how Starfleet works.”

Beckett decides not to mention that it was definitely not how it worked for her, as that explanation would include revealing that she’s. Well. A Starfleet brat.

“Besides, he’s been a Lieutenant for about a year now and he really handled the Parkled crisis really well. Not that I remember,” he adds, looking a little downcast.

Beckett wrinkles her nose. “Wait, the Cerritos was taken down by Parkleds? No fucking way.” She pulls her data padd out and began tapping away.

“Please don’t hack any mission re—”

“Too late.”

“—ports. Oh shit.” Rutherford rubs at his human eye with one hand. “See this? This is why you’re driving Boimler up a wall.”

Beckett glares at him. “Brad needs to chill out.”

“You need to chill out,” he corrects and then winces. “Sorry, that came out mean. I mean, maybe just try being nice to him? Like what’s the worst that could happen?”

Beckett’s eyes narrow.

_____

“Here, Jen made coffee.”

“If you’re trying to poison me—”

“Why would I poison you?!”

Brad gives her a deadpan stare.

“With coffee!” she adds, for good measure. “I would never defile the gods’ nectar!”

“Ugh, fine,” he snatches at the mug. “Just please stop shouting.”

_____

“I don’t get it!” Beckett rants to Tendi, who’s frowning down at her data padd like it holds the secrets of the universe. “I’m being like super chill for once and he’s still mad!”

Rutherford, who’s doing something cool and science-y to the transporter pad, glances up. “Your version of chill involves way more stabbing than most peoples.”

Tendi nods, eyes still glued to her padd. “Maybe try not challenging Klingons to duels and Boimler will calm down.”

“Uh, he challenged me and then was a sore loser. Not my fault. And I bought Brad a milkshake afterwards to make up for it!”

“Boimler did say that it was unfairly delicious,” Tendi says, pensively.

“I don’t think that was a milkshake,” Rutherford mumbles.

“Point is, why doesn’t he like me yet! Everyone likes me except lame people!”

“So, you don’t think Boimler is lame anymore,” Tendi inquires, grinning at her.

“Shut up, he’s the lamest.”

Rutherford and Tendi share a conspiring look. “Sure.”

_____

So, Brad almost dies. And so do Tendi and Rutherford, because it seems that even though Brad is captain now, apparently the three of them are a tight little trio who’ve been getting up to no good the whole time Beckett was on the Vulker.

That explains a lot actually.

Anyway, there’s some Away Mission nonsense and Beckett just happens to be on the Cerritos because Brad claims that she’s too high strung and that he hasn’t had enough coffee to handle her.

Whatever.

Some shit goes down—again, Beckett isn’t there and doesn’t bother to find out the exact details until much much later—that involves Rutherford and Brad getting infected by some alien disease and suddenly Tendi is dealing with an outright war between the local Camisitites and the Federation and by the time Beckett gets their asses beamed back onto the Cerritos, it’s almost too late.

Rutherford is going to be fine, thanks to his cyborg implants but Brad isn’t looking too hot which means Beckett is Acting Captain.

Fucking great.

It takes her maybe two, three days tops to settle everything out with the irate Camisitite nation and find a cure, but it all works out in the end.

“If you want a Missions Report you can have it after I’ve taken a shower,” she informs a groggy Brad. He blinks up at her from his bio-bed, taking in her disheveled hair, bloodstained shirt, and exhausted expression.

“…cool,” he mutters. “Go away.”

She scoffs at him, dragging a seat up. “I’m good here, actually.”

Brad wakes himself up enough to give her a half-hearted scowl. “Do you ever do as you’re told?”

“Not really, no.” She examines her nails. “Your fault for signing my transfer.”

“So this has all been punishment? Because a good person talked you into a nice, well paying job that I signed off on. I don’t get you.”

“I don’t get you,” she retorts. “Command fucking sucks. It was way cooler when I was an ensign.”

“But you’re really good at it,” he says, surprised. “You’re smart and badass and like way better at everything than everyone else.”

“Wait what?”

“You could have everything! And you’re just wasting it? Do you want me to kick you off ship?”

“Maybe!”

“Well I’m not going to!”

“Why not?!”

He glares at her sullenly. “Figure it out yourself, if you’re so smart.”

_____

“I can’t figure it out!” she snaps, resuming her wild pacing.

Rutherford, who looks like his unending patience is finally, for once, running out, sighs.

(People seem to be doing that a lot around her recently.)

“Figure what out, Mariner?”

“Why did the bastard make me his First Officer?”

“Maybe he’s hot for you,” Tendi suggests, eyebrows wiggling up and down. Beckett shoves her face away.

“Shut up, no way.”

“Just ask him?” Rutherford suggests.

“I did! Like twice! First time he gave me stupid answer and second time he deflected.”

“He gave it to you because he likes you, dummy,” Rutherford says, giving her a friendly shove. “Not like that,” he adds, as Tendi began make kissy faces. “But like. He thinks you’re cool.”

“He thinks I’m cool,” Beckett parrots, unimpressed.

“You are pretty cool,” Tendi agrees. “You like kick everyone’s ass and are super smart and you have street cred.”

“Street cred,” Beckett repeats, trying not to laugh. “Yeah, we’ll go with that.”

“Point is,” Rutherford went on. “He thinks you’re cool. And you know what? I think you think he’s pretty cool.”

Beckett makes a face. “I do not, take that back.”

“You think it’s impressive that Freeman promoted him and it has you all pissy because she threw you off the ship, but you secretly think he’s smart and you think it’s funny that he gets all tied up in knots over protocol,” Rutherford summarizes.

“What are you, my therapist?” Beckett snaps.

“I’m you’re friend. And I think you could be his too if you tried?”

Beckett groans, dropping her face into Tendi’s shoulder. “Fine maybe you’re a little bit right. He hates me though.”

“Trust me, he doesn’t hate you,” Rutherford says, grin in her voice. “You annoy the fuck out of him, sure. But he likes you plenty or he’d have gotten rid of you already.”

“So what do I do?” she mumbles into Tendi’s uniform.

“Go apologize, dumbass,” Tendi advises, shrugging her off her shoulder.

“Ugh.”

_____

She finds him laying on one of the Observation Deck floors, a half-drained bottle of blue substance beside him. Before she can change her mind, she flops down into a seated position next to him. They’re drifting through hyperspace, creating that weird blue effect as their ship speeds past distant stars.

Beckett takes a swig of his contraband, grimacing at the bitter taste.

“I have no idea what I’m doing,” he says, staring blankly out into space.

Beckett feels surprise at his admission—yeah, this man is a bit of a wreck, but he seemed to the type of guy whose contingency plans had contingency plans—but decides not to show it.

“Congrats dumbass, neither to the rest of us.”

Brad frowns. “You always know what you’re doing.”

This actually coaxes a surprised laugh out of her. She collapses backward, laying on the cold deck beside him. “That’s where you’re definitely wrong, dude. I never know what I’m going to do until I do it. Could be committing arson today, could adopt one of those turtle-puppies we saw on Karklon III last week, the list goes on. We’re Starfleet Officers, we have to be flexible about shit,” she adds, turning her head look at him.

He continues to stare straight ahead of him. “I think you make a better Captain.”

Okay, so he’s in a brutally honest mood. She can chill with that.

“I think I’d get us killed in a week,” she counters, truthfully. “I’m way too impulsive to be in charge. For every badass rule breaker, we need pencil pushing stickler, ya know?”

“So what,” Brad turns his head to the side, squints at her skeptically. “Now you want to work together?”

She drops her chin into the palm of her hand, leaning on her elbow. “I’m just saying, maybe I could get myself demoted back to the fucking Vulkner again and maybe you resign your position and become one of those sad sad researchers that get eaten by their own plants and Starfleet discovers your remains six years later when they have to find a cure for a face-eating parasite or whatever. Or,” she continues, before he can interrupt, all pissy, “maybe you need to loosen up, and maybe I need to suck up to command a bit more.”

It’s the closest to an apology as he’s going to get from her.

(He’s been kind of a bitch too, and they both know it.)

Brad turns back to the window—if you can call the entire wall being made of glass a window—and sighs.

“I guess it couldn’t hurt to give it a shot,” he muses—his version of an apology as well, she notes—and then adds, “I can always demote you.”

“Ha! You couldn’t last a day in the chair without me and you know it,” she replies, smugly. “You pretend like you want constant order and everything to be perfectly organized and on schedule, but I know the truth.”

“Really now?” he dryly says. “And what’s that.”

She grins, leaning in. “You’re secretly a rebel.”

“Fuck off.”

“Pffft, I saw your eye twitching during our report to Admiral Travional. You were practically begging me to spill my coffee on him.”

“Okay, I did not tell you to do that—”

“Oh, and that sexy, sexy moment when Tendi punched Captain Lohnersen out? You never once wrote her up for—”

“He was harassing her, I wasn’t going to write her up when he clearly was disrespecting—”

Beckett dangles the bottle of ale in front of him. “Why Captain Brad. Is this. Gasp! Contraband?!”

Brad laughs, snatching the bottle away from her. “I found it in your quarters.”

“And just what were you doing in my quarters, my good sir?”

“I’ll have you know I was dropping off paperwork. That you still haven’t done. From three weeks ago.”

“And you just swiped it off my desk. Tsk, tsk.”

“Confiscated it,” he corrects, still grinning up at her. “For research purposes, of course.”

“Of course.” Beckett grabs the bottle again. Takes another swig. “Surprised you’re still conscious. This shit can blind you, ya know.”

“Yeah, I know.” He grabs the bottle back. “So maybe slow down.”

She rolls her eyes because she has clearly proven numerous times that she can hold her liquor but decides not the start anything. It’s weird, getting along with Brad, but not…unpleasant.

“Hey,” she says, poking his shoulder. “I’m glad you didn’t die.”

His face looks pinched. “Thanks for not letting me die,” he replies, suddenly wary.

She scoffs. “Like I’d let anyone die under my watch.”

Brad sits up. “You mean like I did.”

“Oh.” Beckett blinks at him. “Oh shit. Dude, I was just being an asshole then, I didn’t mean it.”

“But you weren’t wrong. If I had been smarter or—”

“Dude, you cannot think like that,” Beckett grabs his shoulders and makes uncomfortably steady eye-contact. “Even if I had been on the Cerritos when shit went down, I don’t think I could have saved him. You guys were on a time crunch with no backup and I’m surprised Rutherford survived the explosion.”

Brad’s eyebrows furrow. “Wha—did you read Freeman’s Mission Report? I told you to stop—”

She waves him off.  “Doesn’t matter. Point is, stop beating yourself up over it. And stop letting assholes like me make you feel bad,” she adds, as an afterthought.

“Only if you stop challenging people to duels in the Jefferies Tubes,” he counters.

“Deal,” she lies. “You should get in on some of those duels, though. You seem like a sword guy.”

“I can’t even tell if that’s a euphemism or not,” he mumbles. “Are we cool?”

“The coolest,” she confirms. “At least until you see my Missions Report.”

Brad sighs deeply and flops back down. “I’m not even worrying about that right now.”

“Good, because I definitely broke like every protocol ever.”

“Of course you did.”

“And I told the Camisitite’s to call me Captain Mariner, First of her Name.”

“Oh my god—”

“And I challenged their leader to a duel.”

“Mariner what the fuck.”  

[sarcastic-bubble]

Let’s Blame it on Blood Loss

Paring: Obi-wan Kenobi X Reader

Word Count: 2.4K 

Warnings: Mentions of injury and death, mention of blood, little bit of angst, but lots of fluff at the end

Summary: Obi-wan and Reader are sent on a stealth mission and someone trips on a pile of droids.  Part two

A/N: Obi-wan is the best and deserves all the love. Now that I’ve said that I hope you all enjoy! Also, there will be a second part, at some point. 

What had started out as a simple mission to gather information from an abandoned separatist base had quickly gone downhill. You and Obi-wan Kenobi had just rather unceremoniously stuffed yourselves in an empty closet to try and avoid a large group of lookout droids. “So much for it being abandoned,” you mumble under your breath.

The man in front of you shifts, trying to get ear closer to the door. “They’ve passed by. We should be safe to continue now,” he replied quietly stepping out of the closet. “At the very least this makes things a bit more exciting. It was you who mentioned how boring this would be, wasn’t it?” The smirk the played on the man’s lips had you rolling your eyes and forcing your way past him. The coast did look clear, for now at least.

“Why don’t you spend less time teasing me and more trying to find that protocol droid Master Kenobi,” you stated, only half-joking. The sooner the two of you were out of here the better. The whole point of the mission was to be in and out before anyone noticed your presence. When the base was supposedly abandoned that task hadn’t seemed so difficult, but all these unexpected lookout droids had you on edge. You had learned early in your years as a Jedi that exciting was not always better.

“Oh please, Master (L/N),” teased the other Jedi, “don’t pretend that you-.” He was cut off abruptly by the sound of a door opening and closing in quick succession. Obi-wan’s expression shifts from playful to more serious. He peeked his head around the corner, a few droids were walking away from the room. “I have a funny feeling we might find what we’re looking for in there.” He subtly gestured with his head to the door that you had yet to see.

“How long do you think it will take those droids to clear out? We can hardly sneak into a room when the door is more than loud enough to announce our presence to anyone in the general area?” You ask as you push yourself against Obi-wan’s back and lean your head out just enough to get a proper view of the door.

“No one said anything about taking the door, (Y/N)” He looked up to a vent only a few feet away from where the two of you hid. “I imagine that’s big enough for us to fit through. At the very least you’ll fit.” He glances up and down your smaller frame.

“You know how I feel about small spaces Obi. I won’t have a lot of room to move if I get discovered while in there.” You cross your arms and lean back against the wall. You loathed small spaces. They were cramped, dark (although the dark wasn’t really all that bad), and made you feel like you were trapped. The thought of climbing through this vent had you shuddering. If a space was too small for you to properly wield your lightsaber you took that as a sign that you weren’t meant to be there.

“You didn’t seem to mind hiding in the closet earlier. If I’m remembering correctly you were the one who pushed me in there,” he teased quietly.

“That closet was a lot bigger. But fine, whatever, let’s get this over and done with.” You very carefully remove the cover of the vent and set it down on the ground. With all the grace you can manage you hoist yourself up into the vent. It wasn’t as small as your worried it would be but naturally you were stuck crawling on all fours. The metal was cold and uncomfortable, and every creek or groan had you stop for a moment and hold your breath. When it was clear you weren’t heard you continued on slowly. This was terrible. The next time the council thought it would be a good idea to send you on a stealth mission you swore to tell no. Not that there really was much good it would do when the council gave you an assignment but everything was worth trying once.

Obi-wan waited patiently leaning against the wall. The droids walked past without noticing and he had taken the opportunity to slip down the hall and wait next to the closed door. You had been right when you said it would be too loud to open it, but he hoped to hear when you dropped down to the ground. As inconvenient as it was, he found your phobia rather endearing and respected you all the more for not letting it stop you. He heard a soft thud on the other side of the door. You must have made it. “(Y/N), does it look like the droid is in there?” he asked just loud enough for you to hear.

“I think so, it looks like what was shown to us. Just keep a lookout for a few minutes while I transfer these memory files,” you replied. You pulled out a small black device and inserted it into an open slot in the droid. While technology was never really your strong suit you had been promised that all you needed to do was plug the device in and let the program inside do all the work. This really was simple enough, but it would take a few minutes. You paced around the room finding a few more odds and ends to look at. Most of it was just broken-down droids like the one you had been sent to look for. There was a barely audible beep when the file transfer had finished. You unplugged the small device and tucked it back into your pocket.

“I’ve got it, Obi! Let’s get ready to leave, I’m not spending one more minute in this place than I have to.” You lift yourself into the vent. You feel your foot catch on something but think nothing of it a just shake it off. As you begin to crawl forward you hear the unmistakable sound of metal sliding against metal. Before you could react, there was a series of loud crashes as the various droids fell to the ground and onto one another. “Shit,” you mumbled.

“I really suggest you hurry after making all that noise (Y/N)! I’m sure half the base heard it.” Shouted Obi-wan. There really was no point in being quiet anymore.

For you, that meant there was no reason to climb back through that dreadful vent again. You hopped out and made far more noise than you meant too as you landed in the pile of broken droids. The door was already open and Obi-wan was motioning for you to move faster. The two of you run and do your best to avoid the droids looking for you and you were successful too until you reached your ship. A large group of droids were firing at it with their blasters, you could only imagine they were trying to break it. You and Obi-wan found a spot to hide and come up with a plan.

“I’m going to go see if I can distract them. Maybe draw them away long enough for you start the engines. If they keep firing at it like that we’ll be stuck here,” you stated trying to analyze the damage already done.

All you received in response was nod. You were sure he expected you to have a carefully thought out plan, but alas it wasn’t so. Your plan was to draw your lightsaber and run. Thank the Maker droids were never the smartest because it worked out quite well for you. Their attention was drawn by the sound your lightsaber made and they began to fire at you. They were terrible shots while chasing after you and it didn’t take much to lose them after you led them far enough away from the ship. Well, you thought you had lost them. Apparently, your connection to the force was suffering because you were shocked when you felt the searing pain of a blaster bolt hitting your side. You did all you could to lose them, the only thing keeping you standing was pure adrenalin. In the end, you found yourself in the same closet this whole mess had started in. The droids passed by and didn’t think to check there, something you couldn’t be more thankful for.

With the adrenaline leaving your body you began to feel the pain in your left side more intensely and in a few more places where didn’t realize you had been hit.  Every movement to try and drag yourself out of that closet was agony. You couldn’t do it; the pain had become so much that your vision was being crowded by dark spots. There were steps outside of the door again. You were sure they would find you this time and finish what they started but when the door was slowly opened you were met with concerned blue eyes.

“Obi, I think I got shot… a lot,” you managed to mumble out between clenched teeth.

“I know you got shot, know come here and let me help you back to the ship.” He slipped and arm underneath your knees and another behind your back pulling you up against your chest. His voice was full of concern. He got you back to the ship without any problems and set you down on a small cot reserved for emergencies like these. “Next time you offer to be the distraction I’ll shoot you myself,” he half-heartedly teased. He tried to keep the situation light to keep you calm but he was filled with worry.

“I need to make it back to the Jedi temple alive for there to be a 'next time',” you groaned.

He placed a gentle and comforting hand against your cheek. You couldn’t stop yourself from leaning into his touch. “You’ll make it back alive, trust me.”

“Hey Obi, just in case I don’t can I tell you something. We can blame it on the blood loss and my impending mortality if I am fine.” There were a lot of things you wanted to tell him then, but you felt your conciseness slipping. You were going to have to pick the most important things.

“Don’t talk like that. You’ll be-,“ You cut him off with a finger gently pressed against his lips.

“Shh... Obi, just let me talk.” The finger than had been on his lips moved to affectionately play with his bead. Maker how you loved that beard.  “I love you.” You felt relief as you finally spoke those words and Obi-wan’s response didn’t surprise you in the slightest.

“I love you too. Which is why you need to stay alive. I can’t do any of this without you.”

The feelings between you too had been obvious to the other for as long as you could remember, you both had come to a silent and mutual agreement to ignore how much you cared for the other, but it would’ve broken your heart and soul if you died without ever getting to say those words and hear them in return. “You’d be fine without me, dear,” you whisper. You do your best to prop yourself. You place a gentle kiss on his lips before the world goes black.

You were fairly certain you weren’t dead. You had yet to open your eyes, but you were fairly certain that wherever you would end up after you died wouldn’t have constant beeping, and there was something warm squeezing your hand. With a groan, you slowly blinked and took in your surroundings. You were in a bed in a room that must be back at the Jedi temple. The beeping was one of the few machines hooked up to you, this one busy keeping track of your vital signs. The warmth in your hand was the hand of someone else. You felt it gently squeeze once again and you looked up to see who was kind enough to wait by your bedside.

“I told you that you would make it back alive, didn’t I,” said a wonderfully familiar voice. The man’s free hand came to gently stroke your cheek. Your eye’s met Obi-wan’s wonderfully blue ones. They were filled with so much concern and love, you didn’t deserve this man in your life.

“Turns out I couldn’t leave you,” you replied relaxing into his touch. There was something incredibly soothing about it. All the aches you felt didn’t seem to matter so much now. You noticed something now you hadn’t when you first looked at him. There were dark bags under his eyes and his body seemed to slouch with exhaustion. “When’s the last time you slept?”

“I haven’t. Not since we returned. I couldn’t sleep knowing that you may not be there when I wake.” It was true too. You’d later find out that while you were being treated, he paced and waited outside the door and when you had been put in a room he sat by your side. The council hadn’t been happy with his behaviour, but not even their displeasure could pull him away from your side. Not until he knew you would be okay.

You hand come to rest on top of the one holding yours. Maker, you really didn’t deserve this man. “How long was I asleep?”

“Four days.”

“You haven’t slept in four days? That’s hardly healthy.”

“I would have waited longer by your side if I needed to.”

“I imagine the council hasn’t been pleased that you’ve been ignoring your duties in favour of waiting by me,” you say, idly rubbing circles on the top of his hand.

“They haven’t, but nothing would have pulled me from your side.” He shifted from the chair he was sitting on and onto your bed. You winced as you moved to make room for him. It was more than worth it when laying down next you and very carefully pulled you against his body, your head tucked underneath his.

As he pulled you to him there was an occasional pull on your wounds, and you winced with the movement but once you were in his arms you felt warmer and safer than you had in years. “You should rest before the council comes to whisk you away again,” you mumble against his chest.

You heard a quiet hum and felt it vibrate through his chest. He placed a soft kiss on the top of your head and in seconds you were both fast asleep.

[scarlettwitcher]

Baby Girl Chapter One

Summary: Y/n tried to avoid her past with a certain Statesmen but when they’re partnered back up for a mission that could cost millions their lives, Y/n must make the right choice. (This is the Kingsman: The Golden Circle movie basically in writing with reader insert. I recommend watching the movie, it’s amazing! It’s on Amazon Prime Video.)

Characters: Agent Whiskey, Agent Gin(Y/n), Tequila, Ginger Ale, Eggsy, Merlin, Champ, Harry, mentions of Poppy, Charlie, and Clara in coming chapters..

Word Count: 2.327

Warnings: Canon typical violence, angst, cursing, fluff here and there, uh guns?

Author’s Note: We’re finally here! I have been working so hard on this series and I have finally finished it! I’m so excited to be sharing this. Shoutout to my lovely @giftofdreams​ for being an amazing beta and friend. Also send my girl @queenxxxsupreme​ some love. After this series, I’ll be working hard on my requests and on my existing August Walker Series. Don’t worry, I didn’t forget it babes. Thanks for all the love I receive daily! If you’d like to be a tag, please send in an ask! As always, thanks for reading, feedback is always welcome/needed. Also, please reblog! I know this fandom is kinda small but I’d love for people to find this fic. I just worked so hard on it and I want it to get the love it deserves. Love to you all!

The loud sound of rain burned into Eggsy’s ears as he stared at the broken-down building in front of him. He didn’t know whether he should scream, cry, or curse anyone who was listening. He looked up to see a black figure walking towards him, holding a black bag. He immediately reacted, pulling out his gun, aiming it straight at his head. As the figure stepped closer, Merlin's face became visible to him but he never lowered his gun. Slowly the both of them started to walk towards each other as Eggsy gripped his gun harder, feeling it's weight get heavier with every step. “Someone decides to wipe out every Kingsman property, every agent, and somehow, conveniently, you weren't at home.”

Neither of them stopped walking towards each other, walking between all of the rubble of Eggsy’s blown up home. “I could say the same thing about you.

Finally, Eggsy stopped when he was a few feet away from Merlin, his voice cracking from emotion. “What, you think I'd kill Roxy? And my mate, Brandon, and my fucking dog?”

“No. You think I would?” Eggsy kept his gun trained on Merlin as he swallowed thickly. Merlin held up the black bag towards him, opening it up and pulling a robotic arm, holding it up. “This thing hacked us. Clearly, this arm can be remotely controlled. I'm only alive because my address wasn't on the database with the agents. Whoever Charlie's working with doesn't think that mere staff are missile-worthy.”

Eggsy scoffed angrily as he lowered his gun, his voice raising an octave. “This ain't funny. Roxy is dead! Everyone's dead! Gone! Do you even care?”

“Pull yourself together. Remember your training. There's no time for emotion in this scenario.” Eggsy nodded quietly in understanding. “Now, as all surviving agents are present, we follow the doomsday protocol. When that's done, and only then… you may shed a tear in private.”

Eggsy sighed deeply as he nodded. The loud sound of thunder echoed between the two men filling in the absence of conversation. The deaths of all the Kingsman weighed heavy on their hearts. “Okay. What's the doomsday protocol?”

“We go shopping.” Both of the men decided to take the night off and try to sleep. It was a restless sleep for both. First thing in the morning, they both headed for Berry Bros & Rudd; Wine merchants. They walked in dressed to the nines. Merlin approached one of the workers. “We're from Kingsman. We'd like to buy some wine and use tasting room number three, please.” The man in the shop nodded quickly, before taking both of them towards the room. The man left, leaving Eggsy and Merlin alone. “Not one of my predecessors has ever been in this situation before. Thank God.” Merlin walked towards a distinctive place in the wall, recognizing a familiar shape. He pulled out a pendant, exactly like one Harry had given Eggsy when he was younger. “A-ha. Remember this?” He showed it to Eggsy who smiled softly, remembering its significance. 

“Yeah, how could I forget?” Eggsy watched as Merlin turned towards the wall, slipping the pendant into the shape, fitting perfectly into the molding. Loud sounds of locks being opened and gears turning filled the room. The wall slid open, revealing a black safe. 

Merlin pointed towards the safe as he spoke to Eggsy. “Whatever's in that safe is the answer to all our problems.” Merlin got to quickly opening the safe. Pulling the door open, his brows furrowed in confusion as he leaned closer to see what he was looking at. “Huh.” He pulled out a bottle of whiskey with clear big letters that read “Statesman” on the front. He showed it to Eggsy who looked confused.

“Is that it?”

“I suppose that must be upper-class humor.” Merlin looked down at the bottle, analyzing it for a few seconds before looking back up to Eggsy. “I don't get it.”

“Me neither. What the fuck are we supposed to do now?”

“I think we should drink a toast to our fallen comrades.” Merlin served both of them cups of the Whiskey. Eggsy grabbed one and held it up towards Merlin as he grabbed his own cup, doing the same. They clinked their cups together. 

“To Roxy.”

“Roxy.” Merlin oohed in admiration of the taste. Eggsy nodded his approval as well as they served another round, doing what they had previously done again. “To Arthur.”

“Arthur.” They both drank their whiskey before Eggsy stopped in thought. “Mmm. Should we do one for JB?”

“I think we should.” Eggsy pulled out a chair, sitting across from Merlin as they poured more whiskey. They took a drink for every fallen Kingsman. Leaving the bottle almost empty, Merlin started to cry, wiping at his eyes in pain with his handkerchief. “I should have seen it coming. Charlie, the taxi. It's all my fault.” Both men had forgone their jackets and glasses as they spoke.

“No, that's bullshit, Merlin. It ain't all your fault. You're the best, bruv. Honestly, without you, I'd have lost it a long time ago.”

There was a moment of silence between the two as Eggsy placed his hand on Merlin's shoulder. Merlin stayed quiet before reaching for the almost empty bottle. "I think we should drink to Scotland."

Eggsy quickly took the bottle away from Merlin. "I think we've probably had enough, to be honest." He analyzed the bottle as Merlin cleaned his glasses. 

"You're probably right." Eggsy stared at the bottle. Looking closer he saw a small print at the bottom of the back of the sticker, 'Distilled in Kentucky'. The K looked very familiar to him before it clicked. 

"Merlin."

"Aye?"

"I think we're going to Kentucky."

"Fried Chicken? I love fried chicken."

"No, proper Kentucky. Look." Eggsy placed the bottle on the table as Merlin slipped his glasses on. 

"You know what else I love? Country and western music." Before Eggsy could say anything, Merlin started to sing. Eggsy was annoyed but listened quietly anyways. "Country roads, Take me home, To the place I belong.." The boys moved quickly, getting what few things they had left before flying over to the distillery. They noticed a tour happening as they arrived and they followed behind as the woman spoke. She didn't let them into a large warehouse, explaining something about how the temperature is perfect for the barrels and both men stopped. Eggsy scanned the door with his watch, nodding towards it. 

"Biometric security scanner just to protect a few old barrels of whiskey? Pull the other one, love." 

Merlin fiddled with his tablet as Eggsy watched him. "Got it." The door slid open behind Eggsy. They looked around before skidding in. Eggsy kept his hand up with his watch, surveying the area. They looked around amazed at all of the giant barrels. 

"Are you getting anything?"

"Not yet."

"Fucking hell."

"It's a shame it's not scotch." Merlin's tablet started to beep loudly. "Hang on." He looked at the image, showing underneath them was the base. "According to this, there's a huge underground structure right beneath us." Merlin walked quickly to the end to place his tablet down, grabbing an axe placed lazily on the side. "And if my calculations are correct…" He moved towards the main barrel in the middle, holding the axe tightly. "This is the way in." Without a second thought, Merlin hit the wall with all his strength, denting and making a hole on the barrel. Whiskey gushed out of it and both men panicked. 

"Fucking hell, Merlin. Shit." Merlin moved quickly, covering the hole with his hand. 

“You know, my mama, she always told me us southerners get our good manners from the British.” A man slowly walked towards them, holding a shotgun loosely in his hand as it rested on his shoulder. Eggsy tried to act casual, crossing his arms and leaning on the barrel as Merlin kept his hand on the hole he created. “I was thinkin', ain't that a pity. Y'all kept nothing for yourselves. Y'all ain't never heard of knocking before you enter?” The man turned his head slightly, smirking before spitting to his left. 

“Well, actually we had an invitation. Didn't we?” Eggsy looked over at Merlin as he nodded quickly.

“Yeah.”

“Oh, did you now?” The man watched them unamused.

“Yeah. It came in the shape of a bottle. We're from the Kingsman tailor shop in London. Maybe you've heard of us?”

“Oh, the Kingsman.”

“Yeah.”

“Huh. That's where y'all got them fine suits and them fancy spectacles y'all got on?” The man pointed towards them with the end of the shotgun, acting like he knew what they were saying was enough.

“Exactly.” Merlin nodded his head enthusiastically, almost as if he hoped they made the right decision. 

“That's right.”

“Y'all look damn sharp. Let me see if I got it right, here. You want me to believe that it's normal for a tailor to hack through an advanced biometric security system with nothing but a little bitty old watch on?” Eggsy clenched his jaw nervously as Merlin frowned. They were starting to realize their name meant nothing. Merlin looked over at Eggsy with concern as Eggsy rolled his eyes, staring the man down.  “I can promise you,” The man grabbed his shotgun, loading it as he twirled it effortlessly in his hand, aiming it at both of them. “That dog don't hunt.” With the shotgun, he motioned for both of them to get down. “So why don't you go on and get down on your knees and tell me who you really work for.” 

Eggsy raised his eyebrows, mocking the man before looking over at Merlin tight-lipped, as Merlin nodded, silently saying, ‘okay, you asked me to’. He removed his hand as the barrel started to leak again, dropping whiskey all over the floor. The man quickly sucked up some saliva, spitting it across the way on the hole, covering it perfectly.  Eggsy looked at Merlin with disgust before turning back towards the man with the same expression. “That's 1963 Statesman Reserve. You just made it personal.”

The man walked towards both of them, as they ran towards him at the same time as well. Eggsy raised his fist, ready to punch but the man ducked and hit him in the back with the shotgun. Merlin lunged for him next. The man hit him in the abdomen, looping his arm around Merlin’s and used his body weight to throw him against the barrel, knocking him out cold. Eggsy took out his gun but the man used the shotgun to trap his arm between his body and the shotgun before swinging it around and smacking it out of his hand with his shotgun. The momentum of the hit threw Eggsy on his knees as he swung the shotgun into his ribs, swinging it the other way around. Eggsy blocked the hit but still groaned in pain as the hit threw him against the barrel. The man pinned Eggsy’s arm with his shotgun before moving quickly to flip through Eggsy’s watch until he found the stun option. He pulled Eggsy off of the barrel and angled it so he shot himself with the dart. Eggsy stared at him in surprise as the man smirked. Eggsy moved to touch his neck where the dart was as he went limp on his legs. “Who the fuck are you?” Eggsy stepped back once before falling onto his back, blacking out quickly like Merlin. 

“You’re right. You are getting better Tequila, almost as good as me.” The man, Tequila, looked up to the left where you slowly stepped out of the shadows. You licked your lips as you walked over to the limp bodies on the floor. You bent down beside Eggsy and reached out, touching his watch admiring the technology. “I guess you didn’t need me after all.” 

Tequila smiled and shook his head as he nudged Merlin with his foot. “Now darlin’, don’t say that. You know I love having you around.”

“Well, duh. I’m a fucking catch.” Tequila laughed out at your comment before moving to grab Merlin, throwing him over his shoulder as he motioned towards Eggsy with a nod of his head. 

“Can you handle him?” You frowned and shook your head. You were smaller than Eggsy and even though you were strong, you weren’t that strong. 

“I can drag him.” You grabbed his arms and slowly pulled him towards the real elevator, dragging him inside as you huffed. He was heavy. Tequila laughed as he watched you and you glared at him. 

“Did you hear?”

“What?”

“Whiskey might be coming down this weekend. Something about a meeting.” You visibly tensed as you clenched your jaw. You took a deep breath as Tequila watched you concerned.

“I didn’t know. How long?” You didn’t even realize you whispered this until Tequila reached over pulling you into his arms. The big lug basically swallowed you in his big arms but you didn’t care. You wrapped an arm around his waist before letting out a shaky breath. 

“Just for the weekend. Has he tried to talk to you?” You shook your head as the elevator stopped, indicating you were on the floor you needed. “Good. How about we go to that restaurant I told you about?”

“Sounds nice Tequila. We’ll take Ginger. She’s really been wanting to go there.”

“It’s a date.” You giggled at his remark. You grabbed Eggsy once more, slowly dragging him towards the interrogation room you had. Once Tequila secured Merlin into his chair, Tequila moved quickly, securing Eggsy beside him. You sat in the far side of the room as Tequila took his place in front of the both of them, leaning on the table. He licked his lips, trying not to show how much he would enjoy this as he leaned over, slapping the both of them out of their unconsciousness. This was going to be fun.

Forever Tags: @iwantthedean @authoressskr @sorenmarie87 @reigningqueenofwords @goldenolaf25 @giftofdreams @winchesterprincessbride @chelsea072498 @kitchenwitchsuperwhovian @itakeawfultoawholenewlevel @fictionalabyss @gabby913 @angelkurenai @sea040561 @sleepylunarwolf @smoothdogsgirl @carryonmyswansong @feelmyroarrrr @evyiione @sofreddie @sis-tafics @nitelotus @trexrambling @dancingalone21 @manawhaat @mermaidxatxheart @winchest09 @ellen-reincarnated1967 @mrswhozeewhatsis @just-another-busy-fangirl @lovebodymindstuff @backseat-of-deans-67chevy @chook007 @akshi8278 @evansrogerskitten @bringmesomepie56 @persephonehemingway @blacktithe7 @donnaintx @queenxxxsupreme @whitewolfandthefox @riviawitch3r

Kingsman/Agent Whiskey Tags:  @thesadvampire @le-roman-rose @mcudisiac @someone-take-my-bagelseverywhere @chibi-liz05 @marvel-avengers01 @themandjalorian @floccodineveautunnale @jassiepoohbear @gollyderek @retrobhaddie @wolf-lover74

[crazycephalopoda]

Grief

My father died February 11th, 2021. That, in and of itself, is a weird sentence for me to write. To acknowledge. To me, the reality of this situation that I find myself in has not quite sunk in. I feel it in waves, rocking me like a boat beating against a storm. There are times when the boat has a leak and I scramble on deck to patch it together, desperately holding my hands over the holes while water rushes in. There are times where other boats come near to try and salvage my wreckage, but the captain goes down with their own ship and whatnot. I have always been one for bad metaphors. Amidst all of this, there are times of calm and quiet waters as well, where the ocean seems endless and empty. My father is dead. He is gone. He will not come back.

I check my Facebook messenger and look at his icon to see if he is there or not. He is not. He will not be ever again. I feel a lump forming in my throat. I scroll through the messages we have shared for the past several years and question every conversation. Did I contact him enough? Why didn’t I respond to that one message he sent? Was I too short with him? Did he know that I loved him? I look back and analyze every photo he was in. Why did I make that face? Why didn’t I take more photos with him? Did he know that I loved him? Why didn’t I show that I loved him more? Why didn’t I? Why didn’t I? Why didn’t I?

Attempting to live my life normally is a joke, and a bad one at that. Everything reminds me of him and the memories we made while growing up. I had malt o meal for breakfast. I cried. He loved malt o meal, with a large amount of sugar and a small amount of milk. Just enough that it was “liquid but not runny” like he said. I remember just two weeks ago when he had eaten only one bite of malt o meal and turned it away due to being nauseous. I thoughtlessly plopped the spoon in my mouth. We all laughed at the realization that he had just had chemo and we were not supposed to swap bodily fluids due to the poisonous chemicals. It was not funny. It was. God, I hate malt o meal. Why did he like this stuff?

--------------------------------------------------------

When my eyes are closed, I see the same scenes playing out in my head that have resided there for the past several weeks. They plague my sleep and leave me restless. He had always had a cheery and rounded face, but those final weeks his eyes sunk in between mountains of cheekbones and gaunt skin. His mouth hangs open like he cannot get enough oxygen for all the air in the room. Maybe he wants to speak. But he doesn’t. He is silent at the end, except when in pain. His eyes are also open, halfway and drooping. His eyes are open, and he is searching but he is not seeing me. At one point, when he could still speak, he mutters about bugs crawling on the walls and a girl on the ceiling. We joke about how scary that sounds to make it less uncomfortable. Could he see us there, beside him?  

Curly hair was his best feature, he always said. People from all over complimented him on his natural hair all the time. We had a hairdresser once who fawned over it. He acted embarrassed but I think he liked the attention. Those same locks of hair now lay disheveled and unkempt around him like a halo. My mother sprays them with water and tries to keep them clean. I was glad, at least, the one chemo treatment had not stolen that from him. We cut a lock of hair to keep. It is the only thing of his person that will not face or be burned when he is cremated. What would he think of that?

My mother and I are caregiver to him, and we drain fluid from his chest as it builds up to an unbearable amount. At first it is an alien procedure to me, with a series of steps and protocols and cleaning routines. Put on two sets of gloves, touching only the wrist. Clean the cap with an alcohol swab. Make sure the clamp is fastened before you attach the bag below. Don’t drain too much or his blood pressure will drop, and you will kill him even faster than the cancer. After a few times, it is normal and just another thing we do to help him. Towards the end, it is tinged red. So is his urine. So is everything else. He stirs at one point in his confusion and tells me “I’ve leaked, I see red everywhere”.  There was none, he was hallucinating. At least that time. Is he in pain?

Our fingers intertwine periodically when I sit beside him. When he was still conscious, he would occasionally reach out for whoever was closest. This was the smallest of comforts we could offer him. He always liked to sleep with his arms above his head, but the atrophied muscles would not allow this for him. We moved him into position like a broken marionette throughout the day. His hands are placed on his chest after he passed. They were so yellow, cold, and frail. There was no strength left in his ragged fingers. I held one of his hands in mine and I took a photo. The yellow skin glares at me like the sun and I squint, suddenly nauseous. I change the photo to black and white. As I stare at that photo now, it seems morbid to me but at the time gave me something to keep of him. What will it be like to never touch him again?

The sounds amplify the hell I experience. After his first round of chemo, he was awake and aware of us for two days. During that time, we made mostly small talk. He was quiet and introspective. At one point, I sat across from him and worked on readings assigned from my graduate school classes. He broke the silence to say he was proud of me. I told him that I was sad he would not see me graduate. He was the reason, after all, I had pursued this path. This is the only time I saw him cry in front of me. We held each other and I listened to his heartbeat in his chest while he told me that regardless of his death, he would be there for me. I realize now that I never asked him things like what his favorite color was, which tv shows he liked now, what hobbies he wished he had done when he had the time. As he is in and out of sleep, my mother and sister tell him “it’s okay, you don’t have to fight, let go”. I cannot speak these words. I do not want to. On his last day, I had exhausted myself to the point I needed to rest. My head had barely hit the pillow before I hear a sound across the vast distance of the house that raised the hairs on my arm. It’s someone in pain. I rush back to his bedside as his head turns this way and that. His mouth now opens only to say “help” in a strangled, garbled voice. He is soothed with morphine until his whimpering subsides. That was the last thing he spoke to us. I never really said “goodbye” to him. Was there more I should have said?

For weeks I sat beside his bed at night and watched over him while the hum of his breathing machine aligned with the nervous fluttering of my heart. His gasping breaths... In for a few seconds, quickly out, then held for an eternity, then in again. Every pause between his breathing caused me to hold my air in my throat. Every pause could have been the last one, but it wasn’t. Until it was. My mother calls out to us, after he expressed pain, and we gather around his bedside. My sister, my mother, my grandmother, and me. My mother holds his hands and weeps. His breathing is different, not the beat I have grown accustomed to. It is quick, jagged, and quiet. At some point, it stops. There is an eerie silence, followed by the sounds a body releases shortly after death. It startles me, and an undeniable signal of the horrible event that has just unfolded in front of us. I can’t believe it. I reach over to his throat to feel a pulse. There isn’t one. I dry heave into the trash can nearby before I break the silence with a loud scream. As I browse Facebook now, I wonder how I can hear him again. Are there videos of him speaking? Why didn’t I record any videos of him speaking? Is his voicemail still on his phone? I am scared to call it. Why am I scared to call it?

--------------------------------------------------------

Reliving these events, the weight now completely crushes my chest. It caves in my ribcage, plows through my heart, and drops me somewhere against the cold of the floor below. I am paralyzed in this position, barely breathing. I am scared. If I am too loud, if I cry, if I talk, I am acknowledging this new reality I am forced to live in. I don’t want to live it. I don’t want to be a part of it. I reject this world, body and soul. I am scared. Frantically, my mind races to those who are still present. I have not spent enough time with them. I have not said all the things I wanted, asked them what their favorite color is, or recorded enough photos and videos. When will I lose someone else? How will I lose them? I am scared. My breath begins to catch in my chest, and I feel the room shrink around me. I will never hear him again. I will never see him again. I will never touch him again. I will never play Fallout (which he loved) with him or watch Alien Covenant (which he hated) with him again. I will never be able to fall into his arms and cry about something stressing me out again. I will never hear him tell me he is proud of me again. I will never see him smile after he tells a bad joke again. My father is dead. How do I grieve this loss?

[anonthenullifier]

So…how’s that next chapter of post hoc going?

It’s coming along. I’m 2/3rds into it. Ideally it’ll be done in a week (or so), but until then, here’s a small look at the chapter. 🙂

________________

The composed email lazes on his computer screen, so carefree and unassuming despite the threat inherent in its existence. “Just click send.”

“I am working my way to it.”

Wanda’s raised eyebrows doubt his resolve, the ring on her right index finger clinking out her impatience against his You know what gets on my nerves? Myelin mug. “Want me to do it?”

“No, because then you will see the recipient’s name.” They had established in their original IRB that he alone would have access to the names of their participants, a necessary risk since someone has to code for individual level characteristics and be able to connect the gifts with the RSVPs. Once data collection is completed and all data coded to Wanda’s liking, he will deidentify it all so she can analyze it without compromising any personal information of their participants. Given their current predicament, he even had to remove her access to the email account. Regardless of this agreed upon protocol, it has not stopped her from slyly trying to get him to slip up. “I will have the courage any moment now.”

A pointed sip of her tea actually helps, marginally, his nerves splitting between the email and her undivided attention, though one is more pleasant than the other. “Treat it like a bandaid.”

Not psychologically unsound. The fact he is cogitating so much on sending the email is itself a cognitive issue of impact bias where he presumes (wrongly) that it will be emotionally negative enough that he is now seeking to avoid it. In reality, he knows it will be much like the bandaid Wanda is suggesting. If he just sends it and then seeks out distraction or some other task, the negative emotions will not only be less intense but have a shorter duration. He just needs to trust his psychological immune system. “Very well,” he accepts this is the best path forward but he still reads the email one more time, making sure that the tone is one of sharing information and not desperation given they are informing their participant of the fact that a scheduling error has led them to move their wedding to a state park pavilion an hour away. This will not ruin their study, and even if it does harm the data, they have strategies to ameliorate the impact. The world will not end, even if his heart seems to think it will. “All right...” Vision slowly clicks the send button “here we go,” and there is no taking it back now.

“I’m proud of you.”

The hand patting his shoulder is already activating his coping mechanisms, his right leg crossing over his left as he swivels his chair to face her. “Before I stumble into the depths of rumination,” something she finds far more amusing than he does, “perhaps we can find something not related to our study to discuss.”

Whenever faced with a task, Wanda’s eyes wander in thought. He always imagines she is tracing the threads of topics and trying to find the one farthest from where he thinks she will go. “I’m beginning to suspect my work with Hank is an attempt to rekindle his failed marriage.”

“Fascinating.” Of the core group he spends time with, Vision is always the one absent any gossip. In a way this should be uplifting to his moral standing and staunchness to not belittle others, but then it leaves him in the quandary of wanting to remain aloof while also very much fascinated by what Wanda is dangling before him. Information gathering does not have to be synonymous with gossiping, as one is passive and the other active.  “What makes you reach that conclusion?”

“Okay,” the mug descends onto his desk with an excited thud and Wanda leans forward, hands ready to gesticulate her way through the information, “so Janet van Dyne, his estranged wife, is one of the foremost quantum computing minds and has started doing a lot of work on quantum time travel.”

“Oh I dislike time travel.” Because the rules are never followed and the consequences are rarely sensical.

“You’ll be happy to know she hasn’t achieved it yet.”

“I am much relieved.”

Wanda scrunches her nose for a half second before continuing, “But what she has been working on is a computational model of whether the butterfly effect would actually exist in quantum time travel.”

An effect he knows she dislikes and yet she is invigorated at the thought. “To make sure I am following, you are saying that she is trying to mathematically establish whether going back in time and fiddling with the past would actually impact the future?”

Wanda nods, the sheer enjoyment she gets from the topic leading to an antsiness that shifts between turning her mug a couple degrees at a time, pushing her hair behind her ear, and varying the positioning of her legs. “So far she’s found evidence that if we view time with a quantum lens, it actually might correct itself when small changes happen and that the original timeline might remain resilient enough to outlast the change.”

“Does this not inherently contradict your own work?”

“Not entirely,” an ounce of uncertainty shoulders into her voice, “quantum chaos still exists but she seems to suggest it acts differently with competing timelines and reality could have a self-correcting mechanism.”

It all seems a bit too muddled for his ability to comprehend the difference. “What is it that you and Hank are doing that is meant to fix their personal timeline?”

“He’s been insisting on us doing a lot of different quantum walks,” she explained this to him some time ago, complete with a diagram of a quantum tree. It is all about the pathway photons travel to get from one point to another, but not linearly. All of the branches intersect and so their studies are about predicting when jumps between branches occur and how to determine movement. In his mind it is like the subway, how there are various lines that intersect at any given station and that you could take four travelers from station A and ask them to find their way to Station F. They could all take the same series of trains or switch between lines, maybe even one travels by bus or foot for a time. Most people would only ever consider the start and the end and determine the journey must be linear, even when it might not be, especially if there are delays or lines shut down. No doubt it is far more complicated than that.  “I mean a lot of different ones to try and disprove her findings. I only found out because I noticed he’d been publishing commentaries to her articles and using our data as support for his arguments.”

“How precisely is challenging her work meant to win her back?”

Wanda finishes her tea but doesn’t let go of the cup, her fingers tracing the glossy raised letters, “Hoping she’s intellectually turned on by it?”

There are researchers in his own niche area that have a similar, albeit non-romantic (he presumes) dynamic of obsession to always counter each other, to always craft a study meant to disprove the theoretical underpinnings of the other’s work. It’s why conferences can get dicey when the alcohol is free flowing and debates erupt over empathy and selfishness and how to delineate the two movitations. “I cannot speak for Janet, but it seems a bit more depressing than romantic.”

“At least it’s distracting him from his ant obses—-“ The tell tale chime of their study’s email disrupts her, “What do you think we got this time?”

“Let’s see,” he switches to the tab and in place of the usual notification from their wedding website there is an email sitting there with the sender as Tony Stark. Physiologically his heart remains firmly in his chest, but figuratively it plummets through the floor, “It is from our participant.”

In the time it takes for the comment to be processed and her, “That participant?” Vision has already read the response twice, his eyes going back for a third read through to make sure he has not found himself in some alternative universe created by his neurons firing too quickly.