#And with Fourteen kicking around on Earth that does set up the possibilities of him coming in

[returnofismasm]

I keep seeing things about a "rumored" UNIT spinoff and guys

That's been confirmed. Like for real confirmed. Kate Stewart is main characters.

So if you're wondering why the UNIT set seemed way too detailed and why there was a lot of emphasis put on some UNIT supporting cast. That would be why.

[dottie-wan-kenobi]

wishing and hoping

Remus/Sirius + “Will you marry me?”

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They’re fourteen, and it’s summer, the end of the semester hanging as thick in the air as the humidity. Late afternoon has found Remus hiding in the shade under a tree, his back against the cushion-spelled bark, his legs splayed out in front of him. He feels dreadfully overheated (even with his sleeves and trousers rolled up some, his socks and shoes kicked off beside him) and sick to his stomach in a grieving sort of way, and he can’t stop looking at Sirius. He’s laying next to Remus, similarly barefooted, his cuffs rolled up as far as they’ll go, the top buttons of his shirt loose. His hair isn’t long enough to be put up, yet, but it lays about his head in perfect waves. Arms tucked behind his head, he stretches like a cat and makes a sound like he’s never been so content.

Remus looks away, his cheeks surely red, but there’s nothing nearly as interesting to turn his attention to—James and Peter and some others playing Exploding Snap, Marlene skipping stones as she chats up a girl, Lily and Mary talking to younger Gryffindor girls—so he turns back to Sirius.

Their eyes meet. Sirius has that air about him, like he’s got his mind set on something and won’t let go of it for anything. It makes Remus nervous—the last time he’d seen that look, Sirius had found out that Remus thinks he might be bent. Just a little. And Sirius had said, eyes bright and searching, “I think I might be too. Just a little.”

They’d agreed not to tell anyone else yet, struck by the opportunity to have a companion, someone to keep a secret with, and by the fear that their friends won’t understand. But they haven’t spoken about it together yet, either, and part of that is Remus’ fault. Sirius has tried, when lights went out at night and it was only the two of them awake in their room and Remus pretended to sleep. 

He knows they need to talk about it before they have to leave for the summer. It won’t do to go all that time, questions building up and no answers or any way to get them. But thinking about it this way leaves a lump in his throat, his fingers pulling at the strings of his shirts. While he’s never quite minded getting to go home before, he does this time, and he isn’t sure why. Or, well, he has some idea but he doesn’t want to think about the possible reasons for it.

Sirius breathes out, looking up at the clouds, releasing Remus from his clutches. He asks, “Do you ever think about the future?”

“You know I do.”

“Well, humor me, would you?”

Remus shrugs, even though Sirius isn’t looking at him, and picks at his fingers. He has a hangnail, and he stares at it as he says, “I’ll have to get registered once I get out of here. Probably work in the Muggle world, since no one will want to hire a…well, me. They won’t want to hire me.” He can already imagine the kinds of jobs that’ll be available to him—important work, he knows that, but not what he wants. “What about you?”

“I’ll go where James goes, I suppose.”

“What about work?”

“What about it?”

“What do you think you’ll do?”

Sirius pulls an arm out from under his head just to wave his hand in the air dismissively. “Haven’t a clue. Probably nothing. I don’t want to work, anyway. Do you think I could pull off being a house-husband?”

Remus sighs, gazing up through the branches of the tree.

For a few moments, they’re silent, and it’s comfortable even if he’s wishing for patience. But then Sirius breaks it, because he hates silence and never lets it last as long as Remus would like him to. “If you could have any job in the whole world, what would you be?”

“I can’t—”

“Guaranteed you’d get it,” Sirius adds, turning to peek at him. 

Remus gives in, knowing it’ll be easier to just go along with wherever Sirius is trying to take him. “A teacher, I suppose.”

“Here at Hogwarts? Or in the Muggle world?”

“Well, I don’t exactly know what Muggles study, now do I?”

“So here, then.” Fluidly, Sirius sits up and turns to face him, his legs crossed. “Would you want to live in Hogsmeade, or somewhere else?”

He shrugs again. “I don’t know, wherever they’d take me would be enough.” 

“But if you were allowed anywhere,” he stresses.

He knows Sirius isn’t trying to be mean, but he can’t help his sharp tone when he replies, “If was allowed anywhere?”

Sirius’ eyes widen as he realizes what he said, his mouth turning down apologetically. “I meant—I just mean, imagine you could go anywhere in the whole world! Price doesn’t matter, and neither does the fact that you’re a—you. Where?”

“Why are you being so pushy?” Remus demands, feeling like the butt of some joke he doesn’t understand at all. “Why do you care where I’d want to live?” 

He scowls now, crossing his arms. “I’m just curious! Why won’t you tell me?”

“I don’t see why you should care if you’re just going to go and live with James anyway.”

“Well maybe I’ll go live with you! And I want to know where we might hypothetically live, is that so wrong? Just tell me!”

Remus throws a hand over his eyes, trying to calm down—the dark, conveniently free of Sirius, helps somewhat. Without pulling it away, he answers, “I don’t know, okay! I’ll be lucky if I don’t end up homeless or in with the—the you-know-whats. I’ve never thought about it before.”

Well, he has. But it hurts enough to get his own hopes up, nevermind sharing such private thoughts with Sirius. Maybe if they were hidden in one of their beds, a silencing charm up, lumos lighting them up enough to see, enough for Sirius to pretend Remus didn’t have tears in his eyes. But no—they’re sitting on the lawn under a tree, and their friends are all around. This privacy they have is fragile, and will be easily broken whenever James decides he’s bored and wants Sirius’ attention. He can’t admit to what he wants for himself here, or that he’s actually thought quite extensively about his future—a teaching job at Hogwarts, where his class will be fun and whimsical while still educational; a cozy house with a room for the moons that he’ll try to occupy on other days, a big bed to snuggle down into, someone by his side. He really is only a little bent—he wouldn’t mind a wife, he thinks, remembering flashes of imagined curves, a closet with his things on one side and beautiful dresses on the other. But usually when he imagines this home, he thinks of Sirius beside him. In bed, and in the kitchen, or taking a bath while Remus brushes his teeth.

He can’t possibly tell him any of this. He’s humiliated enough.

Sirius reaches out to rest a hand on his knee, breaking into his thoughts. When he speaks, his voice isn’t gentle like James’ would be or afraid of saying the wrong thing like Peter’s would. There’s a kind of unshakable confidence that only he has when he says, “That will never happen. I mean it, Remus. You’ll always have a place with me.”

“I—I—” He doesn’t know how to say thank you, or I won’t be your charity case, or anything at all.

“It’s not charity,” Sirius says, rolling his eyes. “I know that’s what you’re thinking but it’s not! You’re one of my best friends, and I’ve heard what the you-know-whats are like, and I know you wouldn’t be happy there. And I want you to be happy. So does Hogsmeade sound okay or would you prefer somewhere else? Ottery St Catchpole? Godric’s Hollow? I suppose we could live in one of the Muggle cities….”

“Those sound alright.” He shifts uncomfortably, and though it wasn’t his intention, Sirius takes his hand away.

He starts to muse aloud about the advantages and downfalls of the various towns, occasionally glancing at Remus like he expects him to be taking notes or something. A few minutes, he trails off, contemplative. “If you don’t like those options—”

“No, no, I do, they’re fine—”

“—we could always live in Paris, you know. Or Rome. Or we could go back to Wales?” He offers. “If you want.”

“What about what you want?” As soon as he says it, he regrets it—this whole conversation has left him wrong-footed and he’d meant to ask why on earth Sirius is acting so weird, not bring attention to the fact that this is all very one-sided. “No, wait, I meant—why are you—what are you—I don’t understand what’s going on right now,” he finally settles on. “You’re going to live with James, and the only way you and I will ever be together—live together, I mean—is if things get so bad for me I have no other choice. So—so why are you—”

“You know,” Sirius interrupts, a casual air about him that Remus knows is an act. He looks at Remus head-on, but he’s nervous—it’s obvious by how he’s ripping blades of grass out of the ground, one by one, twirling them around his fingers as he pulls. “We could just skip that step all together. Just follow James wherever he goes, be his next door neighbors. Peter can be on the other side.”

“Sirius, that’s—” ridiculous, he’s going to say, utterly bonkers, but Sirius talks over him.

“As long as we’re together, I don’t care where we live really. Just not London. That’s the last place I want to go.” He looks away then, to the grass. “Remus, I know this will sound mad, but…. Will you marry me?”

“We’re fourteen,” Remus says without thinking. Then—”What?”

“Will you marry me?” Sirius repeats, peeking over through his fringe.

“Are you—Sirius, don’t joke.” He can feel his whole face warming at the thought, though with humiliation or anger, he doesn’t know. He’d thought this would be something Sirius could be, well, serious about, that he’d understand. Remus can take all kinds of ribbing and hazing, but he cannot take this.

“I’m not joking!” Sirius is much too loud, his eyes widening again. “Remus, what we talked about—I thought—I mean, we get along and if we’re both you-know, then why not—”

“We’re fourteen,” Remus repeats. His heart is pounding at top speeds, and he feels like he’s just run a marathon, his whole body tight with shock and all kinds of other emotions he doesn’t want to think about. “And there are others like us out there, you know, and maybe you’ll find one who you could actually love if you just take the time to find them—”

Sirius makes a strangled noise. “I could, I absolutely could love y—”

Remus waves his hand agitatedly. “It doesn’t matter! You’re nutters.”

“So you don’t want to marry me?” It’s a demand, his eyes hard and piercing. But Remus can tell he’s hurt—his hands are in fists now, trembling against the ground.

“I—” He thinks about those fantasies. Thinks about Sirius with a ring, or sitting at a table with his bedhead and a copy of the Daily Prophet while Remus makes them tea. Not having to sneak into Remus’ bed because it’s his bed too. Mornings after full moons, Sirius hovering over him and trying to distract him from the pain. Kissing and holding each other the way Remus has seen two aunts do. Meekly, he answers, “I didn’t say that.”

“Then—”

“Oi!” James calls, bounding over with Peter a few steps behind. “What are you two bickering about now?”

“Nothing,” Sirius says at the same time Remus says, “It doesn’t matter.”

James and Peter pretend to back off, their hands up, vowing they won’t ask again. It makes Sirius smile, but Remus scowls, not ready to be eased into calming down. James nudges him with his foot, and Remus makes a grab for his ankle, trying and failing to trip him.

Laughing, he bounces away, and Peter shuffles closer to Sirius, obviously not wanting to face his wrath either.

“Come on,” James says, pulling Sirius to his feet but speaking to them both. “We need two more for a match of football.”

“Ask Marlene,” Remus snaps, sinking back into the tree. If any of them try to drag him along, he has no compunctions about fighting, none at all.

“What’s going on with you?” Peter demands after a few moments of quiet. 

“Just leave him alone,” Sirius replies, grabbing his shoes. “Remus, watch my stuff, will you?”

He grumbles an affirmative, and they leave. Their voices carry long enough for him to hear the other two questioning Sirius, and it does nothing but make his temper raise even higher.

Furious tears well in his eyes, and he slams them shut. He doesn’t know if Sirius was mocking him or not, if he honestly thinks that just because they’re both a little queer, that means they should get together. He doesn’t know which one is worse. It doesn’t help that Sirius seems to have all these plans for them, an expensive and lavish life that Remus will never be able to afford, even if they split the costs. 

It takes until the game is over for him to feel like he might be able to look at Sirius without his head exploding in anger and embarrassment. When the others come back, Sirius slips his bag over his shoulder without looking at him. “Thanks,” he says, and is off before Remus can decide what to say back.

“You know,” James sings, “He told us all about it. So if you wanna talk about what happened, we’re here for you, okay?”

Peter nods along, and it would be convincing if Remus weren’t absolutely sure that Sirius would never out them both this way.

“Piss off,” Remus says, and asks about the match before either can try and keep the subject going.

They don’t mention it again the whole rest of the semester, and Remus spends the summer fretting terribly about it, waking from dreams that leave him reaching out across his mattress for someone who isn’t there. And when they come back in the fall, Sirius manic with his returned freedom, they don’t mention it then either. But there are nights when Sirius slips into his bed and they talk about how they’re both just a little bent, feeling less alone with each conversation, and slowly the tension eases from Remus’ shoulders.

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

They’re twenty-seven, and it’s winter, apprehension hovering around Remus as much as their breaths do outside. Early morning has found them laying in their bed, tucked under the light covers and sharing body heat as the weak sunlight filters in. He feels warm (a good, comfortable kind that goes deeper than the skin) and nervous though he thinks he probably shouldn’t, and he can’t stop looking at Sirius. He’s laying next to Remus, dozing off with one hand resting under his head, the other holding the small of Remus’ back. Strands of his hair have come out of the bun he put it in before bed last night. As Remus watches, he stretches out his legs, cold air seeping in from where the blankets get displaced by the movement.

He doesn’t think he ever wants to look away.

Looping his arm around Sirius, he shifts them so he’s on his back, Sirius laying on his chest. It’s enough for him to open his eyes, soft but probing too.

“C’mon, wake up,” Remus says, quiet, not wanting to breach the atmosphere.

Sirius groans and ducks his head, forehead pressing to Remus’ collarbone. “Too early,” he complains.

He can’t help but smile, amused. They woke up for the first time an hour before, and it certainly wasn’t because Remus wanted to. He’d gotten with the program eventually, of course, but at first? All Sirius. “There’s something I want to talk about.”

“Something bad?” Sirius checks, peeking up.

“Well, I don’t think it is.”

“Will I?”

Damn, he hopes not. But he plays along, making a contemplative face. “Depends. Are we gonna talk about it, or are you gonna sleep again?”

“Maybe I will,” Sirius grumbles, not really all that upset. He sits up a little, and Remus’ hands find his hips without thinking, stroking his thumb up and down Sirius’ bare skin. “What is it, then?”

“Do you ever think about the future?”

Sirius stares down at him, some realization sparking in his eyes. “If you’re asking about my inheritance—”

“I’m not, I’m not,” Remus says, petting Sirius’ flanks like he does Padfoot’s, hoping to calm him down some. It won’t do to have him all ready to argue if Remus is going to take them where he’s trying to go. “I meant, do you ever think about what we’re doing here?”

“We live here,” Sirius says blandly.

“Well, yes—”

“And this is our bed, so clearly we’re laying in it. When we get up, we’ll visit the loo and then go have a late breakfast and maybe I’ll take another stab at getting the telly and the magic to work. We’ll have lunch and I’ll pester you about getting a dog again and you’ll say, ‘No, Sirius, we already have one and that’s you’. Then maybe I’ll take you in the den, and we can lay on the floor for a while complaining about the cold. Supper will be something delicious, no doubt because I’ll make it, and then when we’re done eating, we can take a bath together.”

“I meant more generally,” Remus cuts in. “Though that all sounds lovely.”

Sirius smirks, but it’s fleeting. “Generally? I think we’re making a life together, Moony. Why, what do you think we’re doing here?”

“The same thing as you,” he reassures, and means it with everything in him. Life with Sirius is amazing, and it has been since they got together five years before, and he hopes—embarrassingly and achingly hopes—that he’ll get to have it for the rest of his days. “But maybe it’s time for a change?”

They’re quiet for a long moment, their eyes locked. Remus can practically hear Sirius’ mind whirring, something in his gaze flickering. He can probably the see right through Remus, can see where this is going, is trying to figure out how to say that he likes them the way they are and doesn’t want any more, doesn’t want a more formal attachment than their names together on a lease.

Finally, Sirius sits up fully, pushing the flyaways out of his face. When he speaks, his voice is tight, straight-forward. “Are you trying to break up with me?”

It takes a moment for his words to get through to Remus, the very idea feeling foreign and wrong, and then he splutters, “What?”

“Are you trying to break up with me,” Sirius repeats. “Because if you are I’m going to be really, really upset. I’m not letting you go without a fight, okay, I thought we agreed that if we were having issues we’d fucking talk about them instead of just—”

“Sirius,” Remus calls, feeling frantic.

“—just letting it all build up and explode in our faces so it’s too late to save anything,” he blazes on. “You said that yourself, and now you’re not even going to—? What was it? What did I do? We’re gonna talk about it, we’re gonna sit down and go over everything, we’ll—I’ll compromise if I have to, and if you still feel like it’s—this is—we’re—if we can’t overcome it, then—then fine, I’ll—”

“Sirius!”

“—I’ll go, okay, you can have the cottage, I would never kick you out, I hope you know that—”

For a second, he’s thrown back to the first time they talked about this, and all the other times Sirius was weirdly adamant about Remus having some place to live. It makes him feel weirdly light-headed—that he would worry so much about it in the first place, that even now as he thinks he’s being broken up with, he’s still looking out for Remus. They’ve been together for years, friends for almost two decades, and it’s far from the first time Sirius has been considerate of him. But it feels so big this time, and he isn’t sure why.

“Sirius, for Godric’s sake, will you listen to me?”

Finally, finally he stops, but he pulls away, too, lifting himself off Remus’ lap and landing beside his legs. There’s a distance there, and by the way Sirius is scrutinizing him, he can easily see tears in his eyes, and it makes Remus feel like his insides have been scooped out. 

This isn’t what he wanted, not what he expected to happen at all. For years, ever since they were fourteen, he’s been dreaming of this moment, all the different ways he could ask or be asked. He knows Sirius occasionally has a hard time taking the lead in their relationship, and from what James had said, this is one of those areas, so Remus had decided he’d do it. A comfortable place, like their bed, alone so there’s no pressure, broaching it the same way Sirius had thirteen years before because it had seemed like a good way to remind him they’ve been here before.

Clearly he’s screwed up somewhere, though, and has to backtrack quickly before things really go to shit.

“Padfoot,” he says as calmly as he can, speaking around his heart in his throat. “I’m not trying to break up with you. You didn’t do anything wrong, there’s nothing—that’s not—I mean, we’re okay. Fully, totally okay, alright? If I did have an issue, I would bring it to you like we agreed.”

“Then I don’t understand,” Sirius says, his words glancing past in the face of Sirius’ hurt and confusion. “Why do you want things to change? If we’re so okay, then we don’t need it.”

“We are okay,” Remus says, more of a snap than he wants it to be. It’s not Sirius’ fault he’s misunderstanding what’s going on here. Apologetically, he reaches out for Sirius’ hand, and he lets him take it, pressing his thumb to Remus’ wrist. “I’m—I’ve right mucked this up.”

Sirius makes a noise, not quite a scoff or an agreement. Just an acknowledgment.

“What I meant by all this was, do you ever think about our future? And would you ever want to…”

“Want to what?” Sirius coaxes when Remus has taken too long. He still sounds upset, but he’s listening, and that’s enough for now.

Remus meets his eyes, and a bolt of fear overwhelms him for a second. He and Sirius haven’t talked about taking this next step, not really. For all that they’ve joked about certain things—being Harry’s gay uncles, getting a dog to raise as their own baby, being old men still bickering about the laundry—they’ve never quite sat down and just said it, that they want to marry each other. Remus hasn’t admitted it to Sirius since he was fourteen. It’s been too long—and now he’s thinking he really should’ve brought it up before now, to gauge where Sirius is at with this. Too late now, he supposes.

“Want to marry me,” he says, then clears his throat, and asks, louder, trying to sound confident, “Will you marry me, Sirius?” 

Sirius blinks, some of the hurt falling away to make room for surprise. “What?”

“Will you marry me?”

“Don’t joke, Moony,” he says, a waver to his voice. He pulls his hand away, his mouth turning down. “If you’re joking right now….”

“I’m not, I’m not joking. Let’s get married.”

“We’ve never—we can’t—Remus.”

He reaches out and cups Sirius’ shoulders, and Sirius leans in, nearly collapsing into his lap. It was a mistake, he realizes, to go about it this way. “Look, if you don’t want to, you can say no. I know…I know I didn’t really go about this the right way, I should’ve asked you about it before I just sprung it on you. So if you want to say no, I won’t mind.”

“You won’t mind?” Sirius chokes. “Are you—did you just ask me to marry you and now you’re saying you don’t want to?”

He groans, thoroughly irritated with himself for having so much trouble communicating this. “No! I want to get married to you, I’ve wanted to since—well, for a very long time, okay, all I’m saying is that if you want to wait or don’t want to at all, that’s fine. We can keep doing what we’ve been doing, I won’t be upset. I’ll be a little upset,” he corrects, already planning ahead for a miserable night of mourning the chance to call Sirius his husband. “But I’ll get over it.”

Sirius breathes in deeply, and out just as loudly. “Give me a second,” he says, and doesn’t wait for a response before he shuts his eyes and lays his head in the crook of Remus’ neck. Immediately, prickling anxiety fills him, but he figures letting Sirius gather his thoughts is the least he can do, and opts for rubbing long circles on his back.

They’ve found themselves in this position many times before, sometimes like this and sometimes flipped. He’s come to the sound conclusion that there’s no better place to be than in Sirius’ arms, or holding him, nowhere safer or more comforting. Even now, as emotions pile up—fear and guilt and embarrassment and so, so much love—he feels…okay. It’s easy to reassure himself, because he knows even if Sirius says no, they’ll talk about it and they’ll be fine.

“I’m ready to talk,” Sirius says, putting on airs again, but doesn’t pull away. His arms loop around Remus’ waist, one hand holding the other wrist against the small of his back.

Remus presses his cheek to his head, breathing in his shampoo and sweat and the slight dog smell he can never get rid of. He whispers, “Okay.”

“I—you’ve gotta know, Moony. I’ve wanted to be your husband for…ever. Since I found out it could maybe come true some day. Me not wanting to marry you isn’t the issue here.”

“But there is an issue.”

“Well, yeah. I don’t know about you, but I don’t know anyone who would officiate, and even if we did find someone, it wouldn’t be legal, would it?”

“They’re trying to get it legalized with the Ministry,” he reminds, though a stab of something—guilt and false hope and a familiar, numb anger—hits him as he says it. The chances of it actually happening… Lily didn’t seem optimistic, the last time they talked.

Sirius scoffs. “You know how that’s going to go.”

There’s no use denying it. Still… “Yeah, but there’s always a chance. Lily’s on the committee. That’s at least one person on our side.”

“That’s true…”

A few moments of quiet pass them by. They both seem to realize how cold it is in the room at the same time, so Remus grabs a throw blanket from the end of the bed to tuck around their shoulders. Sirius hums contentedly, and the sound of it shoots right through Remus. He can’t help but break the silence. “Pads.”

“Yeah?”

“If we could find someone to do a ceremony, would you want to do that? Whether it’s legal or not.”

“Of course I would. Finally get to see you in a proper suit, mmm.”

Remus grins, poking at him and getting his hands playfully slapped away for the trouble. “Who said I’d wear a suit?”

The look he gets is a wonderfully amusing mix of horror and disappointment, and if Sirius says anything, he doesn’t hear it over his laughter. By the time he’s calmed down, Sirius has them laying back down, curled up together like when they woke up. He wants to ask more questions—what kind of venue, what season, if he’s as committed to Harry being the ring bearer as Remus is—but they can wait. He ducks his head down, breathing in Sirius and their bed and the cold air, and lets himself bask in the realization that, sooner or later, they’ll be husbands.

(reblogs greatly appreciated! 🥺❤️)

[softyoongiionly]

Fear and Dumplings: Chapter Fourteen

(GIF isn’t mine)

Confronting your fears for a final grade sounds unappealing but, with Yoongi as your partner, things might not be so bad.

Summary: You’re in your final semester at University when your Abnormal Psychology professor assigns you a partnered project surrounding your greatest fears. Lucky for you, your partner just so happens to be a cute boy named Min Yoongi.

Pairing: Min Yoongi x Reader

Genre: Underground Rapper! Yoongi, Soft!!! Yoongi, Fluff!!!, some moderate angst (later), smut (later later), slow-ish? burn.

Word Count: 10.3k (lol, i wanna die) 

A/N: please scream along with me as I drown in a pile of emotion. I’m sorry the last three chapters have been so emotional, yoongi is a complicated boi and, needs roughly 25k to get out all of his feelings. ALSO, the next chapter will finally feature Jimin’s showcase, please send him love and good luck. Not like he needs it lmao

I LOVE YOU

Warnings for this Chapter: moderate angst, SMUT (oh my god its alot), mentions of anxiety and hardship, language, too many feelings.

Warnings for the Fic: mentions characters confronting their fears, characters in uncomfortable situations, emotional moments between characters, mentions of bad parenting, explicit language throughout the fic, moderate angst, and very explicit smut later in the story.

Chapter 14: Angels and Angels

“Jimin, if you move again, I’m going to shove this needle into your perfectly sculpted butt cheek…” You mutter, pinching Jimin’s ass, the sweat on your brow growing significantly.  

This causes a giggle to erupt from your best friend, who is currently contorting his body so that he can stare at himself in the mirror. 

“Yah! Do you miss your little boyfriend that much that you have to take your sexual frustration out on me?” Jimin wiggles his ass in your face and, you admonish him with a smack to his hip as you try your best to finish sewing his costume. 

Jimin called you that morning in a panic after he had ripped his showcase outfit during rehearsal so, you had quickly rushed over after your morning classes to resolve his crisis. 

“He’s not my boyfriend…” You counter, a smile threatening your mouth, “I do miss him though…” 

Jimin stalls his movements, allowing you to finish up, “You really like him don’t you?” 

The smile comes in full force but, thankfully Jimin is facing away from you when it does. 

“Maybe…” 

He rolls his eyes but, allows your vague response, turning slightly to examine your handy work, “You should invite him tomorrow, I still haven’t met him…” 

There is a flutter in your stomach at Jimin’s suggestion. You know that Jimin gets extra credit for the number of people that attend and, having Yoongi there would fill an extra seat. 

All the more reason to invite him… 

“I mean, it’s a big night for you Minnie, if you’re ok with him being there then, I’ll see if he’s free.” You attempt to keep your tone casual but, you’re slightly nervous at the thought of Yoongi being there as your date. 

Professor James cancelled Tuesday’s lecture due to illness and, Yoongi texted you Thursday morning that he wouldn’t be in class that day. Not seeing him for an entire week didn’t exactly sit well with you but, you were determined to not read too much into his absence.  

Jimin smirks, smoothing his hands over his hips, head tilting side to side in the mirror, “It’s my fourth showcase Y/N, it’s not that big of a deal…” 

A scoff leaves your lips, “Um??? It’s your senior showcase, you’re the reigning champion and, you’re about to make history as the only collegiate dancer to win the showcase four years in a row; of course it’s a big deal!” 

He giggles as you shove him playfully, a bit of nervousness creeping into his gaze, “You really think I’m going to win again?” 

 “Jimin,” You turn him towards you, holding each of his wrists in your hands, “I know you’re going to win again.” 

His beautiful smile graces his lips as he thrusts himself in your arms, the white sequins scratching against your skin. You hold him anyway though, you know he needs it. 

“Thank you…” He mumbles into your hair, “I don’t know what I’d do without you…” 

You smile into his neck, the warmth of Jimin’s words filling your heart, “Oh Jimin….I don’t know what you’d do either…” 

He pinches your side, “YAH! Don’t be mean! I would survive…maybe…” 

Squirming out of his hold, you giggle, patting his hip gently, “I don’t know what I’d do without you either Park Fairy. I’d probably die…” 

He points at you,” Exactly, don’t be a brat…” His tone his firm but, the smile on his lips is hard to miss. Jimin turns his attention back towards his full length mirror again to examine his costume. 

It’s a beautiful piece, skintight, covered in white sequins and, thin pearlescent lycra that hug Jimin’s body perfectly. You wondered if this was his entire costume as Jimin was known for quite an elaborate set up. 

“I love this costume by the way, it’s beautiful,” You marvel, putting all of your sewing tools back in their box, “Is the theme still a surprise or can you end my suffering and tell me?” 

Jimin smirks, eyes carefully scanning over his backside,” It’s still a surprise, my leotard is only the base piece, I have a lot more in store…” 

“RIP my mascara…” You lament, snapping your sewing kit shut before grabbing your phone off of the coffee table, “Should I text him now?” 

He giggles, amusement coloring his face as he turns to you, “Why do you look so nervous?” 

“I’m not nervous.” You grumble, thumbs tapping away at your screen to get to your message thread with the dreamiest rapper on Earth aka Min Yoongi.  

The last message that you sent him was wishing him luck on the rest of his composition, which he has been working tirelessly at for the last half of the semester. He only responded with a thumbs up emoji and, that was yesterday at 7:49pm.  

Suddenly, as your fingers hover over the keys, you feel slightly insecure at the lack of communication between the two of you. Last weekend had been amazing and, Yoongi made sure that you arrived back at your apartment safely and during the week he had said something to the effect of ‘I miss you’ without actually saying it.  

Jimin notices your hesitation, “What’s wrong?” 

Your teeth find purchase on your lip but, you avoid his gaze and focus in on your phone. 

“Nothing…I just_” A sigh leaves your lips as you tap the screen to keep it from going black, “ I don’t know… Yoongi and I had a really good time last weekend and, I’m used to not really hearing from him but, I kind of thought after everything that happened between us, there would be a little more communication. I don’t expect him to text me all day or anything but, we both agreed that we liked each other….a lot so, I thought he’d…” 

“Act like a boyfriend?” Jimin offers, a bit of his playfulness diminishing, focusing in on your emotions. 

The word sends butterflies through your stomach but, you shove them out, trying not to drown in your emotions. 

“No…I mean yeah but, like we aren’t together yet so, I can’t expect him to…I don’t know…” Articulating your emotions is not always your strong suit and, for whatever reason, you seem to become especially impaired when Yoongi is involved. 

“Jagi…” Jimin begins, sitting beside you, the sequins scratching your skin as he wraps an arm around your shoulders. “…you’re allowed to want his attention regardless of whether or not you both have a title. Titles are nice but, the feelings are much more important…” 

You deflate a little bit, leaning into Jimin, your teeth still working against your lip, “I really like him…like I want to wake up next to him and, make him breakfast and do cute shit with him and, I’m not used to feeling like this and, I want to crawl into a hole and, never come out…” 

Your pink fairy giggles, pressing a kiss to your head “Yah, you’re not allowed to crawl into a hole, my showcase is tomorrow…” 

“Can I do it after your showcase?” You mutter against his leotard, your thumb tapping your screen again to ensure that it doesn’t go black.  

Jimin scoffs, “I literally just told you that I can’t live without you, do you want me to die?”  

His brows are raised in playful accusation and, you try your best not to get to distracted by how adorable he is. 

“No...” You grumble, lips fixed in a firm pout 

He chuckles now, nudging your hand towards your phone, “Okay then, text him.” 

With a roll of your eyes, you unlock your phone for the third time and, begin typing your message. 

You: Hey, I’m not sure what you’re up to tomorrow, I know you’ve been working on your composition but, my best friend is performing in a dance showcase in the main theater. Do you want to come? I figured we could carpool and, maybe get dinner afterwards or something? Let me know when you get a chance! 

By the end of your message, you feel your heart doing somersaults beneath your sternum. Why the hell were you so nervous? Shouldn’t you be passed this by now? 

“See? I knew you could do it...” Jimin cheers, kissing your head once more before moving to carefully take off his costume. 

“Yes, now I just have to endure a slow painful death while waiting for him to respond...”  A sickly sweet smile is on your mouth which causes Jimin to throw his head back in laughter. 

“Aren’t I supposed to be the dramatic one in this friendship?” 

“No Jimin, you’re the beautiful and talented main character and, I...”You gesture to your chest, “...am your socially inept, quirky side kick...” 

This earns another boisterous round of laughter from your best friend who is currently checking out his nearly naked body in the mirror.  

“Okay, first of all, thank you for calling me beautiful. Second of all, you’re can’t possibly be the sidekick...” 

Your eyes narrow, “Why not?” 

Jimin whips around in your direction, bubblegum hair a disheveled mess ontop of his head, a brilliant smile on his pretty lips, 

“Because you’re my hero...” 

With a mouth parted in shock, you process just how ridiculous your best friend is. At your expression,  

Jimin rushed into another fit of laughter as you respond. 

“Alexa, play Hate That I Love You by Rihanna...” 

 ------------------

After Jimin leaves, you wait approximately 5 hours before getting a response from Yoongi. The response does nothing to aid in soothing your nerves:

Yoongi: Hey sorry it took me so long to respond. I’ve been working, I think I may be able to go but, I was wondering what you were doing right now. I’m having some trouble sorting through something, I know it’s late though, so I understand if you’re sleeping.

Your brow furrows. His message seems odd but, you don’t want to pass up an opportunity to see him. Plus, you definitely wouldn’t be able to sleep knowing that he’s having an issue.

You: I can come by, what’s the address? Are you ok?

5 more minutes pass before another message comes in,

Yoongi: I just want to hang out, this week has been kind of rough.

Yoongi: 8294 Han Road. I’m in the 4th studio space. Just ring the front and, tell them you’re here for me, they should let you through. Sorry it’s so late.

You frown at his admission, wanting nothing more than to be with him now that you know your suspicion is correct.

You: Don’t be sorry, I’ll be there as soon as I can.

His message comes through within seconds and, you can’t help but feel a little nervous at seeing him in his studio. There’s also this feeling; a feeling that indicates that something is wrong. Yoongi has never asked you to come see him and, that paired with his odd behavior this past week has your stomach in knots.

What if he didn’t want to see you anymore?

You both agreed that you liked eachother but, life was busy for the both of you. The conversation on the Ferris wheel inches its way back to the forefront of your mind. Yoongi said that you two getting together would be a bad idea, was he returning to that conclusion?

 He never explained why he felt that way in the first place.

The Uber ride to Yoongi’s studio costs you $9.78. You didn’t realize how close he was to your apartment and, as the car pulls up to the faded brick building, you feel your heartbeat grow to an alarming level.

“Thank you, have a good night…”

“No problem, have a good one.”

The exchange with the driver is short and, given that he didn’t talk to you the entire car ride, you decide to rate him 5 stars.

 As you approach the front entrance, you notice the soft blue neon sign hanging off of the door that reads: SoundCrowd.

Clever.

You’re definitely in the right place.

The door swings open effortlessly and, you’re met with an empty lobby. Tables, chairs and, various flyers containing the studios information are the only things that greet you when you walk in. The clear glass that separates the lobby from the reception desk make the whole place feel like some sort of medical clinic; it’s not exactly a beacon of creative energy. You hope Yoongi’s studio space was less clinical.

“Can I help you?” A deep but, friendly voice calls from behind the glass.

The receptionist is an older guy, maybe in his mid-30s, wearing what looks to be a ghost busters pajama set.

“Yeah, I was looking for Yoongi? He said he was in the 4th studio space…”

The man smirks knowingly, “You’re here for Min huh? Tell you what, I’ll let you through but, you have to promise me you’ll try to get him to go home. The dude’s been here for like four days straight…”

Your brow furrows, “Four days? Are you serious, he hasn’t gone home or anything?”

The man clicks his tongue, “I live upstairs, and his car’s been here since Monday. He used my shower about an hour ago but, other than that, I don’t even think he’s left the room…”

A sigh leaves your lips at the information, “Jesus.”

“Are you his girlfriend?”

The word makes your heart go fuzzy and, your first instinct is to say yes but, the last thing you need is for Yoongi to find out that you made your relationship official without him.   

“Uh no, we’re just_” You trail off, searching for the right word, “we’re dating but, he’s been a friend of mine for quite a while…”

He smirks, waving you over to him, “No need to explain, I’m just happy Min is getting some sort of human interaction. He’s been a god tier introvert ever since I’ve known him. I’m Sejin by the way…”

A hand is extended through the opening in the glass and, you accept it graciously, bowing your head.

“Y/N,” You smile, “it’s really good to meet you. How long have you guys known each other?”

Sejin squints his eyes for a moment, tilting his head in thought, “Oh geez uh, let’s see, Yoongi’s 25 this year…uh…ten years maybe?”

Your brows go up, “Oh wow, are you from Daegu too?”

At your seemingly normal question, Sejin grows visibly uncomfortable, as if a realization just crossed his brain. You fear you may be asking too many questions but before you can amend, Sejin speaks up again.

“Uh, Yoongi’s never mentioned me has he?”

“No, he hasn’t, I’m sorry…” You smile looking towards the buzzer near Seijin’s hand, wishing you would have just asked him to buzz you in.

“Oh don’t be sorry at all,” A soft smile is sent your way as he sees that you may have gotten the wrong impression. Sejin nods toward the door, “Yoongi lived with me for a while when he first came to the city, I’m a friend of his older brother. I’m sure he’ll tell you more about it if you ask; Here let me buzz you in, he’ll be straight down the hall to your right.”

Confusion swirls in the forefront of your mind but, you smile nonetheless, turning towards the door, “Thank you so much, it was nice meeting you.”

He bows his head, offering a small smile, “Nice meeting you too.”

There are rooms lining either side of the long hallway, some of which emit a low hum of music through their barriers.  Yoongi certainly isn’t the only night owl plugging away in the building.

Turning right at the end of the hall, you’re met with a black door boasting a sign that read “#4.” The irregular heartbeat is back as you raise your hand to knock at the door but, your desire to finally see Yoongi after nearly a week overruns the nervousness that you feel.

“Come in.” You hear his voice through the door and, quickly, you turn the knob and, let yourself in.

You’re met with a confusing sight. 

The studio space was dimly lit with a low hanging turquoise fixture that sends a calming wave of light throughout the small room. The walls contain various speakers and, electrical equipment and, along with a work desk, you notice a giant monitor, nearly the size of a flat screen and, every production tool that any musician could ever dream of. However, there was also several indicators that Sejin was right about Yoongi never leaving this room. There’s a black pull out couch on the right side of the room that looks like he hasn’t been slept in, a few pieces of Yoongi’s clothes scattered on the floor and, perhaps the most disturbing thing is the overflowing trashcan in the far corner of the room containing nothing but empty coffee cups. From what you can tell, there isn't a single take out box so, that either means that Yoongi has been taking his food trash out or, that he hasn’t been eating at all.

And then there’s Yoongi, who’s just turned to look at whoever just came through his door. He’s sitting in the black desk chair,  dressed in a pair of torn up black jeans and a grey hoodie, his formerly platinum hair is a faded brown now and damp from his shower. He musters a small smile for you, his normally cat like eyes are sunken in, clearly from a lack of sleep and, his lips are chapped, another indicator that he hasn’t been taking care of himself.

“Hey you…” You smile, setting your purse down by the door, trying to gauge what’s going through his mind.

“Hi…um thank you for coming…” He rasps, his eyes shifting nervously over you, fingers itching to reach out for you.

You shake your head, “Of course, is everything ok?”

Yoongi opens his mouth immediately as if he’s already has an answer prepared but, he deflates soon after, looking at you helplessly, “No, not really I-“

He takes a deep breath, looking away from you, trying to keep it together. You don’t say a word as you close the space between you, moving to stand in front of his seated figure. Instantly, you pull him into a warm hug, holding him tightly, not needing him to explain just yet.

Yoongi feels so much of the tension melt away from his body as he feels your embrace, his arms coming up to reciprocate, burying his face into your hip.

The two of you don’t speak for a few seconds but, you feel Yoongi shake silently, not daring to untuck his face from you as he lets the tears spill over his eyes.

This causes your heart to shatter but, you don’t break the silence yet, allowing him to process his pain how he needs to. You keep him close though and, rub his back soothingly as he collects himself.

“I’m sorry…” He mumbles into your yellow sweatshirt, regretting that he’s staining the material with tears, “I should have texted you more, I just…this week’s been really hard.”

You shake your head, holding him tighter, “Don’t be sorry, I knew you were working on your project this week, it’s completely ok…”

This is said for his benefit of course, you didn’t want him to worry about your fear that he had lost interest when he clearly had something much more pressing going on.

“I wanted to text you…the first night I got like this but-“ He cuts himself off to sniffle, still not releasing you from his grip. “I didn’t want to bother you, or freak you out or anything…”

“Hey-“ You tilt his face towards yours, thumbing away one of the tears that is attempting to roll down his face, “-you’re never a bother to me, especially if something is wrong…”

He turns his face to place a gentle kiss against your thumb before sighing out shakily against your skin, “I can’t get this fucking song right Y/N. I’ve been at this for 5 months now and, it always comes out wrong, I’ve rewritten it like 10 different times and, I can’t do it. It’s shitty. I’m not cut out for this, I’m not good enough to go pro, I should’ve_”

He trails off, his eyes reddening as the tears collect once more at the corners of his eyes, “ I should’ve listened to my father, he told me to major in business, he said this would happen and, he was fucking right.”

His words create a deep ache within your heart.

How could someone so talented, doubt their abilities so much?

It’s not the first time you’ve seen it but, you’ve yet to understand it.

“I know you’re upset, I know that this seems impossible right now and, you’re unbelievably frustrated but, Yoongi…” You tilt his head back towards yours, your gaze growing firmer, “You were born to do this. You are the most talented musician I’ve ever known and, the quality of your stuff? The way you write, the way you think, it’s a sign. It’s a sign that this is what you’re meant to do. You’re not meant to be in a suit, slaving away at a corporate job you don’t even like, that’s what everyone else is doing. Yes, it may be more stable, it may provide a steady income and, give your parents something to brag about but, it isn’t you. Your happiness is in music, I can see that. You light up when you talk about it, you lit up on that fucking stage, and had half the city eating out of the palm of your hands. You are so incredible, you have no idea…”

Yoongi feels his heart swell in his chest, no one has ever spoken to him about his music like this, not with this much passion. But then again, Yoongi’s never known another person like you, he’s never known another that can make him feel so good.

“But jagi…the song…it’s not coming together, my professor is going to hate it…” He urges, anxiety still squirming around in his stomach. He wraps his arms around you tighter though, feeling a bit of comfort at your words.

“Did you think the crowd at Glacier was going to hate your song too?” You point out and, as you do, he bites his lip, sniffling again.

“Yeah…I did…”

A hand is carded gently through his damp hair as you smile down at him, “And look what happened Agust D, you became the city’s champion underground rapper. Did you lock yourself up in this studio and live off of Americanos for weeks on end then too?”

A smile threatens his lips, “You remembered my order…” he sighs, nodding reluctantly at your question, “I do this a lot…”

A breath is released through your nose as you smile gently at his observation but, the frown between your brows remains, “I don’t want to tell you how to live your life Yoongi but, you can’t do this to yourself. I know self-doubt can be borderline parasitic sometimes but, you have to try and cut yourself some slack. I know how hard anxiety can be, I know it can make you feel like the world is coming to an end but, please know that you are so much more capable than you realize. Sometimes it helps to step away from something and, revisit it when you’ve had time to clear your head. I have to do that with my proposals all the time…”

Yoongi moves back slightly to wipe a hand over his face, taking a deep breath as he nods in consideration of your words, “You’re right…I know you’re right. It’s just hard for me not to fall into this cycle sometimes. I got help when I started school, for my anxiety and, it helped but, old habits die hard you know? I just start overthinking everything…I can never get rid of that part.”

You lean down to press a kiss to his forehead before slowly helping him to his feet. “You might not ever get rid of that, you’re only human. Overthinking is my first reaction too but, over the years, I’ve slowly learned to not trust every crazy scenario my brain comes up with.”

He smiles and, this time you see it reach his eyes, the sight calms you significantly. “You’re…”

Yoongi shakes his head, “I knew you’d say the right thing, you always do…”

“Come here.” You smile, pulling him into a hug, tucking your face into his neck, “I’m sorry you’ve been going through this…try to reach out earlier next time ok? So this doesn’t go on so long, you know I’m here for you.”

He nods sagely, rubbing his hands on your lower back, “ I will, I promise…”

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

Roughly an hour later, after you’ve gotten Yoongi to eat a good meal, the two of you start indulging in one another, the lack of contact starting to get to both of you. 

Your lips peck against Yoongi’s gently, just as a means to soothe him, your hands placed firmly on his shoulders.

 “I just...” He whispers against your mouth, attempting to melt away against your touch.   

He needs it, now more than ever.  

“Hm?” You hum gently, combing your fingers through his hair, nails scratching tenderly at his scalp.  

“I just don’t want to think anymore.” He breathes, responding more and more to the kisses placed against his lips.  

The column of his throat is eagerly arching towards your lips in a silent invitation. At the sight of his swallow, tender flesh, you frown at the lack of color there.  

“Your marks are gone.” You murmur, kissing the corner of his mouth  

Yoongi swears he wants to cry. He's kept his distance all week, trying to make sense of his emotions, trying to perfect his composition. But now, with you here, touching him, loving on him, he realizes how desperate he is for you; for relief.  

“Make new ones please...I just want to stop thinking...help me.” He practically keens his response but, he keeps it in check for the most part, not wanting you to consent for the wrong reasons.   

You bring your eyes to his, holding his desperate gaze, a smirk beginning to play on your lips.  

“How do you want me to help you?” You tease, encouraging him to articulate his desires.   

His cheeks flush even more, his Adams apple bobbing as he attempts to swallow back his nerves.  

He doesn’t know what’s come over him but, your tone compels him to his knees and, as his jean clad limbs touch the tile, he speaks, “You know...you know me, you know how to take care of me...”   

The response goes straight between your thighs; his small voice, his display of respect, you can tell this is something he’s had on his mind or awhile and, after the week he’s endured, you conclude that he needs to let loose.   

A finger is curled under his chin, directing his cat-like eyes up towards your own. You can tell he’s nervous but, the way he shifts eagerly on the floor tells you he’s more than ready for you.  

“You think so?” You coo, thumbing over his chin, smirking down at him  

He nods eagerly at the conclusion of your first sentence but, continues to nod throughout your teasing.  

“Use your words...” You urge, tightening your grip on his chin, admiring how beautiful he is on his knees.   

“Ye--...” His voice is already shot so, he clears his throat attempting to speak clearer, “Yes...”  

Your teeth press into your bottom lip, as your hand moves from his chin to push his faded brown hair away from his forehead.  

 “You want me to call the shots so you don’t have to?” You’re taking your time to rile him up, knowing it will pay off for him in the end.  

Another eager nod comes from Yoongi as he pushes against your hand, his doll-like lips going dry from his heavy breathing.  

“Yeah...I trust you; I’ll be so good for you, I promise.” He vows, lips brushing against your wrist, his dark eyes never once leaving yours.  “Please…” 

You tug on his hair then, drawing a whimper deep from within his chest. Yoongi feels his nipples harden as the pain pricks deliciously against his scalp.  

“You like this right? When I pull on it?”   

“Yes.” He breathes, shivering as your fingers brush across his lips and, down over his neck.  

“And...” You whisper, keeping your tone gentle as your hand wraps around Yoongi’s throat.  

This causes him to exhale shakily, his cautious eyes widening like saucers as he stares up at you.  

“Wh-…"  

You attempt to finish your sentence but, Yoongi’s shaky voice beats you to it, his request tumbling clumsily past his lips.  

“Fuck...please choke me...”  

He sounds so weak and, yet so sure of himself at the same time. You two had just begun breaching your sexual interests but, stepping into true dominant/submissive roles is something you’ve yet to do.

Whatever is about to happen, is going to be completely new territory for the both of you.   

The tightening around Yoongi’s throat makes him see stars; he feels like one of those cartoon characters that’s just been hit with a ton of bricks. Its intoxicating.   

“Oh-” Yoongi’s voice is raspier underneath your grip, his dick plumping up painfully against the zipper of his jeans.   

“You like when I choke you?” You coo, still holding his throat but, decreasing the pressure slightly.  

He nods, gasping as you tighten your grip again, testing the waters. Yoongi can already feel the dampness in his jeans but, he doesn’t care, he wants so much more tonight; he wants you to ruin him.   

“Use your words...” You remind him gently, urging him to open up as your free hand combs back through his hair.  

He exhales shakily once again, “Yes...”  

A fond smile is on your face then as you take a moment to run your fingers through his chestnut locks. You slowly urge him towards you so that he’s close enough to rest his chin against the center of your stomach. Yoongi stares up eagerly, awaiting instructions, his breathing uneven and, you take the small moment of silence to tug on his hair again. This causes his hands to come up and grip your outer thighs in desperation and, if he wasn’t already suffering in his jeans before, he definitely is now.   

With a salacious smirk you slowly bend at the waist so you can brush your lips against Yoongi’s, holding his gaze all the while, “I need a safe word from you...can you think of one for me?”   

Yoongi can’t think of anything aside from you at the moment along with his painfully hard dick threatening to bust out of his jeans but, he tries his best to wrack his brain for a suitable answer.  

“Dragon.”   

He scans your face for approval, hoping his choice was sufficient and, if you weren’t fulfilling the role of caretaker, you would be melting onto the floor right now.  

“Dragon it is...” You smile, combing a hand through his hair again, resisting the urge to tug on it, “You use that word anytime you need to ok? And we’ll stop...”  

Yoongi returns your smile, exhaling at the touch of your fingers, “Ok...”  

“Good boy.” The words are spoken into his hair when you lean over to kiss the top of his head. His hands haven’t moved from the outside of your thighs and, at the touch of your lips, he squeezes them again, “Stand up for me.”  

At your request, you move away from him, offering your hands as support. Yoongi looks at them tentatively before interlocking his fingers with yours and, slowly moving to his feet. Through the holes in his jeans, you can see how red his knees got from kneeling on the floor.  

You want the rest of him to match...  

“Come here...” You practically coo at him, curling a finger in your direction, beckoning him towards you. Yoongi never takes his eyes off of you as he takes the three steps necessary to reach you. As he stands before you, you keep his eye contact and, curl your fingers underneath the hem of his grey hoodie.  

“Arms up.”   

He obliges immediately, raising them high above his head, allowing you to slowly pull the material off of his body. Yoongi feels the hairs on his arms stand at attention as the cooler air of the studio hits his exposed skin. Without instruction you hook a finger underneath his chin and, silently bring his lips to yours. The two of you kiss, slow and sweet, taking time to lull deeper into one another. Your tongue slips in first, laving against Yoongi’s timid but eager mouth, as your hands begin slowly moving up the sides of his torso. A smirk is pushed into the kiss when Yoongi shivers at your touch, his whole body on fire for you.   

“You trust me to take care of you right?” You murmur into his mouth and, not two seconds go by before he’s nodding. “You’re gonna be good for me?”  

A half of a whimper slips out of Yoongi’s swollen lips, his hands come out to touch your waist as he nods again.  

“Yes, I’ll be good...”  

You smirk again, deciding that one of your goals tonight is to get Yoongi to feel more comfortable talking dirty to you. It’s a quality he possesses and, you can tell it’s something he’s into but, it takes a certain level of lust to send him there.   

“Why are you gonna be good for me?” The question is spoken between a few kisses and, you can’t express the delight you feel when he’s cheeks go red again.  

“Because-” His words are cut off as you slowly start to tickle your fingers over his ribs, the pads of your thumbs inching toward his erect nipples. “…. you deserve my respect. You deserve my obedience...”  

Good answer.  

“What makes me so deserving hm?” You coo against his neck, sucking gently against the sweet spot at the juncture of his collar bone. Before he can answer, you swipe your thumbs over his nipples. Yoongi swears he already feels like he’s going to pass out but, he does his best to answer coherently.   

“All women deserve my respect but, you...” He breathes, his head falling back on his shoulders, exposing his skin to you,, his hips rutting forward as you continue brushing your thumbs over his nipples, “you’re the best woman I know...you always take care of me, you’re always so nice to me. I wanna give you everything I can, so I’m worthy for you.”   

Yoongi is more than worthy enough for you but, given his history with insecurity, you can’t say his answer surprises you. However, if you weren’t melting into the floor before, you certainly are now.   

“You are worthy angel, come here...” The whispered command brings Yoongi’s mouth back onto yours as he swears he could cry at the particular pet name you just chose.  

Do you really think he’s an angel?  

He can’t imagine why...  

With your bodies pressed together and, your lips delicately tending to his, you speak again, initiating the rest of your plan, “Are you ready to play Yoongi?”  

Another nod comes from the angel in question, his nose nudging against yours as he does,   

“Mhm...”  

God, you didn’t know you’d be this into his submission but, here you are, completely drenched and he hasn’t even touched you yet.   

“Sit down on the chair for me, hands on the arm rests.” 

He follows orders, sitting down on his desk chair, spreading his legs to accommodate the throbbing erection pushing against his zipper.  His long fingers curl over the edges of the arm rests as his chest rises and falls with his increasing heartrate.     

You watch him carefully, mulling over multiple options that will hopefully make him cum so hard he can’t think straight. The first move you make is removing your hoodie, baring your black lacy bra to him: an article of clothing you chose specifically because you knew he liked it.  

The thing is though, Yoongi is no ordinary man. When he’s truly submitting, he does nothing without permission, not even look at you. Even as you step in front of him, Yoongi’s eyes stay glued to the floor but, the ever increasing motion of his chest gives away his reaction.  

“Didn’t you miss me Yoongi? Why aren’t you looking at me?” You grin, knowing the answer already 

He shakes his head, not wanting you to misunderstand him, “I missed you, so much, I just hadn’t asked permission to look at you yet. May I look at you?” 

“You may.” 

He doesn’t need further coaxing. He immediately brings his eyes up to your body, scanning over you eagerly, wincing as he feels his dick twitch in his jeans. 

“So pretty...” He murmurs, eyes full of adoration, “thank you for letting me see you...” 

“Don’t look away.” You demand softly, smirking in his direction as you slowly unclip your bra, revealing your breasts to him. As the cool air of the studio hits your sensitive chest, your nipples harden causing Yoongi to finally lick his lips.  

He wants them in his mouth so badly but, he wouldn’t dare question your plan. He knows you’re going to do right by him. 

“Jagi...” Yoongi pulls in another deep breath to calm himself, resisting the urge to gawk at you, “you’re so beautiful...” 

You’ve moved in closer to him, standing between his thighs in just your leggings before dipping down to kneel on the floor. 

As your nails slowly slide up his legs, you respond, “I wish you knew how beautiful I think you are...maybe then you’d be able to see what I see.” 

Yoongi’s lips part in awe of what you just said, feeling very overwhelmed before the two of you have even started.  

“You think_” He exhales, eyes fluttering with the sensation of your fingers inching closer to the inseam of his jeans, “…you think I’m beautiful?”

Your fingers tickle over his inner thighs before crawling over his unstable hips and towards his zipper. As you reach his erection, your eyes travel to his, catching a glimpse of his fucked out expression. His pupils are dilated, his lips are swollen, cheeks pink and puffy like fresh cherry blossoms, his fingers twitch on the arm rests; he’s growing desperate with anticipation.

“You are the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen Min Yoongi. I wouldn’t be caught dead on my knees for any other man…” You whisper, holding his gaze as you yank down his zipper, the motion causing a gasp to leave his lips. The relief is minimal but, Yoongi is grateful that his swollen dick finally has the room fully stand at attention. 

You deserve his full attention.

“You’re beautiful…” Is all he manages, his ability to form coherent sentences slowly slipping away.

His hips are lifted at your instructions as you pull his jeans and boxers from his hips, leaving him completely exposed to you. Yoongi feels a little insecure, his got a bit of a tummy on him as he’s been skipping the gym and, eating nothing but takeout the past few months. He didn’t shave either and, he’s waiting for some sort of negative reaction from you but, instead he feels the sharp pull of arousal in his stomach as you start kissing up his thighs.

“I should punish you for the way you’ve treated yourself this past week…” You admonish before taking the tender flesh of his inner thigh between your teeth, sucking hard enough to make him squirm.

Yoongi’s breath catches as he winces from the pain, his thigh jumping away from the sensation, “I’m sorry…I’m really sorry.”

Your tongue laves over the battered flesh before you make your way to the other thigh, taking time to blow cool air over his engorged dick. He shivers whilst thinking of what he would give to be in your mouth right now but, he won’t beg. He won’t try and sway you in any direction; he wants your full control.

“I told you last weekend not to talk shit to yourself didn’t I? So you can imagine my surprise when I come in here tonight and, you’re doing just that…you don’t want to disobey me do you?” You coo, pouting your lips before sucking his skin back between your teeth, creating an identical mark on his right thigh.

“Ah-“ He whimpers, squeezing his eyes shut, feeling rather tipsy at the sensation of pain, “No…of course not. I want to listen…”

A dark chuckle leaves your lips as you start placing kisses up his thigh, a wicked sense of delight coursing when his dick twitches towards your mouth, “Oh he wants to listen now does he?  Is it because my lips are so close to your dick?”

Yoongi grips the arm rests, his fingers slipping off due to the sweat created by his palms. Despite the cool temperature of the room, he feels like he’s on fire, he doesn’t think his ever been this turned on in his life.

“No, that’s not the only reason…” His hips jerk along with his stomach trembling when he feels your nails tickle their way over his hips, “I want to be good for you.”

As your nails conclude their teasing over his lower stomach, you let them rest against his hip bones as you ask your next question, “Mm, then you’ll sit there like a good boy while I have my way with you then won’t you?”

Before he can answer your question, a ragged whimper leaves his throat when you scratch your nails harshly across his soft pale skin, leaving aggravated lines of red as you do.

“Oh my fucking god…” He mumbles, eyes watering when his dick does the impossible and swells further, “I’d sit here like a good boy no matter what you wanted to do to me…”

He confesses, his faded chestnut hair sticking to his forehead, his eyes completely blown out with lust.

You prepare your nails to scratch him again and tickle them up the sides of his body, taking a moment to brush your fingertips over his pert nipples. Yoongi’s body is really sensitive but, his chest in particular always garnishes a special reaction from him. Your nails settle right where his heart is and, you can actually feel it pounding against his chest, “I want you to touch yourself for me…can you do that?”

Yoongi lets out a shaky breath and, once again you interrupt his answer by dragging your nails across his chest, digging in harder this time.

He actually feels his dick leaking at the sensation whilst his body arches off the desk chair, craving more of your touch.

“I have to go slow…I’m so hard right now, I don’t know how I’m gonna last….” He warns, his eyes shifting in uncertainty and, you take the time to admire how utterly innocent he looks.

Yoongi may be intimidating to those who don’t know him but, to you, with you, he is the softest man you’ve ever known.

But now isn’t the time for tenderness, you know what he needs.

He needs to be ruined.

So you’ll do just that…

Your hand comes out to wrap around his neck which elicits another gasp from his pink lips, his body going limp at your touch. You squeeze gently, just enough to slow the air circulation and lean in so your lips can brush against his.

“You’ll last because I tell you to last, because this dick belongs to me doesn’t it?”

Yoongi’s face is weak with pleasure as he nods eagerly, a small whimper leaving his lips, “Uh huh…”

A smirk forms on your lips as you squeeze his throat a little tighter, his dick jumping in response, “Say it…”

“My…my dick is yours jagi…” He gasps when you use your free hand to brush gently over his aching nipples, the sensation a huge contrast from what you’re doing to his throat.

“Your cum is mine…” You egg him on, dragging the pad of your thumb gently over either of his nipples.

“Ugh fuck…” He curses, his eyes locking onto yours and lull in and out of focus, “My cum is yours…everything is yours…”

Licking your lips, you loosen your grip slightly, giggling wickedly as he tries to reach for your lips, “You want me to hurt you while you jack off baby?”

Yoongi swears you must be sent from heaven, or maybe hell, either way, he’s dancing on the edges of euphoria at the moment. It’s like you know exactly what he’s thinking, he’s never known anyone who can anticipate his desires so well.

“Mhm…” He hums, the sound edging very close to a coo.

There is something that crosses your mind, something you hadn’t thought of before this began: was Yoongi capable of going into subspace? Because the glossy eyed expression, the yearning look, the pliant posture and slack jaw, everything about him looks like he’s heading in that direction.

“Yeah? You want me to hurt you really good?”

His mouth falls open as soon as you slide your cupped hand up his throat, your thumb brushing tenderly against his lips, “Yeah…please hurt me…”

Oh fuck, he’s right there…

“Suck…” You command gently, staring into his eyes, which have started to glaze over at your touch. He takes your thumb in his mouth, sucking eagerly, holding your eyes for approval, laving his tongue against the tip of it. “show me how you touch yourself baby…”

He nods, still sucking on your thumb before removing his sweaty hand down to his aching length. Yoongi’s eyes squeeze shut as he slowly curves a fist around himself, and, his leg twitches when he starts stroking his dick.

The relief is instant and, you feel the vibrations of his moans against your thumb. As he works himself up, you move away from him to kneel back between his knees.

His breathing is heavier, his toes are fidgeting against the floor but, his eyes refuse to leave yours, even as they threaten to close from pleasure.

You slowly tease your nails down his chest, over his ribs and hips, dangerously close to his dick, over his now bruised inner thighs and, all the way down to his ankles.

He brushes his thumb over his tip, a small whimper leaving his lips as his eyes squeeze close at the sensation. He’s already close, you’ve been winding him up for the past 45 minutes but, he holds on desperately, not wanting this to end.

“What do you think about when you touch yourself Yoongi?”

He takes another shaky breath and, does his best to swallow properly, despite his mouth being completely dry, “Lately, all I think about is you…I don’t even watch porn that often…”

Before you ask another question, you dig your nails into his calves and slowly begin dragging them up his legs. His whole body jerks in response, his hand faltering over his tip, he has to pull away for a moment, he almost came right there.

“ohmygod….” He keens, mostly to his self, his wide eyes looking away for a moment while he desperately tries to get a hold of himself.

“Oh but, you do watch porn? You’re cumming for other women then?” You tease and, Yoongi would panic that you’re actually upset but, the playful smirk on your face tells him that you’re just giving him a hard time.

“I don’t watch women…” He breathes, a ghost of smirk now playing on his own lips, “I watch men mostly, women in porn are annoying…they’re all annoying honestly…”

This makes you giggle but, you feel yourself growing wetter at the thought of Yoongi, getting off to men.

“So you think of me sometimes?” You’re still teasing him and, he knows you’re fishing but, he’s so into you he doesn’t care; he’d write a fucking thesis on you if he had the time.

He shakes his head, stifling a moan as you drag your nails over his hips when his hand reaches the tip of his dick; he really doesn’t know how he’s going to last.

“No…you don’t get it…” His breath is fucked and, his dick is so hard he wants to cry, it takes everything in him not to beg, “I think about you all the time…I’ve been thinking about you, ever since I came to your house that first time…”

Lust swirls deep in your panties; you don’t know how much longer you’re going to be able to do this either, his dick looks so good, hard, swollen and aching to be fucked. But you haven’t finished ruining him yet, you want him completely desperate before you give in.

“When I pulled your hair the first time?” You smirk, your hands travelling up his body once again as he nods, licking over his lips.

“Ye…yeah…that’s why I left so quickly, you made me hard…” He gasps again as your hand makes it back up to his neck, “…I…are you gonna choke me again?” His eyes look wary, almost frightened, the motions on his dick slowing again, “I don’t….jagi, I don’t know what to do…I don’t want to disappoint you but, if you…if you choke me again, I don’t…”

You smirk, tightening your hand around his neck before he can finish his sentence, “You’re gonna what baby?

“Oh fuck-“ He squeaks, his eyes starting to water when he squeezes over his tip, trying to halt his release, “Jagiya…I can’t…I can’t hold it, you have to stop…”

“Hold it, or I’ll tie you to this chair and leave you like this…” You hiss into his mouth, and his brow furrows in desperation but, his balls tighten further at your threat. The hand around his neck doesn’t cease its constriction and, his hand actually begins to move faster on his length.

His starting to learn…

“Good boy…don’t stop…” You kiss at his lips but, not long enough for him to respond to you, his whole body on fire and shivering at the same time.

Yoongi nods in determination, a shaky breath leaving his nose as he follows orders. He tenses however as you stand up, your left hand coming up to comb through his hair, which is matted against his forehead with sweat.

“Please…” He whimpers but, its not for permission to cum, you know exactly what it’s for.

Curling your fingers around the roots of his hair you tug hard enough to push his head back against the desk chair and, before he can even react, you use your other hand to tighten around his throat.

That’s it, that’s what breaks him.

Tears collect at the corner of his eyes as they widen like saucers, his mouth falling back open as he tries to cry out but, he’s too hoarse to do so.

“Y/N please…baby…baby please, pleasefuckme, pleasefuckme, I can’t…I need you...“ He’s completely lost it, he’s rambling, his eyes aren’t even in focus.

He isn’t even really looking at you but, you know you’ve got him, he’s made it there.

In less than ten seconds, he’s out of the desk chair and onto the pull out couch. He trembles beneath you; his hands reach up as if the lack of contact is painful.

Leaning down to him, you press a tender kiss to his lips to which he responds like a starving man.

“Please jagi…please I need you so bad, I’m sorry I need you, I need you…I really fucking need you…” He sounds like his about to cry and you nod, your tenderness returning just as quickly as it left, your panties pushed haphazardly off of your hips

“Hey…hey...I’m coming angel, I’m coming, just breath for me ok? I’m going to make it better…” You coo, pressing him gently into the squeaky mattress of the pull out couch, the cool sheets welcome against his hot skin.

He nods, not fully able to focus as he wraps his hands around your hips. You press another kiss to his lips before your final command is given, “As soon as I sink down onto you, I want you to cum ok? Can you do that for me?”

Yoongi’s bleary gaze finally locks onto your eyes, his body weakened with desire, “I’ll do anything for you…”

You can’t even recognize his voice, it’s so small, so weak and, so in…

You can’t say it.

Not yet.

But you can feel it, its bubbling right underneath the surface.

As soon as you sink down on him, you give him a few good strokes of your drenched heat before his whole body arches off the bed. Yoongi’s face is buried into your neck, his dull nails dig into your hips as he lets out a cry that shatters you.

You can feel how much he’s cumming as shot after shot of his release paints the inside of you. He’s cumming so hard that he starts crying, his silent whimpering enough to send you over the edge with him.

“don’t stop…don’t stop…” He cries into your neck, holding you so tight to him that it restricts your movements.

All you can do is nod as white hot pleasure takes over your senses, your orgasm just as intense given the events of the last hour.

Yoongi completely loses himself, he cums again, his hips glued to yours as he cries for you. Part of him would feel embarrassed but, he’s too fucked out to care. He’s too in…

Not yet.

He can’t say it, but it’s in his throat.

Its in his heart.

God, he’s never felt so good in his life, he never knew it could be this good.

“Y/N…” He croaks when your hips start settling down. His face doesn’t leave your neck but, he starts sucking gently on it, trying to ground himself.

He feels like he’s floating.

“Baby…” Yoongi practically coos, hands glued to your skin, still sniffling as his tears slowly come to a halt.

The smile that graces your face is brilliant and full of adoration. You slowly pull off of him, “I’m right here angel, I got you…”

You want to get him in a more comfortable position so you can hold him but when you try to pull away to do so, he panics, his glossy eyes widening in fear.

“No…no…” He tries to protest but, you kiss his forehead to reassure him

“Shh…I’m not going anywhere, I just want to hold you…come here for me…” You murmur, kissing his forehead again.

He’s suspicious, not thinking clearly but, he trusts you, not moving more than an inch away from your body as you shift the two of you to sit against the back of the couch. Yoongi scrambles to get closer to you, making himself smaller as he lays his upper half into your chest, tucking his face back into your neck.

“I got you baby boy, I got you…” You whisper, hoping the soft blue light in the studio will soothe him further along with gentle kisses pressed to his skin, “You did so good for me angel…”

Silent tears fall down his cheeks as he tucks further into you, “I did good?”

He checks again, feeling so vulnerable and, yet so safe at the same time.

You smile, pressing a kiss to his sweaty forehead, your nails gently combing his hair back, “You did amazing. You were so good for me.”

His small mouth curves in a dreamy smile, still trembling but, feeling slightly more grounded, “You keep calling me angel….you’re the angel…my angel.”

“You can’t steal my nickname…” You giggle, causing his small smile to turn into a gummier smile as he nuzzles your neck.

“So pretty…” Is all he can think of to say but, you know he’s talking about your laugh.

God, you feel like crying right now though, you could have never guessed that you could feel this strongly about another person.

When a comfortable silence falls over you, you take a moment to notice how banged up he really is. His body is decorated with pinks and purples, scratches, bites, a hicky or two; you really did a number on him and, you want to take care of his skin before it gets too uncomfortable.

“Yoongi? Baby, I need to put something on your scratches, I have cooling gel in my bag-“ You begin to say but, his eyes quickly widen again and, the same panicked look returns.

“Don’t…don’t go-“ He urges, holding you tighter.

You know it’s a symptom of him being in subspace, he doesn’t actually think your leaving but, a lack of contact with you makes him nervous.

“I’ll come right back, my bag is on the floor…” You assure him gently, pressing a kiss between his eyes.

His eyes flutter shut at your kiss and, his hands tighten on you one last time before, he kind of gets a grip on himself.

He knows he’s being a little unreasonable but, he’s never felt like this before, he feels intoxicated and so incredibly needy.

“Ok…” He reluctantly agrees

Another kiss is placed to his forehead before you move quickly to retrieve the gel from your purse. As soon as you sit back down with him, he immediately wraps himself around you, hiding away in your neck as you start to apply the gel to his skin. His breathing is beginning to even out as he melts into you, letting you take care of him.

Like you always do…

“How do you feel?” You whisper into his hair as you smooth the substance over his neck, which has reddened slightly.

“I feel high…” He muses, sounding a little bit more like himself.

His response causes you to giggle, “I’m that good huh?”

Yoongi smirks, kissing your neck slowly, “You invented sex…”

Another giggle bubbles over your lips, as you pull the sheet over Yoongi’s body, “Do you feel better then?”

“Mhm…” He hums into your neck, kissing up the length of it before finding your lips. A soft kiss is placed there before he speaks again, “I wish I could articulate better but, you fucked me stupid jagi…”

Smiling into the kiss, you comb a hand through his hair, scratching gently at the scalp, “Don’t worry about it, take your time, I’m right here if you need me…”

The two of you stay like this for quite some time, holding each other, as you slowly settle back down. Yoongi stays quiet for the most part, doing his best to center his thinking which proves to be quite easy as the only thing he can really think about is you.

A half an hour passes before he finally speaks up, feeling the need to explain something to you.

“I used to live here…” He murmurs, face still tucked into your chest

Your brow furrows at his statement, “Here? At the studio?”

He shakes his head, “It wasn’t always a studio, ten years ago it was a halfway house for troubled youth…”

The beating of your heart stalls but, as you open your mouth to respond, Yoongi continues, his voice stabilizing finally, “My parents are not supportive of what I do. When I was a teenager, we used to fight all the time about it. They tried to force me to stop but, I never listened. I snuck out to do music all the time and, started failing out of school. One night, my father came in and freaked out on me, he destroyed my lyric pages and, threw everything away. The next day, I came home from school and, they had kicked me out. My older brother tried to stop them but, they wouldn’t listen...”

Your chest feels tight as you try your hardest not to let your emotions overflow; you never knew how much Yoongi has endured.

“Sejin, the guy at the front desk, he’s a friend of my older brother,” He rasps, placing another kiss to your skin as a means to soothe himself, “he took me in with nothing but my old laptop and, the clothes on my back. My parents wouldn’t let me take anything. I finished school in the city and, ended up landing a scholarship at our university, that’s where I met Hobi and, reconnected with Namjoon. Once he found out what happened to me, he insisted I move in with him while I got my degree. The rest you already know…”

You hold him tighter, kissing his forehead for the 100th time, “I’m so sorry Yoongi, I didn’t know you went through all of that. You’re so strong for pushing towards your dreams despite everything being so hard for you…”

He smiles gently and the wise look has settled back into his eyes as he looks up at you, “You see why I get a little nervous sometimes now…I’m so worried that my parents are going to be right.”

Nodding, you thumb over his cheek, “I do but, please know that you’ve already proved your parents wrong. After everything you’ve endured, you still keep pushing and, as long as you keep dreaming, you’ll never fail…”

A sudden kiss is pressed to your lips then, which Yoongi turns slow and sweet.

Just like him…

“On my worst days, I tell myself that all of this will be worth it someday…” He whispers against your lips, continuing to kiss at them

“It will be, everything will pay off...”

“It’s already started to…ever since my classroom switched…” He smiles, brushing a piece of hair from your face.

Intense emotion blooms fully in your heart when he responds and, you have to shake your head to keep yourself from crying, “Does that mean you’ll be my date tomorrow then?”

He chuckles, his eyes brightening up significantly as he leans into your lips,

“Tomorrow and, any other time you’ll have me.”

if you let me, here’s what i’ll do: i’ll take care of you

[mattzerella-sticks]

Constants (9.5k Supernatural fic) (ao3 link)

Meeting with alternate versions of themselves makes Sam and Dean think about what the landscape of the former multiverse might have looked like - or, really, "If there can be multiple Deans and multiple Sams, can there be other versions of things they know. Like... Baby?"

Dean says no. There's only one Baby. She's got four wheels, black paint, and has been his from the beginning. Sam thinks otherwise.

Let's explore what the possibilities of Deans, Sams, and Babys in different universes might look like.

Earth-1

           Dean wanders in with two beers, lifting them high as he enters. “There are our last two,” he calls, “Gonna have t’go on a supply run tomorrow!” Sam barely responds, nodding, too focused on his phone. “Hey,” he continues, setting the beers down in front of Sam. Slamming his brother’s hard. Not even a flinch. “Who’s that? Eileen?”

           Sam rolls his eyes, grabbing for the beer. “It’s us.”

           “Come again?”

           “Us,” Sam tells him, flashing his phone screen, “Other us. Rich us.” Dean takes the phone, bringing it closer for a better look. There, on the screen, were them. Somewhat. Half of the other Sam’s face appeared, mouth cut off by the camera. His hair sat atop his hair in a messy bun. Behind him, dressed in a flowing, flowery kaftan and holding an empty cocktail glass, was Dean’s reflection. Dean’s doppelganger points out at a beautiful skyline from the balcony of whatever hotel they camped in.

           “God,” Dean winces, “they sure are living the life, aren’t they?”

           “Of course they are,” his brother snorts, stealing his phone back. “They don’t have God breathing down their necks.”

           Dean sighs, collapsing across from Sam. “True… you think it’s too late to switch places?”

           “They’d never,” he scoffs, sipping his beer, “not even for your entire porn collection and Baby –“

           “Don’t joke about that,” Dean splutters. “Wherever we’d go, Baby’d come with us.”

           “Seriously?”

           “Absolutely. She’s… she’s Baby. Our Baby.” Dean waves his bottle around, droplets of condensation flung in all directions. “They might look like us, but they ain’t us. That Dean wouldn’t know what to do with her… probably’d toss a wad at some mechanic to fix her up instead of getting his own hands dirty…” Dean scowls, glaring at his beer bottle’s mouth. “Like, did you see their hands? Hardly any callouses… and they were too smooth. Bet he never spent hours over a sink trying to wash motor oil outta his nailbeds.”

           Sam leans back in his seat, enjoying the spiral of his brother’s tirade. Although he’s not fully present watching him. Curiosity circling around a tiny thought. Like sharks homing in on discarded chum. Before he realizes it, Sam asks, “You don’t know. Maybe they had their own Baby?”

           Dean pauses mid-sentence, gaze drifting from the bottle to Sam. “What?”

           “Just saying…” Sam shrugs, stringing together his next few words carefully. Uncomfortable with the dangerous glint shining in Dean’s eye. “There are probably an infinite number of universes – sorry… were. And on them, their own Dean and Sam. Maybe they had their own Baby’s?”

           “That better be a joke, Sammy,” Dean growls, sloshing some of his drink out of the bottle’s tiny mouth with how forcefully he points it at him. The splash nearly wets Sam’s knuckles. “You cannot even compare Baby to that – that… that mint green disgrace those losers showed up in.”

           “I wasn’t trying to compare!”

           “Because there’s only one Baby.” Dean can sense he overreacts, the ferociousness twinging his voice surprising him alongside Sam. He cannot contain the fire raging inside. “She’s special, and she’s unique, and she’s ours. There might’ve been a million you’s, and there might’ve been a million me’s… but throughout all of existence, no matter what Earth, there’s only one Baby!”

Earth-16

           Dean tosses two Jack’s, face-down, “Two twos –“

           “Bullshit!”

           He glares at Sam, dimples like craters on his cheeks. “You sure about that?” Dean asks, fanning his cards out. “You think I couldn’t have two twos in my hand? Or,” he gestures at the pile, “do you want all these cards?”

           Sam levels his own stare at Dean, dialing up the contempt. “Dean, I played four two’s three rounds ago – if you were paying attention you’d’ve known that. So, pick… them… up!” He barks fake laughter on beat, although it quickly becomes genuine as Dean gathers the pile. They’d gone the entire game without calling each other out, practically the whole deck was in Dean’s grip.

           The last few cards were in Sam’s hand. But not for long.

           He slides three cards down, grinning. “Three sevens.”

           “Dammit!” The cards spill onto the table, a few falling over the edge. Dean’s body sags, head dangling between his legs. “I can’t believe I lost!”

           “Serves you right for trying to trick me. Twos… what were they anyway?”

           “Jacks.”

           “Why wouldn’t you just say that, then?”

           “Because the game’s boring when you tell the truth all the time!” Dean drags tired hands down his face, pulling at his skin. “Out of all the chances you had to call bullshit, just when I was so close…” He slaps the table, mood reversing immediately. “Let’s play again. Best three out of five!”

           Sam sighs in agreement, gathering the cards. Except, as he does, a shadow steps into view. Someone reaches forward and slaps his hands, forcing him to drop the cards. More falls onto the floor. Hissing, Sam glances up at the intruder.

           Rufus stands over them, brow arched wryly. “No more games, you two,” he orders, “you were supposed to start cleaning a half-hour ago.” He kicks the bucket filled with supplies near Dean’s chair, almost toppling it over. It wobbles, sound echoing around them. “Get to it,” Rufus says, walking away, “And when you’re done, do a full inventory check.”

           “Rufus!” Dean yells at his retreating figure, “You know I restock her after every call!”

           “You think that makes a difference? Full inventory check – and I want the report on my desk.” Rufus ends the conversation, bounding up the stairs towards the second floor. Undoubtedly hiding away until the alarms blare and spurs them all into action.

           Dean folds his arms across his chest, huffing. “Don’t know why we gotta wash her again,” he mutters, “I washed, dried, and detailed Baby this morning!”

           “Yeah,” Sam says, gathering the cards again, “but we were out earlier, at that apartment fire?”

           “We weren’t close enough for ash to get on her roof.”

           “Then maybe he’s doing this because he caught you fooling around in her body the other night,” Sam reminds Dean, standing. He throws the box of cards at his brother, snickering at how he fumbles the catch. He places it down with a grumble. “Why you thought you’d get away with it…”

           Dean rises, too, blush creeping up his neck past his blue, uniform collar. “I was making sure her vitals were okay, that’s all…”

           It’s a poor excuse; they both know it. He grabs for the bucket’s handle, hiding from Sam’s condemnation. “Sure.” They shuffle out the break room into the apparatus bay, passing by their fellow teammates enjoying down time. “But hopefully you’ll think twice before playing doctor.”

           “As if. I’m seeing her tonight. And,” Dean wiggles his fingers, grin wide on his face, “this time I’ll be helping her check for lumps on her breasts!”

           “Gross, what are you – fourteen?”

           “Dude, you’re just jealous…” Dean trails off as they pass the last fire truck and enter the ambulance territory. His face lights up in that special way when he catches sight of her, that eases the tension in his shoulders and injects more bounce in his step. No matter how much he might whine about caring for her, Sam knows Dean would gladly work overtime – has worked overtime – in keeping her in top shape. Their home away from home, where they travel the city helping those in need.

           Dean knew her longer. Told stories about his assigned truck over dinners, in his free time, and whenever Sam had free time when studying for his exams. Sam never truly understood how an ambulance could leave such an impact on one man. Why he’d give her a nickname, and say it so fondly. It was a car. A means to and end. Drives them where they need and nothing more. But then Rufus chose Sam for his squad, made him and Dean partners.

           Then it made sense. She wasn’t an ambulance. Baby – Dean’s affectionate nickname for her – was part of the team. The third member of their operation. Without her, they’d be ineffective. Once, after a gnarly crash that took Baby out of commission for a month while they repaired her, they drove another in the interim.

           It didn’t handle right. Dean found the clutch sticking every now and then, the pedals squeaky. Sam’s response time doubled because he couldn’t remember where the necessary instruments were. Working inside that replacement was hell, and there were too many close calls.

           When they saw Baby waiting, almost brand new, during their next shift, both he and Dean nearly broke down. Dean denies it, but he let a few tears slip free.

           Luckily, since then, they haven’t been separated. Through squad rotations, disasters, and aging, none of them felt ready for retirement.

           “Y’know,” Dean says, wiping at her front window. Sam on the other side, doing the same to her mirror. “I was wondering… how’d Baby look if she were painted black?”

           “Black?” Sam asks, “Why black?”

           “Dunno… it’d be cool, right?”

           “It’d be ominous as fuck, Dean.” Sam’s lips pinch, holding back laughter. “How’d you feel if you were bleeding out and a large, black truck came speeding at you?”

           Dean winces, picturing the image. “Yeah, okay… I get it.” He steps away from Baby, tossing the rag over his shoulder. “Still be cool, though.” Clapping, he looks at Sam. “So, do you want to do the inventory or should I?”

           “Rufus was clearly talking to you when he said that.”

           “But you’re the one who spends all his time back there. I should be calibrating the brakes, making sure her on-board systems are synced, y’know…”

           Sam glowers, slapping her hood with another rag. “Dean, I am not doing your work for you.”

           “But Sam –“!

           Ringringringringringringringringringringring

           The apparatus bay becomes awash in a flurry of activity. Firefighters scrambling from their posts, jumping into their uniforms. Both Dean and Sam scan the room as it seems like the entire building rushes for the exits.

           Dean brushes a gentle hand across Baby’s hood. “Guess Rufus’ll have to wait for that inventory report.”

           Sam agrees. The three of them have lives to save.

Earth-84b

           Dean closes his eyes as the wind hits his face, savoring its caress. His feet push off the pedals, legs stretched straight while they roll down the hill. He can hear Sam’s ragged breathing in front of him, still cycling. “Dean,” he growls, “stop fooling around and help. A bicycle built for two means it needs two people to work it.”

           “I know,” he says, “I’m the one who bought Baby. Not you.”

           The curve of the hill flattens out, and Dean blinks his eyes open. He resumes pedaling, chasing the high that only comes from riding Baby with his brother on a perfect, summer day.

Earth-1 A-corn

           Dean knows the human toy takes up space in his nest he could use for storing more nuts. The oblong piece of plastic serves no function and draws blank stares whenever other squirrels visit his nest. But he dares not throw it away.

           Seeing the toy brings him as much joy as it did when he first laid eyes on it one afternoon, spying on little humans. Captivated him, put Dean under its spell. When the two were called back by an even larger human, Dean scurried forward. Sniffed it. Laid a paw on its wheel and spun it. Hearing the click and whir made him giggle. As the wheel’s spinning petered out, Dean came to a decision.

           He carried the toy home, where it has become a part of his family. And every member of Dean’s family deserves a name.

           So, he calls her Baby.

Earth-R0ck

           “Where in the bloody hell can your brother be?”

           Sam shrugs, spinning his drumsticks in hand. “I saw him chatting up that reporter from Rolling Stones on our way out from the venue…”

           Crowley stops, pressing his phone against his shoulder. No doubt trying Dean’s number again. “Rolling Stone?” he hisses, “And why didn’t you stay with him?”

           “Wasn’t that kind of interview…” Sam saw the glint in Dean’s eye, shifting back into his stage persona as he strode over towards the blonde with the press pass. She didn’t look too impressed with his brother, but Dean charmed stiffer lips. He only hopes his brother doesn’t bring her back to the bus for a quickie. Sam would prefer not being locked out in the bitter cold.

           Like they are now.

           “Why your brother insists on keeping the keys…” Crowley mutters, rolling his eyes. He holds his phone up once more, flicking it off with a heavy scowl. “I’m going to go find him. And if I have to see his naked ass, balls deep in this reporter, then I’m dropping you two as my clients.”

           Sam calls to his departing figure. “No you won’t!” He chuckles at Crowley’s one-finger salute, watching the shorter British man enter the club.

           A beat passes, drumming the air. If needed, he could wait there until Dean finishes or Crowley brings him back with blue balls. But he feels something land on his head. And another. Then, on his nose.

           Snowflakes.

           “Damn…”

           The flurry shows no signs of stopping. Increasing with each passing minute. When white powder dusts his shoulders, Sam makes a decision. He rises, shaking snow off of him. “Sorry about this Baby,” Sam says, patting the section of their bus where her name was spray-painted, “but I’m gonna get a little handsy.”

           This was not the first time Sam said this. Nor did what he does now. When the brothers were first starting out in their band, and all they had were their instruments and Baby, Dean had an abandonment issue. Finding fans in the audience and following them home, keys still on him as he wouldn’t let anyone drive Baby but him. If Sam couldn’t find his own bed for the night, then it’d be him and the asphalt.

           Until he learned this neat little trick.

           Sam wedges the backdoor open, easing it. Making sure the hinges don’t break. Assured Baby is fine, Sam starts shoving their equipment through. “How many years,” he growls, rolling his drum, “and I haven’t made a duplicate key yet?”

           The drums were hard but loading Dean’s guitar takes seconds. Sam steps onto the bus, halfway in, when he hears his brother, “What did you do?”

           He looks behind him. Dean, ruffled and fuming, stands next to an equally displeased Crowley. Sam smirks, fully lifting himself into the bus. “I got tired of waiting.” Shutting the door on Dean’s yelling, Sam settles in for a drive filled with shouting, cursing, and more shouting. If he’s lucky, he’ll be asleep soon.

Earth-1969

           Dean’s grip on his wheel tightens, negativity surfacing despite the groovy music, chill vibes, and the sweet smell of grass that drifts about the cabin. “Seriously,” he mutters, watching another group of people traipse by from the driver’s seat, “we’ve been here for over an hour. How have we not moved yet?”

           “Dude relax…” Sam chuckles from the back, sprawled across the shag carpeting they installed weeks before, gutting most of the van’s interior for greater mobility. Joint dangling out of his loose grip, “We’ll get there when we get there.”

           “Easy for you to say…” He shifts his attention from behind to the traffic again. An inch of space opened, but Dean keeps their van stationary. Doesn’t expect a miracle like traffic clearing up any time soon. Dean sighs, dragging his legs up and onto the dashboard. Stretches out until his toes poke at the windshield. Reaching into the back, he curls his fingers. “Let me have some.”

           “What’s the magic word, Dean?”

           “Quit stallin’ – I bought the damn grass, Sammy!”

           Sam pokes his head up, dropping the joint in his waiting hand. “It was please. You knew that.” He rests his chin near the other headrest, sighing. “Do you think you’ll be this pissy when we get there? Or will you let yourself enjoy the concert?”

           Dean sucks down his hit, hissing a breath between clenched teeth. “I’m sure it’ll be a real gas, Sammy… if we ever get there.”

           They’d been looking forward to this the entire summer. This being Woodstock. Three days of peace, love, music… and people. Too many people. Probably half the country, Dean thinks, taking another hit. All the other kids like Sam and Dean who traversed great lengths for a taste of freedom. Escaping from under the oppressive thumb of the man.

           Their ‘man’ went by the name John Winchester. When he heard where the brothers were headed, he was anything but pleased; actually, he forbid them from leaving. Confiscated Dean’s keys and grounded them.

           He did not go far enough, given how he and Sam idled a few miles outside Bethel. Dean stole back his Baby’s keys and left a little special treat for John. One good trip deserves another, and maybe once they return their father will be in a better mood. Groovier. More attuned with a higher plane of existence.

           Although Dean wishes he kept some of that acid on him. Reaching a higher plane sounds pretty nice. Emptier, too.

           “Hey,” Sam shakes him from his reflection, “look at what they’re doing!” He points past Dean, finger bending against the windshield near his feet. A car drives off the road and onto a nearby shoulder. It rolls to a stop, doors flung open as an entire tribe pours free. They gather their bags and join the crowds pouring through the cracks between cars. Like fish swimming upstream. Swimming home. “Maybe we should do that, too?”

           Dean scowls, pushing Sam’s arm out of his way. “Like hell I’m abandoning Baby!”

           “She’ll be fine, Dean. There’s no way she can get hurt here…” Sam drops both his hands on Dean’s bare shoulders, kneading the skin there. After taking the joint back from him, though, and biting on the end. “How can anyone get hurt – feel bad or… or do harm – when we’re this close to paradise?”

           It’s a convincing argument. Dean resists being swayed easily, however.

           He cannot leave Baby on her own. Not after everything they’ve been through. Not the first real thing that is his.

           Dean spotted her on his twentieth birthday. Taking a break from work, bumming a joint from his co-worker Ash, they watched Bobby haul in a wrecked van with his rusty tow. She creaked and groaned, sparks trailing behind as her bumper scraped the ground. Ash nudged him, chuckling, “She’s a piece of work, ain’t she?”

           He agreed, for a different reason. Time stretched at that moment, seconds passing like days. Dean felt a powerful force shake the core of his very being, Bobby bringing her close enough that his gaze caught both her headlights. She called out.

           And he answered.

           “It’s not like she’ll be doing good, sitting out there – collecting dust with the other scrap,” he argued. Paced Bobby’s office, fingers twitching through his hair while detailing all the reasons he deserved the wrecked van. “And you can take out whatever parts I use in repairing her from my pay. Hell, I can work on her overtime and you don’t have to give me shit.”

           Bobby steepled his fingers together, slouching in his chair. Face impassive while he absorbed Dean’s rambling. His silence exacerbated his nerves, Dean tasting copper from how hard he bit his lips. Finally, Bobby sighed. “I was gonna use her for scrap,” he says, standing, “but if you can get the ol’ gal working… she’s yours. Besides, ‘bout time you had something other than that pansy ass bicycle you got.”

           “Thank you, Bobby, thanks…” Emotion swelled from within, Dean at a loss for words. Instead, he threw his arms around his boss, squeezing him tight. “Thank you.” Jumping off, he fled the room. “I promise, she’ll be perfect!”

           That began a beautiful, but maddening, relationship.

           She was on his mind all the time. If Dean were working on another car, he wondered if she would need the same maintenance. While eating dinner, he thought about the many joints he could swing by for a quick bite. A few times, while in the throes of LSD, he envisioned her appearing in front of him. Honking, revving an engine he hadn’t fixed – her ways of communicating. During one of these trips, she told him her name.

           “Baby?” Sam asked, sitting on the ground a few feet from where Dean worked. Pencil in hand, midway through a sketch. “She told you her name was Baby?”

           Dean poked his head out the hood, wiping at sweat camping above his brow. “Yeah. I mean… don’t know why I didn’t see it before. She looks like a Baby, y’know?”

           “Whatever.” Sam continued drawing, bangs falling over his face, “Hey, you think you can get her working by Sunday night? Heard there’s a party downtown, and the band they booked will be far out.”

           “Maybe if you lend a hand?”

           Sam ignored Dean’s pleas for help. Dean carried on, not expecting an answer. His brother never had the talent for cars like he did. Honed under Bobby’s gruff tutelage. He left his mark on Baby in his own way, painting a psychedelic landscape across her body after the mechanics and interior were finished.

           Together, they brought new life to a magnificent beauty. She repays them by delivering them where they need.

           Which, if they left her now, would be like a betrayal. Baby had already been cast aside once, on her deathbed. Dean cannot leave her. Even if the first day of Woodstock arrives and they were still in this same place.

           “Dean…”

           “I can’t, Sam,” Dean winces, fiddling with his pendant. Shifts, feet on the pedals again. “I just… yeah, nothing should happen. Can’t help think that…” He trails off, gazing out the window. Thoughts disappearing, burned up from the radiant light of an angel who deigned catch his stare.

           He’s gorgeous. Mussed, raven hair, blue eyes tinged red from grass, and a frumpy, suede jacket marked with scratches and scuff marks. The man briefly passes the door, one of the many walking. He smiles, then carries on conversing with his friend.

           Sam waves a hand in front of Dean, breaking the connection. “Dean?” he asks, “Hey, hey Dean? You okay there? …This was some weak shit, brother, shouldn’t hit you too bad.”

           “What? No… it wasn’t – wasn’t the grass, dude.”

           “Then what?”

           “I…” Dean tries finding his angel, sees him being swallowed by others. Soon he’ll be gone. And it’d be in fates hands whether they meet again. Unless…

           Suddenly the song on the radio fades, replaced by another. It’s one Dean doesn’t recognize; the station name is as unfamiliar. At some point the signals must have switched, a notorious problem Baby has. He listens as the melody begins, building to the chorus. The chorus plays, and Dean knows. And he smiles.

           Dean pulls over, shifting into park. Sam tumbles from the sudden jerk, “What are you doing?”

           “Parking, Sam. Don’t you know?” He takes the keys, shoving them in his pocket. “We’re gonna walk the rest of the way.”

           Sam blinks, smoke creeping past his lips. “Why the change of heart?”

           “It’s like the song, Sam… everything’s gonna be all right!” Dean hops out of Baby, Sam clambering alongside him through the side door. “Come on, let’s get going!”

           “What about our stuff?”

           “We’ll come back for it later – come on.” He drags his brother off the grassy patch and onto the hot pavement. The fleeting regret of not grabbing his shoes flits by, feet burning with every step, but he grows accustomed soon enough. They enter the meandering pack, Dean looking back at Baby one last time.

           She waits there, encouraging him forward. Always.

Earth-G00-g4

           Sammy rocks with the motion of this strange, red box he’s sat in, crawling along slowly. Older brother Dean grunting as he tugs on the handle. “We’re almoth there, Thammy,” he says, stopping, the bright red box rolling into his legs. Jostling Sammy as it stops. “Juth a few more blockth.” Dean looks behind at him, bright smile encouraging one on Sammy’s face. He gurgles and claps his hands together, bouncing. “That’s right! Get pumped! If we’re gonna take down those monthers, we’ll need t’be ready!”

           He has no concept of what Dean means when he talks about ‘monthers’. But from what he gleans, Sammy thinks it’s a game they’ll be playing. Reinforced as he notices the busted fire hydrant they always pass when visiting the park with Mommy.

           Vibrating now, Sammy shakes the red box. Babbling, going on about how excited he is for whatever game Dean thought up.

           Dean gnaws on his lip with the one front tooth still in his mouth. “Careful with Baby, Sammy… you’re gonna tip her over!”

Earth-10k

           “…with state-of-the-art tracking upgrades, undetectable weapons systems, and the most fuel-efficient engine the geniuses in R&D spent weeks agonizing over,” Dean slaps the roof of the pale teal smart car parked among rows of sleek, shiny, luxury vehicles, “Baby Number Twenty-Three is prepped and ready for our next hunt.”

           Sam snorts, raising his glass in celebration. “That’s all well and good, Dean… but can we still get NPR?”

           “Still get NPR?” Dean giggles, lips stretched in a tight, droll grin. “Samuel, the dashboard computer has an entire library filled with NPR’s back catalogue that we can listen to without a signal.”

           “Good. Then we won’t be stuck listening to classic rock like during our last stakeout.”

           “Ugh, don’t remind me. I’m still trying to scrub my memory of the awful noise.”

           “Took me three hours with some freeform jazz. Why don’t we put that on while we finish up this bubbly?”

           Dean agrees, leaning through the window and hitting a button. Saxophones, trumpets, and an enchanting snare drum pour from the speakers. He sighs, leaning back out. “Now this… this is music.”

           Sam reaches across the roof, tipping his glass. “Here, here.” Dean brings his own glass close. Clink!

Earth-783

           Baby’s retired, but still loved. Hangs proudly on a wall between framed photographs of a young John Winchester, standing beside her on the beach with medals draped around his neck. Taken down whenever she loses her luster, and either Dean or Sam wax the shine back on her sleek, black wood.

           Years after John’s death, no one takes her on the waves. Out of respect: for her, their father, and the bond they shared. Nothing more sacred than the love of a surfer and his board. They own a variety of boards – collected them. Beautiful boards, expensive ones, and the special few that have earned the brothers trophies, medals, and titles.

           But there will only be one Baby.  

Earth-2390.45

           Sam waits by the open hangar doors, two beers in hand. Charlie stands nearby, binoculars held in shaky hands. “He’s cutting it a bit close, isn’t he?”

           “This is Dean we’re talking about,” he tells her, “you know how he gets when he’s up there.”

           “But he radioed in he was almost out of fuel! And that the left wing felt loose, and -”

           “He’ll be fine,” Sam says, nudging her. Charlie looks away from the skies, glaring at him. He offers her one of the beers. “You know it. How many times has he flown her?”

           She sighs, taking the drink. “Practically all his life…” Sipping at it, she frowns. Gestures wildly with her binoculars. “Still, I feel like recently he’s been taking too many risks. Making things more difficult than he needs!”

           “Maybe he has,” Sam shrugs, “maybe it’s gotten boring, doing the same thing day in and out. So what if he bends the rules a little.”

           “It matters when he could crash!”

           “No, Dean wouldn’t go that way.” Sam smiles, Baby’s shape growing as she descends. Silhouette sharpening, engine growing louder. “He might be pushing his limits. Seeing how he can handle different situations… but we both know how much he loves that plane. Dean’d never do anything that puts her in jeopardy.”

           Charlie hums. “I… guess your right.”

           “Although,” he amends, grinning at her. Baby skidding to a stop on the runway, advancing towards them, “you can definitely chew him out for all that, too.”

Earth-200

           Day after day, it’s the same routine. Sam and Dean return to their trailers at around four o’clock. They strip out of plaid shirts and denim, leaving their boxers and – if they were wearing them before – tanks on. For the next two hours, the brothers drift throughout the trailer while getting ready. Still undressed, powdering and painting their faces. Sometimes interrupted, like when one of their friends stops by for some quick gossip. Or Cas the fire swallower stops by, flirting with Dean as Sam perfects the curve of his eyebrow. If that runs long Sam will shoo him away with his wig, dragging Dean from the door.

           It’s one of those nights.

           “I don’t know why you won’t do anything,” Sam chuckles, fitting the rainbow curls over his head, “You two’ve been in love since we were kids.”

           Dean’s glare shines through his reflection, although the massive red make-up smeared across his lips and fake tears under his eyes reduce the effect. “Shut up,” he says, applying more rouge, “it’s not… he wouldn’t be interested in me like that. ‘Sides, his dad is our boss. Wouldn’t that be awkward?”

           “I think it’d be awkward if you didn’t,” he says, “if he’s anything like our folks, Bobby’s already planning your wedding.”

           “Shut up…”

           Sam adds the last touch, adhering his bulbous red nose with some glue. He studies his face in the vanity mirror, checking for any mistakes. There’s none. Years of practice meant his mind could wander aimlessly but his hand will ensure a clean, finished mask every time. A mask for the people. A mask of his heritage. A mask that transforms Sam Winchester into Sammy the Angry Clown, straight man of the Campbell Duo.

           Odd how, when he was younger, Sam never imagined a life like this. Like the one his parents’ imagined for him. Fought them at every turn, even applying for college. To become a lawyer. “A clown without the joy,” his dad called it.

           But that’s the past. Now, he’s climbing into his multi-colored pantsuit and stuffing his large feet into even larger shoes. Dean does the same, handing Sam some ruffles while he searches the trailer for his shoes. “Do you know where I put them?”

           “Check the chest,” Sam says, “I might’ve thrown them in there while cleaning.”

           “Why were you cleaning?”

           “To practice my unicycle.” Sam grabs some bowling pins stacked beside their sofa. “I didn’t want to trip over them and crash through the window… again.”

           Dean snorts, digging through the chest per Sam’s instructions. “That was your own fault. Wasn’t my magazine left splayed open on – found ‘em!” He pulls the floppy shoes free, waving them around. His accomplishment doesn’t last. Dean notices that the sole peels around the toe box, and by poking at the tear he rips it further. “Dammit… I’m gonna look like one of those hobo clowns.”

           “Why don’t you wrap some duct tape around your shoe,” Sam tells him, rising. “You’d still look like a hobo, but you won’t scare any kids with your funky feet.”

           “Funny. What are you… a clown?”

           “Takes one to know one, Dean!” Sam opens their trailer door, stepping outside, “I’m gonna go make sure our act’s ready. Why don’t you find me when you’re done getting ready?” Dean yells at him, Sam missing it as he lets the door slam behind him – cutting his brother off.

           He traipses through the field towards the main tent, nodding along whenever someone passed. Never staying for a conversation. The other acts and crew could see he was busy, juggling the bowling pins. Always practicing, always perfecting. Dedication to the craft both embedded in his DNA and taught early on. Gifts his parents gave.

           Like this. A small, yellow bug splattered with multi-colored spots and with multiple dents along her body. Her name messily scrawled on the driver’s side door – Baby. His father’s car, that he and his mom would perform in when they still clowned. The only thing John had of his father, that he passed on after hanging up the big, red shoes.

           Sam slows his juggling, catching the third pin on its last arc. He shuffles the trio into one hand while he lifts the trunk with his other. The rest of their supplies lie in wait, left in usual chaotic dysfunction. Dropping the pins, Sam mentally checks off each part of the routine as he inspects the props.

           Dean arrives halfway through, Sam handing off the giant, flake flower. He accepts it, pinning it on his tie. “Is it full?”

           “Yep,” Sam helps feed the tube through his collar, watching Dean tug it down until the pump sits at his wrist. Dean’s fingers twitch. “Don’t even think about it. Save it for the act.”

           “You’re no fun.”

           “That’s the act, isn’t it?” Sam chuckles, closing Baby’s trunk. “Or is your memory getting spotty in your age?”

           Dean rolls his eyes, shoving lightly at Sam. Sam responds in kind, nearly knocking Dean into some elephant dung no one cleaned up. He leans on Baby while he cackles, fighting the tears threatening to spill over. A nice distraction comes from Dean, who rams into his side. They streak over Baby, rolling off her and onto the hay-covered floor. Struggling, drawing the attention of everyone dawdling backstage.

           They dirty their outfits some, but there’s enough time before the show starts. Sam expected some mishap, schedule built-in with extra time for unforeseen accidents or brotherly spats.

           Day after day, it’s the same. He and Dean will cram into this tiny car, shoulders aching from how they press against each other. Packed in like sardines. Waiting for the musical cut that will send them into the ring. They’ll circle and circle while the audience claps, stopping when the tiny amount of gas in Baby’s tank runs dry. Then their long legs will unfold, stepping out under the spotlight.

           The act begins, and Sam cannot fathom a life without the roar of the crowd, his brother by his side, and their family’s chariot. Without laughter.

Earth-4499

           Providence seems more a dream than an actual destination. Especially after they sacrificed one of their oxen for meat, their reserves dangerously low.

           “Don’t worry, Sam,” Dean says, rubbing his shoulder, “we still got the other. And Baby. We’ll be in Oregon by November!”

           Sam doubts that, the fall chill cutting through their thin button-downs. His temperament was not aided by an earlier stumble in some mud, robbing him of dry shoes. Right now, he bundles another blanket around his bare feet; shuddering a ghostly breath while Dean whips the ox forward.

           Baby, their large Conestoga, might look sturdy. But her wheels creak more with each passing day. From an outsider’s perspective, she looks safe. They would be shocked hearing how, when fording a river, she tipped. Brothers nearly drowning under her weight. She might appear warm. But Sam’s frostbitten fingers and red nose prove its faults.

           Dean wouldn’t part with her for a better model, however. “She’s family, Sam,” Dean says, “When ma and pa set forth, all they had was her. We’ll do the same.”

           Sentimentality might be their downfall. Soon, Baby won’t be a wagon. Nor will she be a reminder of their home. Baby will be their coffins.

           Sam sneezes, and hopes it’s the only one for the day. His rumbling stomach already offers its own worries.

Earth-92

           Days like these Dean wishes he kept working. Jack kept kicking his seat, an arrhythmic pattern that forces his lips into a stern frown. And between his crying and Claire’s complaining, Dean misses most of what his husband says. “Can you please repeat that?” he asks, spinning the dial towards its highest setting.

           “I said,” Cas’s voice booms, Dean wincing from the sound, “That the doctor called my cell. He was able to fit me in Saturday at four. You’re not using the car, then, right?”

           “No, I –“

           “Jack! Stop it, you can’t have my phone while I’m using it!”

           “I wanna turn! I wanna turn!”

           “One moment…” He eases the brake pedal, slowing before the red light. Then, Dean whips around to face his children. “Jack, Claire, can you please keep the volume down while your pop and I are talking?”

           Claire huffs, leaning forward. Out of Jack’s reach, his youngest straining in the car seat for her phone. She types on it, not looking at him. “Tell that to Jack. I’m talking with Alex.”

           “Won’t you be seeing her in five minutes anway?”

           “It’s important –“

           Someone honks from behind them. Dean checks the traffic light, seeing green instead of red. “Shi-shoot.” He switches pedals, watching the road again. “Claire, give Jack one of his toys and put your phone away.”

           Claire groans, stomping her foot. “Why should I?”

           “If he can’t see it, he won’t want it.” After a moment’s silence, Dean checks the rearview mirror. She disobeys him, still using it. “Claire, I swear if you don’t put that away I’m driving us home.”

           “But dad –“

           “Don’t ‘but dad’ me, baby girl. Away.” Tone stern, he glimpses her shove the phone in her gym bag. Then grabs a dropped toy nearby. Dean sighs, focusing ahead of him – and on his husband. “Sorry about that.”

           “No need,” Cas chuckles, papers shuffling in the background, “I enjoy it when you’re the bad cop. It doesn’t happen every day…”

           “Because I hate it,” he grumbles, checking his blind spot while switching lanes, “so when you get home, ground Claire.”

           “Why?”

           “I don’t know. Make one up, and then I can talk you out of punishing her and be the good cop again.”

           “Dads, you know I can hear you, right?”

           “Quiet sweetie, adults are talking!” Dean hits his blinkers, making the left turn when appropriate. “So, the doc’s got you coming in that late? Is it important?” Nerves make his voice crack on the last word, and Dean hates how it does.

           Cas hums from the other end, Dean imagining his husband’s pinched expression while he chooses his words carefully. To not worry him. “She mentioned something cholesterol. I think she wants to see me about my diet.”

           “If that’s all,” Dean says, drumming his fingers along the wheel, “you better not sell me down the river.”

           “I’ll try not to, but if she asks why I eat an abnormal amount of sweets I’ll have to be honest.” Cas laughs, Dean’s chest warming from the volume. At this volume, it feels like the soundwaves wrap him in a warm blanket. “Oh, I have to go. Your brother’s pointing at his watch from outside my office. I think we’re supposed to have a meeting?”

           “Then what are you still doing on the phone?”

           “Telling you and Jack and Claire that I love you. All of you. And Claire, good luck at practice today!”

           “Thanks, dad!”

           He hangs up, Dean lowering the volume before the radio comes back and deafens them. Unfortunately, he wishes it would. Because as Cas disappeared, his children’s bickering started up again. Jack upset that Cas didn’t wish him ‘good luck’. It didn’t matter that he wasn’t taking a karate class, nor comprehended what the concept of luck was. Claire received well wishes, he didn’t, and that is what he took away from the call.

           They worked Dean’s last nerve. His vision blurred from the stress, Jack’s tantrum doubling in its fury. He drove on autopilot, too busy keeping calm. Finally, after Jack’s figure was thrown and hit the front windshield, Dean felt the straw rip. At the next red light, Dean acted.

           “That’s it,” he turned, leaning into the second row. Claire and Jack stopped fighting immediately, staring at him with wide eyes. Dean must look crazed, but he cannot care enough to soften his features. Their fighting ripped off the warm blanket Cas’s voice provided, and he was chilled from the sudden exposure. “You two will sit quietly for the rest of the ride, otherwise when we get home it’s dinner and nothing else. Got it?” Claire nods sullenly, Jack fighting tears welling under his eyes. Dean’s heart seizes seeing his son upset, and that helps break frenzy fogging his senses. “I’m sorry for blowing up like that,” Dean says, calmer, “but when daddy’s behind the wheel he needs to concentrate. Otherwise people can get hurt. We could get hurt. And nothing would make me feel worse than if either of you kids were hurt because of me. I love you both too much to let that happen, okay? So please… be good?”

           “Okay, daddy…” Jack sniffles, wiping at his eyes, “sorry…”

           “Thank you, Jack.”

           Dean retakes the wheel as the light turns green. It’s a block from Claire’s dojo, Dean readying his blinker. When he hits the gas, however, the car stays still.

           By the time he realizes that, a semi-truck speeds through the intersection. Blowing its red light. Dean chokes back his curse, cars honking around him.

           “Dad?” Claire asks, pitching forward in her seat, “Dad, what happened?”

           “The uh… the car…” Dean steps on the gas pedal again, working now. He slowly inches through, drifting towards the first open space he finds. When parked, Dean’s composure fractures completely. Shattering into dust that piles in the footwell.

           They were almost… that truck – it’s idiot driver – almost totaled their car. Did the very thing he warned Jack and Claire about. Images of bent metal, crumpled bodies, and blood cause the bile in his stomach to threateningly react. He squeezes his eyes, breathing deep until those pictures are replaced with soothing blankness. Counting, using the tricks his therapist imparted after his last big crash all those years ago. Getting his mind off the what could have happened and onto what did.

           He’s safe. His kids, Claire and Jack, they’re safe. The car is –

           The car. Dean hit the gas pedal but it didn’t budge.

           At the dealer, when Dean searched for a new car after his old lease was up, the salesman hyped up all the new features. Sam listened with a skeptical ear, always asking questions. The right ones. Ones that made Dean feel smarter about his choices. He was in the car, too, with Dean and John. That fateful night.

           “And this new safety feature?” Sam asked, dragging his hand along the black hood, “how exactly does it work?”

           The salesman pointed at the front bumper. “It’s got built in sensors that are connected to the dashboard system. If it detects any danger, it can react faster than a human could. So if you and your husband –“

           “Brother.”

           “Right, brother, sorry, were driving –“

           “This is his car. Not mine.”

           “Well… if he’s driving, and he’s distracted because of something. And doesn’t see a pedestrian coming. Maybe a kid chasing a ball into the street… the car would stop for him.”

           Dean knew which car he was leasing, then. Waiting for the sales pitch to wrap up so he can sign the three-year contract. A year in, though, Dean might screw the lease and buy the car fully. Make her the last Baby they ever get.

           The Baby that survived.

Earth-32

           Sam slams on the wheel, cursing as their car sputters off the road and onto untouched gravel. “No! No no no…”

           “Sam!” Dean turns in his seat, gun still smoking. “Why’d you stop?”

           “I didn’t,” he tells his brother, punching the wheel. It honks, rolling somewhat. Inching forward. “Damn car’s broken.”

           Dean scowls, gun tilting dangerously towards him. “Don’t you talk about Baby like that.”

           If there were time, Sam would calmly tiptoe through an apology while explaining what he meant in a manner Dean’s sensitive ego would appreciate. Unfortunately, Sam can hear the sirens approaching. And dust from the barren plains rides the gust, stinging his eyes. Compound his irritation from Baby’s fit. Meaning he accepts Dean’s twitching trigger finger without worry. “I don’t think we’re getting out of this.”

           “Yes we are,” Dean says. He shoves the gun at Sam, jerking a thumb behind him. “Switch with me. She just needs a more practiced hand s’all.” While rounding the dark grey Ford, Sam stares into the distance. Red and blue flash, appearing over the curve. Dean ignores them, whispering for only his Baby. “I knew I should’ve been at the wheel. Even if it meant we were cutting it close.” Sam enters as Dean tries the ignition again.

           Baby coughs, struggles, and then falls silent.

           “No,” Dean groans, anger heavying his tone, “don’t be mad at me, girl. It’s me. Ol’ Dean…”

           Sam thinks up a silent prayer. Sends it off in case there were angels listening. “Dean,” he says, laying a hand on his brother.

           “We’ll be okay,” he lies, grin laughable despite how hard he tries. “We’ve been in worse scrapes before… always got out. Just another story for the news to run s’all. Winchester Brothers escape once more with their spoils, baffling pig cops and the king of sows himself, Ness…” Dean keeps up turning the keys. She doesn’t even feign a response at this point.

           “Dean.” Sam tears Dean’s hands away. They’re shaking. Or maybe he is. Both of them are, knowing what waits them in the next few minutes. “It’s okay.”

           Dean stares at his lap, tears threatening to spill. Like all his life, Dean reels them back before they can fall. “You think this was how we were gonna go out?”

           “Always feared it might happen,” Sam admits, checking the ammunition in Dean’s tommy. Half-spent. “But I guess it’s par for the course when you do what we do. Did you?”

           “No,” he shrugs, “even know it doesn’t feel… real, y’know? How could this happen to us? Dean and Sam – they called us the Untouchables. We’re fucking legends.”

           “Maybe we weren’t the legends we thought, then.” A depressing thought that makes Dean slump further into his seat. Sam can see the sirens without turning his head, cars skidding in their approach surrounding them. He reaches for his gun, past the bags of money, and tosses it. Dean catches the heavier weapon. “But if we are… let’s hope there’s truth in that saying. About legends never dying.”

           “Winchesters!” a deep, gravelly voice shouts from outside. Eliot Ness no doubt. “Come out with your hands up! If you make this easy on yourselves, I promise we can put you up in a nice pad behind bars where you belong!”

           Dean looks past Sam out the window. Probably at Ness, himself. Meeting his stare. A tension existed there that went far beneath their professions and duties. He glances at Sam, “At least we’re going together.”

           “Let’s give ‘em hell.”

           Sam fires two shots as he exits the car. Dean barely opened the driver’s side door. Bullets rained upon them like a maelstrom, piercing them. Turning them into dust like that which they came from.

           It comes in moments. Sam being held in Dean’s arms as their farmhouse burnt in front of them, mother lost. A drunk father who could barely raise a decent crop when America thrived. Days and days spent with a nose buried in books. When he took breaks from those, Dean made sure he lived life. Swimming in creeks, riding horses. Asking girls on dates after his brother talked him up.

           Loans on the family property eating away at his father, more than the booze ever did. Burying him in a shallow plot near their mother. Losing the farm, thumbing across the country alongside every other victim of this Depression.

           The hunger, the sleeplessness – the bank manager with poor temperament and slippery fingers. Their first robbery. So unpracticed, he and Dean only found their getaway car after committing the crime. Stealing her, too.

           She was more than a car, though. She was home when the heat was scalding, and getting a room risked their lives. She was a symbol, of Dean and Sam, of their notoriety. She was their friend, helping them sort through issues.

           Fitting, that when she died, so did they.

           He blinks, feeling lightheaded. Body sluggish from blood loss. A shadow steps forward, bending, revealing Ness’s tanned face. Ness removes his hat, scanning Sam’s limp figure.

           “Seemed a lot taller in the reports…”

Earth-81a

           Dean polishes Baby’s handles one last time, loving how she glints in the sunlight. He rocks on his heels until gravity tips him over, forcing him onto his ass. Leans back, hands resting on asphalt as he pulls his knees towards his chest.

           “Hey,” Sam calls, “who said you were done?”

           He ignores his brother, staring at his beautiful Baby. “I am done, Sammy,” he drawls, “look at her… she can’t get any more perfect.”

           Sam scowls, rag draped over Baby’s sidecar window. “Why don’t you help with this, then?”

           “No way,” Dean chuckles, “not how it works. Y’know the rules: whoever rode Baby last cleans Baby, and sidecar…”

           “Cleans sidecar…” Sam finishes, dunking the rag in a nearby bucket. Water sloshes and spills from the force of it. “Dumb rule though,” he mumbles, “especially when you purposefully drove through that mud pit.”

           He grins, “There was no avoiding it!”

           It’s not the truth, but neither feel the need to expose it.

           Dean spotted the mud while idling at a red light, Sam busy scrolling through his tablet. Reading about a possible case in Texas, where hikers were washing ashore with holes in their chests. Construction went on nearby, piling the mud as they excavated a water-logged field.

           He took a detour. Drove particularly close, waving at the construction workers while doing so. Sam yelped, frozen, mud sloshing against the sidecar. Some spilling into his lap and coating his sleeve. Then Dean sped past, hiding his laughter with Baby’s engine. Gaze pulled from the road every few seconds as Sam’s disgust proved too distracting.

           Served him right, though. Dean balanced the scales, retribution for when Sam glued a suggestive sign on his helmet when he sat in the sidecar. Only realizing when they stopped for lunch three states deep.

           “Why’d you do that,” he hissed, crumpling the notecard in his shaking fist; ‘I DO ANAL’ unintelligible from his strangling.

           “What?” Sam poorly hid his pride behind a milkshake, shoulders shaking, “It’s not wrong.”

           Dean spent longer than expected sifting through memories. Wading out of his mind, he sees Sam standing. “You done?”

           “No,” he says, picking up the bucket, “but I’m tired. Think I’m gonna take a nap.”

           Nodding, Dean focuses on Baby again. Drawing him from her was hard, especially after cleanings. “Dump that then, since you’re done.”

           “Okay…”

           Splash! Cold water races down his shirt, fabric sticking. He shudders a harsh breath, gasping from the shock of both the water and Sam’s action. His jaw hangs open, Dean slowly turning his head. Sam above with a terrible smile on his face. Innocent in name only. “You…”

           “Have fun with that, Dean!” He drops the bucket, scurrying for the motel room. Dean jumps, sliding somewhat from the suds. A tiny obstacle that impacts him greatly, Dean reaching Sam when the motel door closes. Slamming against it, Dean bangs and bangs.

           “Sammy! You open that up!”

           “Sorry, Dean, I can’t hear you! I’m sleeping!”

           Minutes seem like hours, Dean pounding the door until he gives up. Slinks back, defeated. Seeking comfort in a familiar shape.

           He stretches across Baby’s seat, careful of his still-dripping clothes. Dean caresses her front light, sight, “Sam’s a big ol’ meanie… leaving him high and wet out in the cold… what are we gonna do to him next?”

Earth-406

           It’s simple work, but it’s good work. It’s their work.

           “Help me with this,” Dean says, motioning Sam over. His brother adjusts his cap, tucking flyaway back under while he crosses the deck. Dean, bent, fingers slipping on the heavy net, breathes a sigh of relief when Sam latches on. “Three, okay? One… two… three.”

           They haul their catch over the edge, fish fighting the entire time. Their hands were whacked with tails and bit by snapping jaws, but they stayed firm. Pulling the rest of their haul up until all the fish flopped and died.

           “Whoa…” Sam wipes his brow, picking up one of the fish, “these are huge. You sure Cas didn’t find this place near a toxic waste dump?”

           Dean huffs, “Maybe they’re on whatever diet’s made you so big and strong?” Sam shoves at him, nearly forcing him off the boat as his foot slips. The fish underneath him taking revenge. He grabs Baby’s edge, catching himself. “Keep laughing, Sammy,” Dean drawls, glaring at his brother, “but how funny would it’ve been if I fell overboard and you had to do this all by yourself?”

           “You’d’ve just gotten wet, drama queen.” Sam clears fish away with his feet, pushing them into piles they can easily manage. “Now quit playing around. We’ve got to get these packed away before they spoil. Otherwise this whole trip’d been a waste.”

           He rolls his eyes but does as instructed.

           Packing fish into Baby’s large cooler went by fast, Dean’s autopilot guiding him. Dean and Sam could do this while sleeping, so comfortable with these tasks. Having been on the sea since they were little, helping their father work on his boat. They did their homework on Baby, played on Baby, and when John took her far beyond usual paths, slept in Baby.

           When he grew too old, he passed her onto those he knew would treat her right. Those who can uphold the family business. Men who have been fishing for all their lives.

           It’s simple work, but it’s good work. It’s their work.

Earth-0

           Sal finds his irritation fading when he sees his brother, Dean, stride towards a familiar car. “Dude,” he says, eyes widening in shock, “is that -?”

           “Yep,” Dean answers, stroking his hand lovingly across her hood, “I’m glad you didn’t forget Baby.”

           How could he? They both grew up in her, the blue 1965 Mustang the only home Sal ever knew. Staring at her, a million questions sprout like weeds in his mind. What’s she doing here? Why does she look this good? Is the army man he lost years ago still stuck in her ashtray? Of all those thoughts, Sal voices only one. “Dad lets you drive her?”

           “He gave her to me,” he tells Sal, opening the driver’s side door. “Now come on, we can talk more about her while we’re on the road. Longer we drag our feet, the more likely dad’s in danger…”

           It’s not great motivation for Sal, but he slides in without a fight. Brushing his thumbs on the leather seating, he pushes thoughts of his father to the back of his mind. Instead thinking about all the good memories; those he has of Baby, and coincidentally, of Dean.

Earth-1

           Sam winces, Dean advancing too close in his tirade. “Okay, okay… sheesh. It was only a question. I didn’t mean to threaten the weird relationship you have with your car.”

           Dean relaxes somewhat, shoulders still tense. He drains his beer in a single gulp, fingers flexing against the glass bottle. Given enough time, left alone, he can unwind once more. Although a thought strikes Sam that makes him risk his brother’s temper. Teasing too tempting.

           “Y’know,” he chuckles, sliding his beer across the table. Back and forth. “Maybe in one universe, Baby isn’t a car. Maybe Baby’s a person. And that Dean and that Baby are finally fucking –“

           “Sammy…” The slight edge of warning underlying his voice should give Sam a good idea as to the line he treads. “Don’t you…”

           “Or does Baby being human even matter to you?”

           “That’s it!”

           Sam jumps out of his seat, avoiding Dean’s flailing hand. Flees while his brother climbs over the table, spilling what little remained of his beer. He hears his pounding footsteps after him, audible even though his own cackling bounces off the walls.

           “Sam! Dean –“ They pass Cas and Jack, having hurried when hearing the commotion. Sam keeps moving, the distance between him and Dean lessening with each breath. How, Sam doesn’t know. Of the two, Dean’s only form of exercising aside from fighting monsters was running his mouth. But that’s definitely his hand brushing his shoulder. Dean urged on by pride, and the need to defend his Baby’s armor.

           He makes a sharp left, skidding. Dean slams into the wall. Sam looks behind, briefly, spotting his brother’s fierce glare and tempered smile. “I’m gonna get you, Sammy!” he shouts, barreling towards him, “And when I do…”

           They shoot out into the garage. Sam runs for safety, finding Baby. Dean follows.

           Circling her, they take turns gasping for breath. They feel young – younger than ever. Decades worth of trauma shaved off, wrinkles smoothening, and souls lighter like when they were children. Hell, Heaven… Lucifer, Michael, and Chuck… all distant, fading dreams too impossible for reality.

           Soon, Dean’s irritation fades. He forgets why he chased Sam into the garage. Sam notices the brighter mood of his brother but doesn’t needle him further.

           Why spoil such a rare moment? Another good memory for Sam, Dean, and Baby.

           Our Baby.

[atths--twice]

Okay, we are onto chapter 13! Maggie has been helping Mulder and being there for Scully when she has needed her. It is time for her to take a break and spend time with a friend, catching up and relaxing. 

Chapter Thirteen 

Staying the Course

June 2015

Water lapped at the dock to Maggie’s right and the sound of it caused her to sigh in contentment. It was quiet and incredibly peaceful where she was presently and she could not have been happier.

Louise McGillan, a retired Navy nurse, was one of her oldest friends. She invited her to her lake house for a week, just the two of them. Maggie told her about Dana and Fox, and how she was helping Fox out. Louise said they both needed a girls’ week and insisted they leave as soon as possible.

Louise’s husband passed away a couple of months previously, after a very long illness. Since his death, she was dealing with a lot-bank accounts to close, her house to go through and get ready to sell, her husband’s will and items to be set aside for the recipients. It was a very stressful time for her and her two children. Maggie helped her whenever she could, offering advice, dropping off a meal, or simply lending a listening ear.

Tonight was the second night they were there and Louise went inside to get some wine. Maggie closed her eyes and listened to the sounds of the water and the crickets beginning to chirp. She took a deep breath and let it out, feeling the peace brought by this place.

“I hope red is good, apparently it’s all we had here,” Louise said, causing Maggie to open her eyes and look at her. She smiled as she handed her a glass and sat in the adirondack chair next to her. “Phew, it sure is beautiful here. The quiet is nice, but only for a while. Give me the bustle of the city any day.” They both laughed and sat looking at the lake.

They drank their wine in silence, as only good friends can, knowing that words are not always needed. It soon began to get chilly and they moved inside, pouring another glass of wine as they turned on the fireplace. Covering up with the cozy blankets in the room, they started getting caught up with each other.

Louise’s daughter was coming to visit next week, to help pack up the house and consolidate items before the big move. Louise found a townhouse close to her son and he and his wife recently had a new baby. Louise moving closer would be beneficial to both parties. She would be there to help care for her grandson, and her son would be close if she herself needed assistance.

“It will be nice to help with the baby, play with him, get the snuggles, then hand him back at the end of the day and get a good night’s sleep,” Louise said with a laugh. Maggie smiled, but then she thought of how she used to care for William and the way he smelled as she held him close, and she sighed.

She knew in her head that Dana’s decision to put William up for adoption had been the right one, but her heart broke for Dana. For all of them, really. The pain she saw in everyone close to Dana made her physically ill, and mentally as well. She had gone on medication for a while after William was gone, anxiety and sleeping pills, her heart broken.

Then Dana was gone. Her boys both had their own wives and lives, and Maggie was struggling through depression with no family to care for her. A knock at her door one day led to Louise coming in and cooking her a meal as Maggie sat at the kitchen table and cried. Cried for the sons she missed, the baby she would never see again, and for the safety of her daughter and the man she loved and followed, becoming a fugitive along with him.

Louise made sure she was fed, brought her to doctor’s appointments, and sat while she cried and worried. She never told Maggie to cheer up, move on, or to stop crying. No, she held her hand and wiped her eyes, keeping her sane and among the living.

“Maggie? You still with me?” Maggie heard Louise ask softly. Unbeknownst to her, Maggie had been crying. She shook her head and apologized to Louise.

“I had no idea I was crying. I’m so sorry,” she said, wiping at her eyes. “Louise, I’m truly sorry.”

“Maggie, we don’t apologize for our tears, remember?” Louise asked her, reaching for her hand and holding it tight. Maggie laughed breathily and nodded, squeezing Louise’s hand.

“Was it the mention of the baby?” Louise asked kindly and Maggie nodded. Louise nodded too and then was silent.

“He would be fourteen now,” Maggie said, exhaling and shaking her head. “The boys at his age ... they had been awful at times. I can’t imagine with technology and access to so much information, how William would be.” Louise nodded again and squeezed Maggie’s hand.

“Louise ... I’m sorry. This is not why we’re here ...”

“Maggie, this is precisely why we’re here. To mourn and take time for us. We have both been helping others ... god, most of our lives, and we need some time for ourselves,” Louise said vehemently. “I don’t expect this week to be sunshine and rainbows, not by a long shot. I’m mourning and so are you because time matters not when it comes to mourning and loss. Although it was the decision that was needed, you had a massive hole ripped into your soul. It’s been fourteen years, true, but it still hurts like it was yesterday at times. I know it does and I don’t expect you to hold back while you’re here. Not to be too cliche, but what happens at this lake house, goddamn stays at this lake house.”

Maggie laughed and leaned her head against Louise’s shoulder, her head then resting on Maggie’s. They both laughed until they could not breathe and then wiped their eyes. Silence fell in the room and then Louise spoke softly.

“I’m scared, Maggie,” she said, and Maggie could hear it in her voice. “I’m scared of what comes next. I’ve been busy and doing for so long, I’m afraid of what happens when I stop.”

“I know what you mean, Louise,” Maggie said, putting her other hand on top of Louise’s. “It’s tough at first, I’m not going to tell you it’s not, but it will get easier. Time, it’s the only thing that helps. Well, that and good friends.” They both laughed and again sat quietly.

“Selling the house, Maggie ...” she sighed. “I don’t really want to, but what will I do with it on my own? It’s too big and all I think of is John when I’m in there. How happy we were and then him passing as we stood around him, watching him leave this earth. Most of the memories right now are sad and I avoid certain rooms if I can. The new place is nice, but it doesn’t have the same feel as home.” She said with another sigh.

“That can be said of any place that’s different and new to us. I know that leaving the old house will be hard, but for your circumstances, it will be beneficial to all of you,” Maggie said.

“I know,” Louise said quietly.

They sat in silence until Louise sat up and shook her head, before standing to her feet and reaching for Maggie’s hands. She pulled her up from the couch and into a tight hug before pulling back and smiling at her. Maggie smiled back and held onto Louise’s hand for an extra second.

“Let’s go to bed, get up and have a glass of wine by the water as we watch the sun rise,” Louise said, picking up their wine glasses. Maggie laughed and said that sounded fabulous.

A few minutes later she was in the guest room bed trying to stop her racing mind. She was worried about what came next,too. What came next for all of them. She did not worry about Bill Junior as much, he was happy with the life and career he chose.

She worried for Dana and when she would go back to that little unremarkable house. Like Louise, she was in a new place but wanted to be back in her old one, Maggie was sure. Her apartment was so sterile and not like other places she had lived, which were always cozy and inviting. There was the alien cat pillow that Dana had laughingly shown her, but Maggie had seen her eyes fall on it many times when she visited. Dana had taken the time to purchase it, it was definitely something she had wanted. Maybe she hoped Fox would see it someday, or it would one day be back on the couch where Fox had spent so many nights.

She worried for Fox, although he seemed to be doing well with his therapist. He had nothing but good things to say about her, although he admitted she kicked his ass emotionally every week. He turned his cell phone back on and to Maggie, that was huge. She could get a hold of him anytime, and it helped her breathe easier. He was still sleeping upstairs and not falling back into old patterns. She could see he was progressing, it was simply slow going.

And Charlie. Maggie felt her heart ache at the pain left there by him. A fight, a misunderstanding, and the stubborn nature to not listen or hear what truly happened, led to years of not speaking. Maggie tried but to no avail. Charlie wanted nothing to do with any of them. Nothing could be repaired if one side of the party refused to listen to reason.

Maggie rolled over and thought of them when the kids were little. The loud dinners, laughter, and Bill’s booming voice when they got too silly. So many redheads sat around that little table and it made her smile. Her mother had red hair and Maggie loved Anne Shirley and her Green Gable adventures so much, she wanted red hair too. To have four children with the hair color she loved, she felt very blessed.

Closing her eyes, she took a few deep breaths and prayed. She prayed for peace, happiness, and understanding. She prayed for Louise and her family and the new life they were beginning. She prayed for herself, to be the help that was needed, in the way it was desired, and soon she had fallen asleep.

The next few days at the lake seemed to fly by. She and Louise slept in, stayed up late, cooked wonderful meals, drank a lot of wine, laughed, cried, and sat by the lake, finding peace in the quiet around them. The last day there, as the sun was setting, Maggie walked around alone and looked once again at the view and the beauty of the area.

She found a log that was not far from the house and just sat quietly, closing her eyes. Hearing the wind blowing through the trees, the water quietly hitting the rocks at the shore, she made a decision. When she died, she wanted her ashes scattered here, in this exact spot. She found peace here, spent time with a cherished friend, and let go of the negativity that was weighing her down.

Opening her eyes, she looked around again and nodded. Yes, this was the spot. She stood up and looked down at the rocks at her feet. She saw a few flat ones and attempted to skip them on the lake. A couple of them were good, but mostly they were duds. She laughed and then shrugged, throwing the last rock as far as she could.

She bent down as she saw rocks that struck her fancy, putting them in her pockets to take home. She would give a few to Dana for a type of decoration or paperweight. Maybe Fox would like a couple.

Weighted down, this time by choice, she put her hands in her pockets feeling the smoothness of the rocks inside, and walked back to the house, ready to head back home. Recharged and happy, she was ready for what was coming next for her, or rather continuing really.

Her path was clear and she would stay the course. She would help to reunite the two soulmates who had lost their way. Their path may lead them on separate trails, but she would be their marker in the woods, directing them where they needed to go, where their paths have always been destined to meet- in the middle.

[metamorphicrocky]

For a writing prompt, can we get a what if Gary watches a classic horror/action movie with Little Cato? I adore the way you write their interactions;w;

this prompt? absolutely wonderful. dadspeed was made canon so I immediately had to do this one because ohhh my god this is perfect. and thank you!!!

After a long day of running errands and doing maintenance on the ship, Gary tosses his jacket at the chair in his room haphazardly. He quickly rips his shirt off, hissing at the slight pull on his fresh scars and the tightness in his muscles from pretty intense labor. He kicks off his boots as he undoes his belt, then he slips out of his jeans.

He really needs a shower, but screw it. It can wait until after he wakes up. Gary snatches his pair of pajama pants from the floor because this ship just cannot get warm and puts them on. Oh, the softness of the new pants makes him even sleepier than he was before. His bed sounds so nice right now.

Without hesitation, Gary sluggishly climbs up the ladder to his bed and promptly collapses, his head hitting the pillow with a content sigh. He’s going to be surprised if he wakes up at any time before ten.

The blond slides underneath the sheets and closes his eyes, ready for a much needed—

Quiet footsteps can be heard outside of Gary’s room. It sounds like someone shuffling nervously in front of his door, and Gary really does not want to deal with people right now. Can’t it wait until he’s not dead tired?

So, he ignores it. Tries to forget that it’s even there. His eyes close, the sound being ignored. Gary begins to drift off to sleep, nuzzling his head into his pillow and—

A knock. At the door. Gary’s eyes shoot open as he groans into his pillow. It was quiet though, so maybe whoever it is will go away? Maybe it was an accidental knock? A second knock, louder and more certain than the previous one. Well, crap. Now he can’t ignore it.

Gary sits up, ready to tell the person to go away so that he can sleep when the person at the door whispers, “Gary?”

Oh shit. The man flings himself off of his bed, his tiredness nearly forgotten if it isn’t for the way he sways as he tries to rush to the door. Gary shuffles over to it, slapping the button on the wall, opening the door.

“Hey, buddy. What’s up?” Gary asks with a rough yet inviting voice, looking down at Little Cato.

The kid’s fur is matted down in certain spots, his mohawk an absolute mess in the worst case of bedhead Gary has ever seen. The poor boy is swimming in a pink shirt that he had to borrow from Ash—and he really means swimming, Little Cato’s shorts cannot be seen underneath it—after his clothes got ruined earlier in the day, and Gary doesn’t know why it’s so big on him when Ash isn’t that much taller than the Ventrexian. But Gary has to admit that it’s absolutely adorable, making the kid look much younger than his fourteen years from both that and his tired, messy appearance.

Little Cato rings his hands together, refusing to lift his head from where he’s currently staring at Gary’s stomach. “I’m sorry, you were sleeping so I can just—”

“—go away and be sad by myself?” Gary finishes sarcastically. His kid winces at the callout.

Gary sighs as he kneels down in front of Little Cato. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. Now tell Gary what’s going on, or I’m carrying you like a sack of potatoes to your bed.”

Gary uses his flesh hand to tilt the boy’s head upwards, finally allowing them to make eye contact. He looks upset, almost on the verge of tears as he nervously bites his bottom lip. Little Cato’s soft hands grab onto Gary’s fingers as he pulls them away from the boy’s chin, and he fiddles with them to avoid answering the question for a moment longer.

“Can’t sleep,” he admits quietly, like it’s some sort of curse that shouldn’t be heard.

Well, Gary might pass out from exhaustion at any moment, so this will be a very quick comfort session. Distraction and making the kid fall asleep it is.

Gary stands back up with a grunt. Geez, he isn’t even that old, shouldn’t this wait another decade? Well, now that he’s thinking about it, being a parent probably is not helping the stress on his still healing body.

“Go get every blanket and pillow you can, we’re making a fort in front of the TV. While you gather the supplies for what is going to be the best pillow fort in all of existence, I am making us hot chocolate. Sound good, Spidercat?” Gary says cheerfully, trying to lighten the mood.

The kid nods and runs off, so Gary heads to the kitchen. This is the moment where Gary is very thankful that he knows the random information of how to make hot chocolate from scratch because otherwise, this would be an absolute disaster. Since hot chocolate is an earth thing, and definitely is not on this ship. As the new father quickly puts together the mix into a kettle, he fondly listens to Little Cato’s bare feet running around the ship back and forth in his quest. And he can’t help but just be glad that the kid is finally approaching him without worry. Well, there’s still some hesitation, but it’ll be better soon.

He hopes.

Gary turns the stove off and fills their ridiculous matching mugs—with the ugliest drawing of a fish Gary has ever seen that just says “habpy to sea u” because yes, the misspelling and terrible fish made them lose it so much in the store that they almost got kicked out—they bought while stopping for supplies the other day. He tops it off with some whipped cream and sprinkles because damn it if he’s going to make comfort hot chocolate, he has to do it right!

He carefully brings the two mugs into the TV room and sets them down on the side table. Gary stands next to his son who is just staring down the blankets with intense focus, his fingers to his chin in thought.

“You didn’t want to at least start setting it up?” Gary asks.

Little Cato rubs the back of his neck, his ears shrinking down onto his head as he laughs nervously. “I, um–I’ve never…done this before?” he trails off uncertainly.

Gary gasps, grabbing at his chest in pain. “What?! Okay, no, I am so glad that I am a genius because I cannot allow my son to continue on without ever making a CASTLE out of pillows and blankets. Buddy, prepare to have your whole world rocked.”

Gary grabs as many chairs as he can carry and gives orders to the kid on where the chairs should go, how to lay out the blankets right, and the optimal pillow positions. After about fifteen minutes of intense pillow forting, their masterpiece is complete.

“There. How’s it look, bud?” Gary asks, surveying the absolutely massive fort before him.

“It looks sick! Can I jump in it?” Little Cato is bouncing up and down in anticipation to get inside.

Gary ruffles his hair and nods. He uses his newly discovered dad reflexes, as Little Cato likes to call them, to whip out his phone and hit record to catch a video of the kid running and jumping straight into the nest of pillows. Little Cato lands with a soft thud and rolls around in it, laughing the whole time. Gary smiles, and he laughs as Little Cato turns himself into a burrito using a blanket.

Gary turns off his phone and slips underneath the small entrance to the fort to join his kid, grabbing their hot chocolates on the way. Little Cato unravels himself to share the blanket, taking his now lukewarm hot chocolate to take a big chunk out of the whipped cream.

“It’s nice in here,” Little Cato says, shifting closer to his dad. “How have I never done this before?”

“I have no idea, but it’s a crime that has now been remedied.” Gary wraps his arm around his kid, bringing him even closer and wrapping the blanket around them both tightly. “Now, what movie do you wanna watch?”

He shrugs, licking at the whipped cream and trying to get every single sprinkle. “You can pick, but it’s gotta have action. A lot. Like explosions and guns and everything!”

Little Cato makes an explosion noise, throwing his arms out and accidentally hitting Gary in the face in the process. They both laugh, but Gary can’t possibly let the kid get away without revenge. So he puts the kid in a headlock and ruffles his hair intensely.

His boy shouts in protest, even though he’s snickering, and he starts wriggling to get out of the hold. “Dad, come on,” Little Cato laughs. “Stop it!”

“Am I ruining your mane, little man? Because it was already a mess, hate to tell you,” Gary teases, but he lets goes of him with one final noogie.

The little rascal doesn’t even try to fix his hair once Gary lets go of him, he just smiles up at Gary as he starts scrolling through the movies available.

“Gimme a joke. The dad ones that Nightfall hates,” Little Cato says.

“Okay, wanna hear a joke about construction?” Little Cato nods excitedly. “Well, I’m still working on it!” Gary delivers enthusiastically.

The kid immediately dissolves into a pile of giggles, hiding his face against Gary’s side which only means that the blond can feel how hard the kid is laughing. Gary smiles fondly as he continues to scroll, his kid failing to calm down next to him. Despite Little Cato saying his first dad joke was lame, the kid has asked him for one at least three times a day.

“Oh hell yeah, you ever seen Iron Man?” Gary asks as he stumbles across the title.

Little Cato is still laughing, but he tries to respond anyways, “Never heard of it.”

Oh, Gary is really gonna have to teach this kid about all the classics soon. He can’t stand to think of his son having lived fourteen years and not knowing about Marvel.

“Oh, you’re gonna love it. It’s a superhero movie with a ton of action, sound good to you?”

The boy nods, so Gary hits play.

The two of them get comfortable as the movie starts, and the moment that Tony’s car gets blown up, Little Cato gets hooked. He’s annoyed that they had to go and show backstory, but he waits patiently.

Until the scene where Tony hooks up with the reporter, and Gary definitely covers the kid’s eyes as Little Cato says, “Ewww.” It makes Gary laugh.

They keep watching, and Gary can see Little Cato begin to doze off during the boring beginning, but the moment it goes back to when Tony got hit with shrapnel, his kid is wide awake and ready to watch.

The poor boy loves Yinsen, and Gary can’t do anything except watch his heart get broken. But it’s okay in the end since he gets really excited when he sees the suit in action. So excited that he leans forward and away from Gary, sitting with his legs crossed, his chin resting on his hands.

The blond stretches out his back and lays down with a content sigh. At this point, he stops watching the movie that he’s seen a bunch of times and instead watches his boy, who he’s also seen a lot, but watching Little Cato is so much better than the movie. The movie never changes no matter how many times he watches it, but Little Cato? The kid is constantly changing and growing as he experiences more things, and Gary loves seeing how he grows every day. The star-struck look in his eyes as he sees Tony build the kickass first suit makes Gary’s heart clench.

So, warm and content, focused on his son’s entertaining commentary about the movie, Gary drifts off to sleep in a pillow fort.

—-

“Gary! He just saved all of these people, and he did the cool walk away from an explosion thing?! This movie is so awe—”

Little Cato turns around, only to cut himself off when he sees the man behind him, laying on his side and absolutely passed out asleep. He smiles, then grabs the remote to pause the movie. They can finish it tomorrow when Gary is awake.

Little Cato drinks the rest of Gary’s hot chocolate, which is not hot anymore, and puts their mugs to the side. He carefully lays down next to him to avoid waking him up, and the kid gently adjusts the blanket so it covers them both. Little Cato cuddles up to Gary ever so quietly, a smile on his face as he closes his eyes.

“Night, Dad,” he whispers. “Love you.”

With that, Little Cato joins his dad in much needed rest.

[stevenuniversallyreviews]

Episode 120: Storm in the Room

“Sometimes I wonder if it’s even you up there.”

There are certain episodes of Steven Universe that act as culminations to multiple stories from the past. Pseudo-finales like The Return and Earthlings rely on tons of backstory to show how far we’ve come in the series, and big showstoppers like Mr. Greg that do likewise for specific characters rather than the show as a whole. But as our saga continues, we’re blessed with stories that have the same vast reference pool as these payoff episodes without the finality; at this stage, so much has happened that “regular episodes” can also be riddled with nods to how small elements of Steven’s overall journey have shaped his universe. Storm in the Room isn’t about solving problems, but acknowledging them, and because the problem at hand involves the past catching up with the present, I love how much this episode looks back.

We start right as The New Crystal Gems ends, making this the seventh episode in a row documenting a very long day in Steven’s life (granted, one of them is him listening to what his friends were up to on Earth, but he’s still stuck in the Zoo uniform). Connie, glad to relinquish her guardian duties, gets nervous when Dr. Maheswaran doesn’t answer her phone, and Steven tries to relieve the tension in a way that seems insensitive at face value. His insistence on playing games when she’s clearly upset is awkward as hell, but he eventually acknowledges Connie’s feelings in a way that shows that in his own flawed way he was trying to help. The problem is that his version of help involves ignoring problems instead of facing them, and if this seems familiar, Connie completes the reference by practicing a calming breath from Mindful Education: she learned that episode’s lesson, but just like his mother, Steven’s instinct is to push his issues away.

Connie’s reunion with the good doctor evokes the ending of Nightmare Hospital, with Steven gazing from a distance at a mother and child embracing after a scare. But this time we don’t get the bittersweet imagery of his big smile slowly fading as he hugs Rose’s sword; he’s just alone, a background character to something he’s never experienced, all bitter and no sweet.

The tonal shift when Connie departs is stark and sudden. So far the episode has been full of Steven’s chattering, Aivi and Surasshu’s subtle score, and the ambient sounds of crashing waves as Steven says goodbye, but as soon as he shuts the door we’re met with crushing silence. It’s not hard to guess that his cheer has been forced, but it’s still brutal to see the act drop all at once before an extended and largely wordless routine of taking care of himself because nobody’s around to take care of him. We might not know it until A Single Pale Rose, but just like his approach to problem solving, his double life as an outwardly chipper hero that’s secretly suffering is another way he’s his mother’s son.

From the start of this quiet period, we see his discomfort with the portrait of Rose that’s graced his room for the entire series. The last time it’s been this prominent was Rose’s Scabbard, another eye-opening episode about her past, but now it haunts Steven as he makes his way through an empty home, magnified to show how small he’s made to feel by the cosmic scale of his burdens.

Steven briefly heads outside to avoid the picture staring at him through closed eyes, and we get a moment of pleasant rain that earns some murmured approval, but it morphs from the baptismal drizzle of The Answer and When It Rains to the harrowing downpour of Alone At Sea. Only when he’s back inside, with his dinner ruined and nowhere else to turn, does he truly speak. And for the first time in ages, since the era of An Indirect Kiss and Lion 3, he speaks to Rose.

It might be enhanced by the silence preceding it, but Zach Callison’s performance here is tremendous, even for him. Steven doesn’t even have the energy to be angry, he’s just cold and weary as he finally starts verbalizing his negative thoughts. They’re enough to make his mother’s door glow, and he knows as well as we do by now that Rose’s Room is a place of horror as well as wonder, but he steps inside anyway.

It’s so important that Steven admits right off the bat that none of what he's about to see is real, not just because it’s been a while since young viewers saw this place, but to preface the emotional illusion with his mental awareness of its fakery. He isn’t being fooled like he has in the past, but he’s so desperate for this connection that he’s willing to take questionable means to get it. When he asks to see his mom (rather than asking to see Rose Quartz), the clouds form into another image of her with her eyes closed, but unlike the portrait, she can open them right up.

Steven is already nervous when he enters the room, and gets even more flustered at the voice of his mother coming out of the simulacrum. But the illusion is so real that he composes himself, and despite his earlier nod to reality, he’s clearly drawn in no matter how much his head might tell him not to be.

There are tells, of course. Fake Rose Quartz Rose Ersatz is all about what Steven wants to do, lets him win at his video game with a patronizing “Hooray,” and gives a dramatic speech about the value of sports because the only reference point Steven has to her voice is the similar tone of her message from Lion 3. But beyond the appearance factor, there are tricky ways Faux Quartz seems more real than Connterfeit from Open Book: she’s inquisitive about the video game, she’s willing to pull pranks on her kid, and she provides a compelling rebuttal to Steven’s anger that suggests that maybe, just maybe, her room has a good enough grasp of the genuine article that this is more than a simple fake. After all, back in Rose’s Room, the most detailed deception was Greg, the person Steven encounters that Rose knew best.

But before we get into that conclusion and rebuttal, let’s look at the prank. There’s a certain mythological power to yanking a football away from a kicker: Charlie Brown isn’t that different from the likes of Tantalus or Sisyphus in this metaphor for futility, and while it’s obviously a funnier gag than trying to push a bolder up a hill, the inherent sadness of classic Peanuts is inextricable from the laughs. The glimmer of hope has to be built up every time, only to be dashed when Lucy betrays Charlie Brown’s trust, and it’s not hard to see the parallel with Steven trying again and again to understand the truth.

(While I loved my Peanuts growing up, my favorite iteration of the football gag is this spoken word reenactment starring Paget Brewster as Lucy, John Moe as Charlie Brown, and two of my comedy heroes, Paul F. Tompkins and “Weird Al” Yankovic, enjoying the show between them. It’s brilliant both as a tribute and a deconstruction of Charles Schulz.)

Given the setting, it’s inevitable that the situation turns dark. But despite the turmoil Steven endures, there’s a sense of catharsis as he unloads all his angst after spending so long bottling it up. As with Joy Ride and Steven vs. Amethyst, our hero reveals new insights into what’s going on in his head in a way that can’t be done right without saying it outright. His anger is sold by its specificity, and Callison again proves his chops in a damning monologue about all the ways Rose failed the expectations that have been built for him.

Out of the gate he connects her lie about bubbling Bismuth with the hypocrisy of her shattering Pink Diamond while punishing her friend for suggesting it. It’s a problem that was at the forefront of my concerns when the news of the shattering was first told, and while I felt vindicated in the show talking about it at last, it sucks that this didn’t lead to freeing Bismuth to continue the conversation. He’s just getting revved up, but I’m not sure I’ll ever get past how Bismuth was left high and dry for so long when I assess the show as a whole.

The real meat of the rant involves Steven isolating Rose’s biggest flaw. It’s visible from the second episode of the series, which revolves around Steven looking for a cannon that Rose could’ve told her friends about before passing: she has trouble telling the truth. Sometimes it’s negligence, as with the cannon, but often it’s deception. It was so ingrained that Pearl interpreted it as a sign of great leadership in Rose’s Scabbard, and Garnet’s obfuscating attitude before her character development kicks in could be read as an influence of the old boss’s style. So it’s about time that Steven out and calls her a liar.

I love that after so long worshiping Rose, Steven does a full swing in the opposite direction when forced to confront her imperfections. He’s not interested in seeing anything from her point of view, but assumes the worst possible intentions: we go from her causing harm (which is certain) to her intending to cause harm (which is probably not the case) to Steven worrying that he only exists as the ultimate escape option (which is definitely not the case). Even though Rose Quack counters this last point with calm grace, and Steven seems to accept that the tape was telling the truth, it’s hard to trust a character defined by mistruths. We’ll see in Lion 4 that even though he lets her off the hook at the end of the conversation, his doubts persist.

Regardless of the details, Steven’s fate is set. Whether or not she meant for it to happen, he did inherit Rose’s messes, and because his martyr complex has taken root, he’s all set to sacrifice himself at the end of the season. He took the big step in addressing how awful his situation is, which is better than letting it fester the way it’s been doing for sixteen episodes, but the step is perhaps too big. There’s a balance he has to reach for him to truly be happy, but it’ll be a while yet before he finds it, because he’s a fourteen-year-old kid.

After such a heavy episode, it makes sense that we end with some hope. Steven sorta oversells a sense of surprise that all four members of his immediate family have returned, but he’s been through a lot so I’ll cut him a break. We get pizza with the wrong topping, but as Greg predicted in Keystone Motel, Steven has learned to accept all pizza.

Perhaps the most important aspect of Storm in the Room is that it actually sticks. Mindful Education seems to be the start of a new outlook, and Steven does start looking for more answers after futzing around for a bit, but a more apparent shift takes place here that it’s gonna take a while to pull out of. He’s not trying to find the truth anymore, because the sheer scale of untruths surrounding Rose makes real answers seem impossible; plus, the last time he tried his dad was almost stolen forever. So for now, he’ll have to settle with sulking. Thank goodness the show makes it interesting to watch.

Future Vision!

Steven’s discomfort with Rose’s portrait never really goes away; after a couple of years, he decides to store it in Lion’s mane at the end of Rose Buds.

We’re the one, we’re the ONE! TWO! THREE! FOUR!

A heavy episode, gorgeously paced and directed, but honestly it’s such a bummer that I don’t watch it that often, and the conclusion with Steven’s living family feels just a bit too cute for this to crack the top of my list.

Top Twenty

Steven and the Stevens

Hit the Diamond

Mirror Gem

Lion 3: Straight to Video

Alone Together

Last One Out of Beach City

The Return

Jailbreak

The Answer

Mindful Education

Sworn to the Sword

Rose’s Scabbard

Earthlings

Mr. Greg

Coach Steven

Giant Woman

Beach City Drift

Winter Forecast

Bismuth

Steven’s Dream

Love ‘em

Laser Light Cannon

Bubble Buddies

Tiger Millionaire

Lion 2: The Movie

Rose’s Room

An Indirect Kiss

Ocean Gem

Space Race

Garnet’s Universe

Warp Tour

The Test

Future Vision

On the Run

Maximum Capacity

Marble Madness

Political Power

Full Disclosure

Joy Ride

Keeping It Together

We Need to Talk

Chille Tid

Cry for Help

Keystone Motel

Catch and Release

When It Rains

Back to the Barn

Steven’s Birthday

It Could’ve Been Great

Message Received

Log Date 7 15 2

Same Old World

The New Lars

Monster Reunion

Alone at Sea

Crack the Whip

Beta

Back to the Moon

Kindergarten Kid

Buddy’s Book

Gem Harvest

Three Gems and a Baby

That Will Be All

The New Crystal Gems

Storm in the Room

Like ‘em

Gem Glow

Frybo

Arcade Mania

So Many Birthdays

Lars and the Cool Kids

Onion Trade

Steven the Sword Fighter

Beach Party

Monster Buddies

Keep Beach City Weird

Watermelon Steven

The Message

Open Book

Story for Steven

Shirt Club

Love Letters

Reformed

Rising Tides, Crashing Tides

Onion Friend

Historical Friction

Friend Ship

Nightmare Hospital

Too Far

Barn Mates

Steven Floats

Drop Beat Dad

Too Short to Ride

Restaurant Wars

Kiki’s Pizza Delivery Service

Greg the Babysitter

Gem Hunt

Steven vs. Amethyst

Bubbled

Adventures in Light Distortion

Gem Heist

The Zoo

Enh

Cheeseburger Backpack

Together Breakfast

Cat Fingers

Serious Steven

Steven’s Lion

Joking Victim

Secret Team

Say Uncle

Super Watermelon Island

Gem Drill

Know Your Fusion

Future Boy Zoltron

No Thanks!

     6. Horror Club      5. Fusion Cuisine      4. House Guest      3. Onion Gang      2. Sadie’s Song      1. Island Adventure

[rynezion]

deep water

As he grows up, they tell him there are no bonds in the world for the likes of him. Zevran doesn't think much of it—these days his mind is occupied by more immediate dangers, being seven and scrawny and the weakest of the children under the care of House Arainai.  There is no time to dwell on the possibility of soulmates, not then.

The others are violent. He is smarter. He gets to live.

<< Read on AO3 >>

(Later he will wonder if it was worth it, to coat his arms in the blood of his peers—later, when he cradles Rinna’s cooling body in his arms and Taliesen walks out of the room, expression cast in stone.)

He is fourteen when the dream comes.

It is grey and black and white like all of his dreams before. The grassy slope in front of him disappears into mist where the Fade swallows the edges and trees cast long shadows into the nothing, darker, somehow, than real-world black. That’s where he sees it: a spot of colour, impossible, half-hidden in the dark.

Zevran moves and his heart beats faster. The figure peels out of the fog and sharpens into the form of a girl in a blue robe. She huddles between the roots, sections of her long braid caught in the branches and thorns, the rest pooling by her feet. She hides her face in her knees. Her shoulders are shaking.

“Hey,” Zevran says. The girl curls up even smaller. “Hey,” Zevran repeats, quickly losing patience—in his world there is no place for fear unless it’s the fear of his mark, and this girl—

“Go away,” the girl says, “I don’t want to play anymore.”

“What?”

She looks up then, tear streaked face brown and plain, and there is a bruise on her cheek. Her lips are bloody. Zevran crouches down. The girl frowns.

“You’re not Envy,” she says.

“Umm… no?”

“The other one is the same as you,” she says, tilting her head to the side, “but dirtier. He sleeps in the kennel with the dogs, you know?”

“The other one?” Zevran asks. The girl nods.

“I’m not allowed to talk to him,” she says. “Not anymore. The creche mother says they will take care of it tomorrow.”

“Oh,” Zevran says, head spinning. The girl’s accent is weird. Her eyes are unbonded-grey—he knows this, knows this because he is here and the girl’s robes are blue.

“What’s your name?” the girl asks.

The dream dissolves before he can answer.

Zevran opens his eyes to the cramped darkness of his cot and sighs.

It matters not. There are no bonds in the world for the likes of him, even if his heart of hearts leaps at the memory of a robe so blue—he is a knife and nothing more, and his life doesn’t belong to him. He has learned to live with it. It matters not, not any more.

The girl doesn’t come again. Neither does anybody else.

Life goes on.

Rinna talks about her dream-bond sometimes. They aren’t allowed, not really, but neither are they allowed to have this: to curl up on a bed too small for the three of them, warm and boneless in post-coital bliss. Rinna’s voice is sleep-slow as she tells them about a boy with bright red hair who promises to free her from the Crows, one day. They all know it is impossible. Zevran envies her anyway.

“We will be the greatest friends,” she says, “you will come with me and we will run to Rivain and start our own House where nobody needs to starve or be bought with coin. It will be glorious.”

Taliesen laughs and says he has no need for escape, or a bond; has never had one and never will.

“Maybe he’s dead,” he says. “All the better for me, huh?”

Rinna huffs and bites his shoulder. Zevran rolls away and looks up at the ceiling, the sagging beams and fading green of the tiles more mildew than paint. He wonders if that’s what it is: that whoever put the bruise on the little girl’s face came back to finish the job, if she’s dead and has been for years. The thought leaves a strange taste in his mouth.

But then Taliesen turns to lick the tip of his ear and Zevran succumbs to the feverish rush of pleasure, the brightness of the afternoon and Rinna’s laugh. He is in love and life feels full of possibility. Zevran considers forever as much as any young Crow can: to be cradled between eager arms today, tomorrow, for as many days after as they can scrape away from this jealous world.

They are young, and foolish, and the world is indeed cruel.

---

“And you’re sure this will work,” the mercenary says. She sounds skeptical. Zevran smiles an easy smile and twirls one of his daggers in the air, watching as the woman picks at her skirt with a look of faint disgust on her face. The seams of the dainty blouse seem to groan at the stretch of her shoulders. It matters not. The stage is set.

“It will work,” Zevran says. “We talked about this. It is only a party of five. How many of us is there, darling one?”

The woman scowls at him. “I can count, you know. There’s really no need to be an asshole.”

“Right then,” Zevran smiles. “Ready?”

“I guess. Andraste help us.”

It doesn’t take ten minutes until she comes running back on the path, expression long-suffering as she pretends to scream in distress at the company spread out in front of her. His mark’s party of five comes stumbling onto the clearing. No time to watch, to assess: the mercenary pulls her knife, the warrior twitches back with a shout as the blade finds a gap in his armour, the elf woman unhooks her staff and then—carnage. It’s a language he speaks intimately.

His mercenaries all die, of course. All he feels is relief when the scantily clad mage woman finally gets close enough to hit him in the side of the head with her staff: ice spiderwebs from the contact and he falls as darkness envelops him at last, at last. He stretches in that blessed quiet, ready, and then—

“Hey. Wake up.”

The world is cruel, and he is not dead.

Zevran opens his eyes, takes a deep breath, then exhales fast as if somebody punched him in the gut.

It’s the girl. The girl in blue robes. Zevran laughs, hysterical and somewhat helpless, and the girl’s eyes flood with colour: brown, brown, brown, rye bread and honey-gold, just like the dream. His dream. Behind her, the warrior staggers back and clutches his face.

“No fucking way,” the mage-barbarian says. The others—is that a Chantry sister? A qunari? What kind of sick joke is this?

Not for the likes of you, Master Arainai says in his memory, expression absent. The girl—woman—looks at him, one eye honey-brown, the other almost golden. The warrior turns toward them. A single tear spills down Zevran’s left cheek as his eyes itch and fill.

“No fucking way,” the mage-barbarian repeats.

But here it is anyway: life is cruel, he is not dead, and his bond is here, here, here.

Leliana finds it all terribly romantic. Bards. Sten (the qunari) listens with stoic indifference as she recounts stories of other famous triads—if Zevran has to hear about Alvinna the Fair one more time he will consider murder. Once the dizziness passes, that is.

Enchanter Surana, Andraste help him, gives him startled looks from the corners of her eyes. Alistair stomps on behind them

Morrigan thinks it’s hilarious.

“Listen,” Surana says quietly, “this doesn’t need to… mean anything. I mean…,” she swallows and clutches her staff tighter, “it is complicated. With. Yeah.” She glances over her shoulder at Alistair.

“I don’t even…like men. That way,” Alistair mutters, sounding queasy. Oh good. A Fereldan prude. Zevran swallows the urge to throw back an obscene remark—not the time, he thinks, even if it would be fun. The warrior has delectable shoulders and blushes so well. It would be easy.

And yet.

“I mean,” Surana continues, “you did try to kill us. Before.”

“I did,” Zevran agrees. She nods. They walk some more in silence. “I thought you were dead,” he adds.

“What?”

“The dreams?”

“Oh.”

A shadow passes over her face, half hidden by the choppy ends of her hair. It doesn’t even reach her shoulders anymore, instead it sticks up in untidy tufts around her ears. It gives her even more of a haunted look than her features already call for. Her nose grew to be large and crooked. Zevran decides he likes it.

“There is a potion,” she says then. Alistair makes a choked noise. “Circles, you know.”

“They have a thing about fornication,” Morrigan adds helpfully, “nevermind world-changing, earth shattering soulmate magic. Stuff of nightmares. Makes mages dangerously independent.”

“Hey,” Surana snaps. Morrigan cackles.

“‘Tis true, is it not? Poor baby bird. Whatever will you do now, with no templars to tell you what to do?”

“I—”

“Nevermind,” Morrigan says and brushes past them with her nose in the air, “You probably think I should be locked up too, to be taught table manners. Tch.”

“That’s not what I—”

Surana sighs. Zevran lifts an eyebrow and asks: “This happens a lot, then?”

Alistair looks pained.

“You have no idea.”

Things settle into a routine, after. Alistair stops watching him like a hawk once Zevran fails to poison or shank them all in their sleep. Leliana nags him for stories. Morrigan argues with Surana—it’s like watching somebody kick a puppy, Zevran thinks, as he watches her try and fail to keep the peace. Morrigan makes her nervous. It is almost charming.

Then they make it to Redcliffe and things go sideways, fast.

The dead burn. It is somehow not the most horrifying thing waiting for them between those cursed castle walls. (Alistair turns green as Surana splits her palm on the edge of a knife and Isolde lifts into the air, limbs spread in angles all wrong, dead.)

“It’s better that I did it,” she whispers to Zevran later. She is shaking. He reaches around her shoulders to pull her closer, but she flinches away.

“Sorry, I—”

“No harm done,” Zevran says, and his heart aches. She refuses to let him bandage her hand. The haunted look never quite disappears from her eyes.

The wound heals, but scars. Alistair spits cruel words of grief. Surana, face blank, only says: whatever it takes.

(It’s better I do it, than corrupt anybody else.)

Zevran understands necessity. He was made wrong decades ago, the first time a Crow master put a knife between his spidery child-fingers and pointed him toward another man. Surana’s quest is much more dignified than mere survival. Whatever it takes is a pretty good start.

Alistair stammers an apology. Morrigan slaps dishes and packets around and comes out with a foul smelling poultice, covers the wounds with the thick paste and says nothing.

Iraine lets her.

It’s strange, Zevran thinks, watching Alistair strip his gambeson and his shirt and wade into the stream without flinching at the cold, how they care for each other despite everything. He accepts a bowl of soup from Leliana. Alistair blushes when he turns around and finds Zevran watching.

Life goes on.

Zevran thinks he’s done with the ‘inevitable’ bullshit, but.

Alistair kisses him over smoking darkspawn corpses deep in the bowels of the Deep Roads for the first time. Branka’s carcass hasn’t yet finished bleeding. It is—something.

“You could have chosen a better locale,” Zevran pants into his mouth and Alistair makes a strangled sound. His eyes are large and mismatched and blurry with want.

“We almost died,” he blurts. The stench of dead flesh makes their noses numb. It’s perfect.

“Get a fucking room,” Oghren grunts. Zevran glances at Iraine. Alistair buries his face into his hands.

“Awkward,” Morrigan says, but there’s no true venom in it.

Iraine is there for the rest: hands on shoulders and soothing words as Zevran stretches out over Alistair, taking and breathing and living.

“I love you,” he whispers into the warm and sweaty darkness. In that moment he means all of it; Rinna’s smile and Taliesen’s easy hands, the dream-girl’s blue robes, Iraine’s mouth by his ear and Alistair’s strong arms.

It is a cruel thing, in truth. His heart is full and still, fear whispers: how long, this time?

Fortunate, then, that he has learned to wake from nightmares in quiet a long time ago.

---

“Oh, are you fucking kidding me,” Morrigan says, “how many of your ex-lovers will show up to murder us in the near future, you think?”

Taliesen tilts his head to the side. Zevran swallows the urge to laugh.

“Come home with me,” Taliesen says. Iraine glances at him—he looks back and sees nothing but trust, the quiet depth of her love. She nods. Zevran smiles.

They hold him after, once Taliesen’s body finishes cooling and they stagger back to Arl Eamon’s palace to get outrageously drunk. Zevran cries into Alistair’s shoulder. Iraine tucks herself against his back and closes her eyes.

“I have found something,” she says later, once the bottles are empty and she makes them drink a mug of water each. She leans back against the headboard and buries her fingers into Zevran’s hair.

“Do you know why only Wardens can kill archdemons?”

Zevran thinks he’s done with the ‘inevitable’ bullshit, but.

They end it dizzy and wrung out, standing high up on that Denerim rooftop. The dragon’s corpse is spread out around them like a small mountain. Iraine and Alistair lean against him, hands still tangled together, the buzz of necrotic energy traversing their skin with ease. Iraine’s hands are caked in blood and dragon entrails.

“So that’s why the Circle doesn’t like soulmate-magic, huh?” Zevran says. Iraine snorts. Tendrils of arcane residue trail around them like colourful ribbons and Zevran wonders if this is how she sees the world all the time: a blur between the Fade and the truth, the colour of magic trailing after everything living and dead. He tugs the two of them closer. Alistair’s sword clatters to the stone and he wraps two armour-clad arms around them the best he can.

“You know,” he says, “we almost died.”

“He wants to make out again,” Iraine says, and Zevran laughs, light and warm and free and holding tight, tight.

(There will be a monument here, in about a decade: three stone figures holding hands, moss and lichen growing in the crevices for colour. Alistair will pretend to hate it, but will spend snatched minutes and hours as King sitting under its shadow. Zevran will visit, sometimes. Iraine will never see it.

All will be well.)

[cchellacat]

Happier

Love All The Marvel Ships Challenge 

Day Fourteen ~  Doing something fun/special together.

  “Darcy, hey, wake up!”

There’s a blaze of light as the curtains are pulled open and the sunlight hits Darcy directly in the face. She groans dramatically and rolls over burying her face in his pillow.

“Go away.”

“Darcy!  Come on, you have to get up.  Things to do, people to see.”

She pulls the duvet over her head, her voice muffled as she replies.

“What?  Ugg, no, I am not getting up!  It’s too damn early for this.”

“Oh, come on, it’s going to be a good day.  You can’t lie in bed forever.”

“Says who?”  Darcy mutters into the comforter.

The cover is suddenly gone and the bed dips dangerously.  She blinks up and glares at Jane.

“Seriously?  Who died and made you Queen?”

Jane pulls that mulish expression; the one Darcy could really have lived her whole life without seeing.

“Up, we have things to do. I have a list of instructions and you’re not getting out of it.”

Darcy frowns, blowing a curl out of her face.

“Instructions?”

Jane smiles warmly down at her.  Darcy does not feel like smiling back, but a little voice in the back of her head nudges her to bite anyway.

“Up, I have coffee ready in the kitchen and Tony had your favourite pastries flown in from that bakery in Chicago.  

Darcy blinks stupidly at Jane.  It’s not her birthday.  What the hell is going on?

Jane jumps off the bed before she can ask anything else and grabs her hand, dragging her up.  For such a tiny woman she sure has a lot of strength.

“Okay, fine, I’m up. But I wanted it recorded that it is under protest.”

“Duly noted.”  Jane replies dryly, shoving her toward the bathroom.

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

By the time she steps out of the shower and into the bedroom again she actually feels awake and at least a little intrigued by Janes mysterious instructions.

On the bed Jane has laid out an outfit for her.  It’s one she hasn’t worn in a long time.  The dress is a deep amber with white polka dots and the long wrap cardigan is a jewel toned burgundy red.  The heels she’s left out match and Darcy feels a tiny thrill of nostalgia.  

When she’s finally seated at the table, she finds everything exactly as Jane said it would be, fresh French pressed coffee and an array of artesian pastries she loves.

She pulls the sleeves of the cardigan up to her elbows and digs in, humming appreciatively at the fine coffee and equally fine chocolate twist.  

“Okay, Boss lady, hit me, what do I have to do?”

“Well.”  Jane tells her, reaching into her bag.  “Bucky asked me to give you this…”  Jane pulls the letter from her bag and offers it to her carefully.

Darcy sets the cup down and reaches for the letter with numb fingers.

When her hand shakes, she unfolds it and lays it on the table so she can read it.

 Good morning Babydoll,

I bet you didn’t expect this, but you know I never leave anything to chance.  I promised you something once and I followed through, now I’m callin’ in my favour.  I want you to follow my plan, just this once, no arguing.  I know you’re callin’ me all the names of the day in your head right now, but I swear, you’ll thank me later.  I expect if Jane followed through, you’re wearing that dress and those shoes, you know the ones I mean…

Darcy slapped her hand over her mouth and choked back an unsteady sobbing laugh.  He was such a sneaky little shit.

Do you remember the day you wore it last?  We went out to Coney Island, you hated it, complained the whole day about the cheap food and the sand everywhere and the crowds.  But you went anyway, you knew it made me happy to take you there.  I remember takin’ off those strappy little heels and holding them for you while we walked along sand.  You looked beautiful in that dress, with your hair up and little wisps of curls kissing the skin at the nape of your neck.  We stood on the beach and watched the sunset.  You made me happy that day, let me make today happy for you.  So, listen up Darcy Elizabeth cause there’s a schedule, you don’t want to be late for the grand finally.  Listen to Jane, I know she’ll keep you right doll, I know I can trust her to keep her mouth shut, so don’t go needling her to tell.  I hope today will be as special for you as made that one for me.

James.

P.S. I love you.

 Darcy bit back her tears and pressed her fingers flat into the paper, biting her lip hard.  After taking a few minutes to compose herself she looked back up at Jane.

“Jane...”

Jane holds up a hand and stops her.

“No, I made a promise, I’m going to keep it.  Let’s go, we have somewhere to be in forty minutes.”

Darcy gives her a hard stare then glances back down at the letter.

P.S. I love you

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

 “Where are we?”  Darcy asks as the car draws up outside an imposing looking stone built.

Jane looks over and hands her another letter, silent smile fixed firmly in place as once again Darcy reaches for the paper.

“Don’t read it till you’re in there, I’ll wait here for you.  You’ve got an hour.”

She stepped out and made her way up the steps and inside.  The curator stood waiting for her.

“Welcome to the Grolier Club Ms Lewis.  We have a private viewing room ready for you.”

Darcy looked around again, taking in the detail.  How on earth had he managed this?  She followed closely on the woman’s heels, and followed the special instruction for handling the documents and settled down.  The woman left and Darcy brought out the letter Jane had handed her.

“Hey Doll-face,

I hope you’ll enjoy the surprise.  You get a private viewing of Wallace’s Supreme Fiction, the original document.  I can’t claim to understand or even like poetry the way you do, but I did a little reading. I think I understand what you were trying to say about it now.  

Here’s the two parts that stuck me, touched me perhaps, gave me pause as I thought of you, of us, of what we are, together and apart. Of what I’ve done and who I’ve been, the fiction of the life that was taken and the fiction of the one forced on me.

And for what, except for you, do I feel love? Do I press the extremest book of the wisest man Close to me, hidden in me day and night? In the uncertain light of single, certain truth, Equal in living changingness to the light In which I meet you, in which we sit at rest, For a moment in the central of our being, The vivid transparence that you bring is peace

I know you’ll understand why this resonated, I took the idea of the life I could have had and built it into something it never could have been, I spent so long looking back at that pretty lie I sometimes didn’t see the truth in front of me.  You were the only thing I’ve truly loved, the only one that brought me peace.  You think you broke me Doll?  You were the one who put me back together.

“Music falls on the silence like a sense,

A passion that we feel, not understand”

I’m an asshole.  I didn’t spend the time I should have listening.  Until you, there was only silence and darkness.  You brought the music Doll and you brought the light.  I should have told you then, when I still had the chance.  You gave me back my soul, I thought it was gone forever, but it was just hurt, hiding in the darkness.  You found me, and I never thanked you for that.  So, thank you, for being bright and beautiful, for believing and pushing me even when I know I hurt you with my actions, when I pushed you away.  You never let up, never gave up.  I didn’t try to understand why, I should have.  I was selfish where you were always giving.  You deserve everything Doll, you deserve to be cherished and loved and safe.  In my mind I see you dancing still, in the echoes of my memory, in the corner of my eye.  Never stop Darcy, fill your life with music, fill it with love.

James.

P.S. I love you.

 She fisted her hands in the material of her dress and let the tears fall on his letter, silently letting it all pour out.  She should never have watched that movie with him, he could be such a soppy bastard.  She spent the next hour reading over the work, thinking of Bucky and what he’d thought of it, now she knew he had read it. In a way it’s was like he was here with her. That was something precious and she held onto the feeling very, fucking, tightly.  

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

 “Is there seriously more to this magical mystery tour?  I feel like some pathetic thirty something in a Rom-com.  You know I hate Rom-coms Jane.  Where is this going?”

“Not where you’d expect.” she tells her, biting the inside of her cheek.

“Come, on we’re here.”

Darcy steps out, they’re somewhere in Brooklyn, it looks like an old warehouse, what on earth could there possibly be here?

“It’s part of an Art’s Program Tony funds.  They get permission from the city to encourage expressive and creative arts through certain youth groups.  The idea is that even the worst places in the city should have beauty brought back to them.”

Darcy follows Jane as they make their way over to the group of kids and few adults all milling about with tables set up full of massive stencils and paints and cans of spray paint.

Jane once more pulls a letter from her bag, then turns Darcy till she’s facing the brick wall and puts the letter in her hands.

“Here, you should read this first.”

Hi Sweetheart,

I hope you’re ready to have some fun.  But before you do, look up….

She steps back on one leg and looks up and her eyes widen.  The laughter that bubbles up escapes her completely.  Up high near the top of the wall are three panels.  They all depict the same two boys.  In the first a young Bucky holds a tiny Steve Rogers in by the scruff of the neck, the latter kicking his legs, swiping at Bucky with his first.  In the second is Bucky in his uniform saluting his friend, Steve, shoulders slumped left behind.  The third panel is what’s killing her.  Steve in all his star-spangled glory is running from the Germans, Bucky in his arms like a rescued princess, winking to the street.

Jane hands her a tissue as she finally manages to control her laughter, the tears wetting her cheeks in mirth rather than bittersweet sadness.

Steve wasn’t the only one who took art classes Sugar, I hope it made you smile, I know it did.  I can hear you laughing from here.  I promise, he hasn’t seen it yet, you can show him later, I bet he busts a rib when he does.  Go make something beautiful Doll, bring something good out of something broken, I know you can do it.  Be brave, take a chance.  Go pick a can and paint.  Remember that day in London?  When we ended up in that museum?  We spend five hours in that place, I’m pretty sure I thought we were never going to leave. But there was that one painting and you sat there for near an hour staring at it.  Whatever it was that touched you then, let it touch you now.  I’m right beside you Doll.

James,

P.S. I love you.

 She tucks the letter into her bag with the other two and heads back over to Jane where she’s tentatively picking up different cans.

“You going to help Janie?”

“You bet I am, this actually looks like it might be fun.”

Darcy grins back and picks up a can, shaking it fast and lets the arts co-ordinator direct her to a piece of wall.

Jane stands beside her looking wary….

“Darcy?  I don’t know if I like the way you’re staring at the wall.”

“Chill Jane, this going to be fun.  You know I was actually pretty good at art in school.  It’s been a while, but this isn’t my first-time tagging.  It’s just, you know, legal this time.”

Darcy grins in anticipation. She knows exactly what she’s going to do.  Using a length of card board, she starts her masterpiece.  She had eight feet of wall to fill, who says there can’t be a garden in the jungle?

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

  Sitting over lunch in a tiny hole in the wall in Queens, she feels at peace and happier than she thought the day would be.  Jane’s keeping the conversation going whenever Darcy faulters and stubbornly carries on till she joins back in again.  The woman is a goddess, she doesn’t know what she’d do without her friend.  It’s been a tough year, somehow, they’ve both held together through it.  The sudden arrival of a violinist to play music that has her somewhat speechless until she hears and recognises the notes. It’s from Thais, the same Opera he took her to a little over a year ago. She looks at Jane with confusion, she pulls another damned letter from her bag and hands it to Darcy.

 Afternoon Beautiful,

I hope lunch is going well and you’re listening to the music.  I enjoyed that trip to Opera, I never told you how much.  It was heart-breaking and beautiful.  The story made me think.  About life and death, love and loss.  Made me think of what we leave behind when we go.  It made me realise something about us.  Or maybe more accurately about me.  I never looked as deep as I should at you, at all the tiny facets that made you who you are, not in the beginning at any rate.  You’re more than just a pretty face, more than a figure that can fill out a dress like a dream.  You’re smart and passionate and good.  You’re all the most beautiful things I never took the time to really see.  All the beautiful things I took for granted.  If I could live the moments over, I’d look harder, be a better man.  You deserve better, you deserve the best.  You deserve someone that sees the things you hide.  I don’t know why you hide the best parts of yourself, but I can guess.  It probably started with assholes like me, that never botherd to listen, to look at who you were.  I think they found absolution in death, I’d really rather fuckin not.  Think about it Doll.  Really think about it.  Stop believing that the paint on your lips and the value men give you means more than the value you ascribe yourself.  You are my Thais, I’m just the poor schmuck that didn’t realise your value till it was too late.

James.

P.S. I love you.

“Why did he do this Jane?”  Darcy asks as she fold up the letter, the final notes of the violin coming to a close.  Jane looks torn.

“Honestly Darcy?  I think Bucky Barnes will forever be a mystery.  If anyone can figure out what all this means it has to be you, because I don‘t have clue and I know how this ends.”

“Alright then.  What’s next?”

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

 Steve is waiting at the airport, standing on the tarmac by the jet, his smile only a little guilty looking.

Darcy looks at Jane questioningly.

“Sorry Darce but this time it’s Steve who’s got the letter. I’ll be here when you get back.”

“You mean it still won’t be over when I come back?”

“there’s at least one more thing on the list before the end. Don’t over think it Darcy, just give it a chance.  What the worst that can happen?”

Darcy sighs and facepalms.

“Jane, I know we talked about this.  We do not taunt Murphy, God of Anything that will go wrong, with fighting words like that.  What’s the worst that can happen!”

She climbs out of the car and walks to where Steve waits for her.

“Hey.”  She twists her fingers in her sleeves and waits to see what he has to say.

“Hey Darce, got a letter for you.”

“Well?” she says expectantly when no letter appears.

“It’s on the jet.  You can read it once we’re in the air.”

“fine.”  

She moves past him and up the steps, quickly finding a seat and settling in.

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

When they finally take off, he hands her the letter and a thick manila file.

“Is this…”  she breaks off, reluctant to take it.

“You don’t have to read the file.  But he insisted you have the choice.”

She takes the letter, this time more apprehensive than before.

 My Darling Girl,

You are my darling, my sweetheart, my sugar, my doll.  All the pet names in the world can’t encompasses what you are to me.  I call you by those names because there is so much that I find hard to say.  

My darling.  You are precious, more precious than gems and gold, than any treasure ever lost or found, you are my darling girl.  Each tear I’ve cost would bankrupt the richest man for it is more valuable than a diamond.  Each time I’ve caused you pain has cost me time I’ll never have again.

My Sweetheart.  You are my heart, the whole of mine beats in time with yours.  The sweetness you gave me I tainted with my own unhappiness, the sourness of resentment left to festered in my mind did more damage than actual words ever spoken.

My Sugar. You were the part of me that hoped and wanted.  The sweetness of a different outcome, another future, I squandered it away.  

My Doll. I wanted to care for you, protect you, treat you like a princess, I didn’t know how to tell you I saw your strength as well, knew it was greater than my own.  But you let me hold you close, you kept me safe through nightmares waking and sleeping.  Like a child, you were my doll, to ward off the loneliness I lived in, my friend and my companion, my equal in every way.

You threw it back at me once, rightfully, that when I told you that you couldn’t understand it was because I wouldn’t tell you, show you, explain.  I should have handled that better.  So, Steve’s gonna take you on a little trip for me.  You want honest, this is it.  My files from Hydra and in Bucharest my journals.  Take as long or as short a time as you need.  

James,

P.S. I love you.

Why had he done this?  Why now?  Why wait? He must have written these months ago. She carefully folds the paper, another confession of love and pain.  Why couldn’t he have told her himself?  Why like this?

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

 The jet is fast, but not so fast she doesn’t have time to read the file.  She takes her time with it, reading each page with careful consideration. For years all she’s had was speculation. A patchwork of ideas she’s put together through restless nights, sleepwalking and nightmares.  He’d always been an incomplete puzzle she was trying to fix.  What was contained in the files was a part of that puzzle, not all of it, but a great deal. He had never wanted to talk about what happened to him.  Not to her, not to anyone.  She had done what she could to hold him together, some days it had felt like she was working with nothing more than brown paper and string.  

It had never been a chore, being there for him, she never felt it as a burden, but he had convinced himself he was.  To her it had been nothing more than a labour of love.  She’d come to know exactly how she felt early on.  How could she not love him?  The letters he had sent today, a mixture of apology, memories of better times and a deep confession of love.  He’d never said the words out loud, but she had known, she had.  She’d understood it through his actions.  The way he held her, the way he took her hand, the way he defended her, the way he touched her shoulder when he passed her.  It was in the way he’d looked up at her smiling as he removed her heels in a beach on Cony Island.  It was in the way he held her close in a darkened Opera house as two characters met their end.  It was in the patience he held while she sat in front of a painting for an hour and half, waiting while she took it in.  it was in everything he remembered about her and never forgot.  She hadn’t needed the words, she’d just needed him.  But he wasn’t here.

She closed the file and pulled her bag up onto her lap, rifling through till she found what she was looking for.  The letter she’d found when she’d finally woken up from a five-week coma.  

 Darcy,

I’m leaving for a while.  I don’t know when I’ll be back.  I’m not good, I’m a mess and I never tried to fix it.  I let you take too much on yourself and I blamed you for things that weren’t on you. You were right, you always were.  You don’t have to wait for me.

I’m sorry.

James.

 She read it over, it was so different from the letters Jane had given her.  She was almost afraid to hope that this was something more than a sweet apology meant to ease whatever guilt he felt, pay back what he thought he owed her.

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

“Did you know he was born here?”  Steve asks as they walk down a side street.

She jerks her head to look up at him.  No, she hadn’t known.  Another part of his past he hadn’t shared.  She’d not sure why that piece of information stings more than the files she read on the plane.

Steve gives her sad smile.

“He was only a three when his parents took the boat to America.  He grew up learning to get rid of the accent.  Its how things were then.  You wanted to fit in, cover up the past, shed the identity of who you were as an immigrant and embrace what it meant to be American.

They gave up their family name at Elis Island.  Took an anglicised version and moved on. People didn’t talk about then, it’s probably something he never mentioned, not because he was hiding it, but because it was part of the life he lived before that was ingrained.  He learned how to speak Romanian though, guess he never forgot cause he manged to blend in here without issue for nearly a year before Zemo framed him for the bombing.”

“Where are we going Steve?”

“He kept the apartment here, even after all the trouble.  I don’t understand why, but he did.”

They stop outside an apartment building and Steve hands her the keys, telling her the flat number.

“You’re not coming up?” she asks hesitantly.

“No.  I’ve been here before, once.  He was pretty mad at me for looking in the journals he keeps here, I’m not comfortable going where I’m not invited.  You’re not the only one that got a letter today Darcy.”

“Oh…  I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.  I should never have got in the middle of it…  it was none of my business.  Guess I just got so used to being…  to having his back, I couldn’t see the bigger picture.  I’m sorry, you know about…”

“Hey, no.”  she cut him off, throwing both hands up, shaking her head. “No one’s perfect, not even Captain America.  It wasn’t your fault.  There’s no blame here Steve.  Not from me.”

“You really do see the good in everyone don’t you?”

“It’s not so hard, it’s there if you look hard enough.”

“I’ll be down the street, there’s a café on the corner there.”  He points, and she sees the awning a few hundred yards down the street. “Just come get me when you’re finished.”

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

 She lets herself into the apartment.  It’s not what she was expecting.  There had been a lot of re-modelling she thinks, it’s all clean and modern looking.  Light tones of mint and cream on the walls, a brighter teal picking out the accents.  It’s a calming space.  On the table next to the small kitchenet is a letter.  If course, there’s another letter.  Next to it is a box.

She sits down and opens it.

Darcy,

This is the truth, what’s left of it at least.  It’s all the broken pieces that I was trying to put back together. It’s what I hid from you, too afraid you’d see my weakness and leave.  It’s the darkness I lived with, that I brought into your life with me but never let you look at even while I let it hurt you.  I hope this answers the questions you had.  I hope it brings some sort of closure for you for that chapter in your life.

Always,

James.

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

It’s late when she finally leaves the apartment, her mind a swirling mess and yet she felt at peace.  There was closure in it.  A million, million, questions answered.  She clutched one journal in her hand.  The one he’d written after he left.  She’d keep it forever, the things he wrote bringing a comfort she hadn’t known she needed.

By the time they land back in New York she’s exhausted, it’s been a long day, it’s nearing evening.  The sun beginning to set.

Jane’s there waiting to take her back to the Tower.

Darcy’s thankful that Jane doesn’t press, just let’s her sit in the silence.  Entering the apartment, she leaves her bag and keys by the door and Jane stops her.

“I’ve done what he asked. This is the last part.  One more letter.  I hope I didn’t make a mistake agreeing to do this for him.”

Darcy takes the letter with a smile.

“No, it was good.  I’m glad you did.  He’s been with me every step of today, that’s because of you Janie. Thank you.”  They hug, laughing a little tearfully before parting.

The silence in the apartment had been the empty lonely kind since she’d returned from the hospital.

Something about today had changed that.  It wasn’t empty anymore.  The memories they had shared filled the space again and she sank into the couch, toeing off her shoes and pulling her feet under her.  She sat for a while, not really wanting it to be over, before she finally opened the letter.

 She creased her brow in consternation.  There wasn’t a letter.  There was a post card, a picturesque town on the front.  They had been there once, a year ago.  I tiny little town upstate.  She had loved how quiet it was, the peace and solitude, the simple life she’d joked.  But she’d seen the same longing in his eyes that she had.  She turned it over, noting the key taped to the back and only a handful of words underneath a set of lyrics from a song that had played on the radio over and over.

Ain't nobody hurt you like I hurt you But ain't nobody need you like I do I know that there's others that deserve you But my darling I am still in love with you

I left and never gave you a choice.  I took it away from you. I hope you understand where this is going. This is me, giving it back.

 James,

P.S. I love you.

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

 She pulls the car to stop outside the little house, the picket white fence freshly painted, flowers planted neatly in the yard.  The porch rebuilt and painted.  She takes a breath before she gets out of the car. Her heart has been beating like a drum the whole way here.

He’s sitting on the steps when she reaches the gate, his face filled with hope when he looks up and see’s her.  

He looks so different. The long hair is gone, instead it’s cut cleanly, if a little too short, displaying the sharp relief of his cheekbones and jaw.  

She can’t hold back the tears that break free or the shrill cry of his name as she crosses the yards separating them.  Then he’s right there, in front of her, picking her up in his arms, gathering her close as she buries her face in his neck, breathing in the scent of him that she had missed so much.

“You came.”  He whispers into her hair.  He says the words like he can’t believe it.

“Of course I came, where else would I go?  You’re the only future I ever wanted.  Promise me this is forever?”

“I promise.  I don’t want to spend another day without you, for the rest of my life, Doll.”

“Forever?”  she prods again, not sure what she wants from him. But he answers, while pressing tiny kisses over her face.

“That’s the whole point, isn’t it?  Forever?”

He takes her hand and presses something into her palm.  The cool metal warms quickly, as gold is want to do, the gem twinkles in the porch light as she stares in disbelief.  

“Bucky?”

“I’ll never be better, there’s too much that’s been broken and put back together, but…  I’m better than I was.  I’ve stopped running from it, stopped hiding.  The me here now, the one asking you to take this chance?  I wouldn’t ask if I wasn’t all in Doll. You’re it for me, I was just too stupid to see it before.  I don’t want to waste another day, not it you’re willing to take another chance on me.  So, this is me asking, Darcy.  Will you a take chance on this old soldier?  Will you marry me?  Will you let me spend the rest of my life making you as happy as you make me?”

She stands on her toes and kisses him hard.

“Yes, I will.”

 NEXT

  @captain-rogers-beard

[journeysintowebcomics]

Worm Liveblog #87

UPDATE 87: The Hunt

Last time Skitter was in company of the two people she was looking for in order to kill them. Yeah, Jack and Bonesaw. As you can guess, she was terrified once she deduced that. So let’s see how this goes! Because the bad guys know where Panacea is, and if she dies, everyone is doomed.

You know, Mr. Wildbow chose a good name for the school everyone wants to attend. ‘Arcadia’ is such a nice name, pretty fitting. I’m even sure it has some sort of meaning. Not sure what it is, but I’m pretty sure there’s some. If you, dear reader, can tell me, it’d be great. Arcadia is the dream school because everyone treats each other with courtesy and respect, and I can definitely see why Skitter wanted that back in the early chapters of Worm. Well, easy to treat others with respect when you want to be on the heroes’ good side. You never know if the guy you shouted in the hallway for accidentally bumping into you is actually Clockblocker and you’re making yourself look like a jerk.

Looks like Panacea may have gotten lucky. The school is in a hill, only traces of the miasma has gotten here. That means Panacea won’t be suffering any agnosia, right? She’ll be able to see the Slaughterhouse Nine members right as they are, and see Skitter as the helpful ally she intends to be. Not that the Slaughterhouse Nine’s going to dawdle around, they’ll take the chance to kill her and be done with this. The sooner they get rid of the person that could solve the problem that’s currently killing Brockton Bay, the better.

Skitter has to repeat to herself over and over who is who while she lands on the roof of the school. Thanks to the beetle, she has the advantage of arriving quicker to the top floor, unlike Jack and Bonesaw, who have to walk through the ground floor and upwards like plebeians. Unless Bonesaw mixes together a few bodies and makes a nightmarish beetle of her own. Really, she’d be capable of doing that if she wanted. Still, they have the advantage of time – they left towards Arcadia a few minutes before Skitter, and I don’t know just how fast the beetle is.

I could use something like a giant nine crafted out of bugs floating over the school to signal that the pair was here… but there was no guarantee that someone would come.

Wow. That’d be the most unsubtle thing ever. Jack and Bonesaw would immediately know something’s going on, and unless Panacea looks out of a window, she’s not going to see it. Good thing Skitter decides not to do something like that.

Entering the school is easy enough, searching the school is easy thanks to the skills that have been established for fourteen arcs already. She also sets up a few things to alert her when someone passes by. I think the enemies are clever enough to notice, so it’s matter of time before they find out Skitter’s hanging out around here.

The thing is, she can’t find Panacea. Hmmm...could...could it be Panacea isn’t here? I don’t think Cherish lied because right now she needs to stay on the Slaughterhouse Nine’s good side, but maybe Panacea moved somewhere else, in which case she’s nearby? Or maybe she went to see what was going on with the miasma? No way she hasn’t noticed something’s going on. She’d have to be locked in a place with no contact with the outside to not see things have gone pear-shaped.

Oh, nevermind, the Slaughterhouse Nine already know she may come around. There are gas traps for the bugs, and soon Skitter is able to hear what they’re saying. They found Panacea. Contrary to what I had expected, they’re having a grand time trying to corrupt Panacea and bring her into the group. Hm. For her sake, I hope Glory Girl isn’t around or she’s going to be killed just to push Panacea closer to despair.

“We could be! Haven’t you ever wanted to start over? I could make you younger!  We’d be the same age!  And wear matching outfits!  Oh!  I could do plastic surgery, we could be twins!”

“Did- did you do that to yourself?  Make yourself young?”

Somehow I don’t think the offer of looking like Bonesaw’s going to appeal to Panacea. Nice try, gal. Still, Bonesaw isn’t incompetent, she’s decent at manipulation. She’ll strike gold sooner or later, so if Skitter wants to act, she better do it as soon as possible.

Jack seems to have conflicted feelings about Bonesaw’s immaturity, and Bonesaw doesn’t care at all because Jack’s the boss and he knows what he’s doing. If Jack says Bonesaw’s personality is an annoyance, then so be it. It’s not so bad, I think Bonesaw’s personality gives her a creepy edge.

Since the alternative to Jack using his manipulative streak on her is, well, a horrible and nasty death, Panacea accepts to hear what he had to say. He knows a lot of stuff. I have no doubts he’s going to bring up every sore point Panacea has, starting from the fact she’s that villain’s daughter, to her attraction to Glory Girl. This is going to be fun, and by fun I mean it’s going to be tense to read.

“What’s holding you back?  You’re capable of so much, of changing the world, of destroying it, but you’re so very small, Amelia Claire Lavere.”

Apparently that’s the name she was born with. Amy is just the name her foster family gave her, hm? Close enough to be familiar to her, but also different enough to be a brand new start for her Jack talks about what he knows about her father, about how he stuck to the principles he defined for himself, and how Jack failed to break him.

“He killed Allfather’s daughter.”

“No, Amelia, he didn’t.”

I keep reading ‘Allfather’ as ‘alfalfa’ and that’s killing me. This is ruining the scene. Stop that, myself, this is a serious moment!

Turns out the stuff Panacea read in that letter may not be as straightforward as it seemed. I don’t know if Allfather really put a bounty on Panacea’s head, but the letter maybe had another purpose to it. Hm...

Well, I suspect either Dragon was manipulating you, or your father was manipulating Dragon in an effort to get a message to you.

I really don’t know what’s more likely. Either the letter had nothing other than straightforward truths, or Dragon is manipulating Panacea, or Marquis manipulated Dragon. If I had to guess...I’d lean more towards the first one, really. Dragon isn’t a naïve AI, really. I don’t think she’d be manipulated. As to if she was the one being manipulative...um...well I think she’d be capable of such a thing, but I don’t know if she’d do it. She seems rather straightforward, not the type to mess with anyone’s head.

The adult’s talking, Bonesaw, keep sewing yourself up. Jack can do this by himself without any interjections. After all, he says this rather accurate statement about Panacea’s personality:

“You’re your father’s daughter.  Both of you are bound up in rules you’ve imposed on yourselves.  His rules defined his demeanor, the boundaries he worked within, the goals he sought to achieve and how he achieved them.  They were his armor as much as his power was.  I would guess your rules are your weakness. Rather than focus you, they leave you in free fall, nothing to grasp on to except your sister there, and we both know how that has turned out.”

Marquis managed to stick to his rules, Panacea broke them, and when she broke them, things went straight to hell. Marquis had more willpower than Panacea does, and that’s why to him his own rules are helpful, instead of restrictions like to Panacea. Panacea kept herself restrained with them, even when it’d benefit someone else – Mark and his brain damage – and she was utterly inflexible. Maybe things would have gone a bit better if she hadn’t broken her rules, instead trying to modify them to suit her better.

I don’t really know what I’m saying. I haven’t given Panacea much thought, really, just when I’m reading this stuff.

Also, Glory Girl is here, and looks like she’s still alive. I hope her forcefield is working.

Skitter hopes there’s going to be a distraction so she can burst in and start saving people. That’s going to be more difficult because of the agnosia, because she can’t see who is who. I wouldn’t be surprised if Skitter jumps into the room and Bonesaw immediately claims to be Panacea. Jack...well he’s going to be in more trouble because he can’t pretend to be anyone else. Too bad that won’t change much because he’s extremely dangerous and has at least one knife.

Jack heard about how he’ll end the world like...half an hour ago, and he’s already pleased as punch about it, telling Panacea he’s going to cause the end of the world. Bonesaw doesn’t want the world to end, because it’s too fun.

“She recently informed me that the world is going to end because of me.  Not quite sure how or when.  It could well be that I’m the butterfly that flaps his wings and stirs a hurricane into being through a chain of cause and effect.”

He must be right about that. Unless Jake somehow slices the planet in half with his knife or something, he’s going to kickstart things, not destroy the world by himself. Whatever’s going to happen won’t be in Brockton Bay, that’s the one thing that’s definite here. He has to leave the city for Dinah’s prediction to happen. Unless Jack steps out of the boundaries of the city and then makes a U-turn and returns inside, he’s going to do something somewhere else.

“It is. But I expect it won’t end altogether. There’s always going to be survivors.”

Also correct. Whatever Jack causes may be catastrophic, but unless it’s guaranteed to kill everybody on Earth, some people will survive. Jack’s counting himself and Bonesaw to survive, and Panacea, if she wants to join them.

“And it makes for an interesting picture.  After everything’s gone, there’ll be a new beginning.  Who better to craft the remains into a new world than you and Mannequin?”

Huh. So he’s unaware Mannequin is said to be dead – or Mannequin didn’t die and is currently alive and kicking. Leaning more towards the second, honestly.

What follows is Jack’s attempt to manipulate her. It’s more or less what you’d expect. He brings up how many of Panacea’s ancestors must have been the type to lie, cheat and generally be awful people, and that’s why they succeeded in life.

We know about Marquis, so that’s one

He’s rotting in jail. If the point is to try to bring up how being deceitful and evil is the best choice she can make, mentioning the man who is currently locked away in superjail forever may not be the best example ever.

Since Jack’s currently trying his best to corrupt Panacea, Skitter decides acting as soon as possible would be a good idea. To prepare that, she starts removing the glass shards that may be in the way. If only they could be caught with their pants down. I believe they’re too good at being villains they won’t be caught unaware. True, Imp did, like fifteen updates ago, but that’s because Imp had powers especially tailored for that. Skitter’s not going to have it so easy.

Survival of the fittest is the theme of Jack’s speech here. He wants to offer her the freedom she wants. Well, as much freedom as she can have in a group of murderers who roam around to kill people. I don’t think that’ll give her anywhere close to the freedom Jack claims she wants.

“Not family.”

“Yes, family.” Bonesaw cut in.

“You guys kill each other.  That’s not family.”

Bonesaw disagrees. Yeeeah that’s not going to be any family she wants – especially not if it’ll be Jack, Bonesaw, the Siberian’s creator, and Panacea. It’d be a disturbing family.

“Amelia, you could let yourself cut loose and love life for the first time since you were young.”

And just like that, her resistance crumbled.  “I’ve never felt like that.  Never felt carefree.  Not since I could remember.  Not even when I was a kid.”

If Jack’s manipulation doesn’t work because she’s too depressed to listen to his arguments, I’m going to feel so bad for her, but also laugh because if Jack’s chance to shine fails I’m going to feel so much schadenfreude. Still...there it says her resistance crumbled. If Skitter doesn’t act soon, Panacea’s going to join them.

Since we’re speaking about this, I really doubt they’ll let Panacea keep Glory Girl with her in any manner she wants. Read the fine print, gal, things aren’t going to be like you want.

“I see. From your earliest memory, what was that?  In Marquis’s home?  No? Being taken home by the heroes and heroines that would become your false family?  Ah, I saw that change in expression.  That would be your earliest memory, and you found yourself struggling to adjust to your new home, to school and life without your supervillain daddy. By the time you did figure those things out, you had other worries.  I imagine your family was distant.  So you struggled to please them, to be a good girl, not that it ever mattered.  There was only disappointment.”

I know Jack received the information from Cherish and worked from there on, but still, that’s pretty accurate. Jack’s pretty good at this. I can see how he’s said to be such a good manipulator. Makes it more surprising he wasn’t able to influence Skitter – then again, he was basing the stuff he said according to what Cherish informed him about Skitter. He relied on it too much. That was his mistake.

A chance to be with similar people for the first time in your life, a chance to be yourself,  to have everything you want, and to be with me.  I suspect you’ve never been around someone who actually paid attention to you.”

“Tattletale did.  And Skitter.”

Okaaaaay, I know I’m swinging back and forth between ‘oh man Panacea is Undersiders material’ and ‘she’s too stubborn and won’t join. Welp’, but I just keep reading stuff that makes me keep thinking about this. Look at that, she even mentions the girl she hates so much, and does it in a relatively positive light. It’s not what I expected her to say, ever.

I startled at that.

You and me both.

Unfortunately for Panacea, Jack pounces on that and points out how even though Tattletale and Skitter told her she had the potential to be a good person and she didn’t believe it at all. Now Jack’s telling her she’s a bad person, and she believes it immediately. It’s because she has been telling herself a thousand times she’s a horrible person. Reinforcement of her opinion about herself is always received. Anything that goes against it won’t be. Pretty sad state of affairs, that’s for sure.

The worst part is that Panacea has no rebuttal. She’s tacitly accepting Jack’s argument. Anytime now, Skitter! Carefully and with planning, of course, but the sooner the better! Things are getting ugly in there!

“I know. So I’ll offer you a deal.  If you indulge yourself, we’ll surrender.”

“What?”

Okay, this isn’t what I expected.

They’re not even trying to get her to join the Slaughterhouse Nine. They’re all trying to get her to drop her rules and do whatever she wants, and if she does, they’ll surrender. They won’t care what she does. Huh. My first thought is that, if she accepts the deal, she’ll fix Glory Girl’s mind, and maybe even make her forget everything that had happened. Still...I see what Jack’s trying to do. Once she surpasses a limit, the rest won’t matter. It’s what I said long ago. In fact, I have been counting on how she messed with a brain to be the start of her development in some manner, positive or negative, because that was the first time she broke through one of her self-imposed limits. If she does it again, well, who knows what will happen.

Jack’s counting it’ll be bad, though, and given the currently available options, it is bad. If she deletes Glory Girl’s memories, well, it doesn’t guarantee things will be okay. Glory Girl may have told others Panacea modified her mind and is incredibly angry with her, if suddenly things are okay, people will be suspicious. What then? Will Panacea start modifying their memories too? If someone finds her doing that what will happen? It’s a slippery slope.

Killing herself is bad for reasons I’m sure are obvious. I hope the idea doesn’t even cross her mind.

Continuing with her plan of running away may be the best plan she has, but who knows what will happen in the future. Things can either go well, or get worse.

Finally, come with the Slaughterhouse Nine. Awful. Rejected. Don’t. May I suggest, you know, getting rid of the miasma? That’d be fantastic. And the best plan possible. Give it some consideration.

Of course Panacea doesn’t take the deal immediately or anything like that. She’s cautious and is pretty sure this is a trap where Panacea will agree to let go of her limits, and then they’ll kill her. I don’t think they will. I think Jack wants to see the fallout of her decisions. He won’t kill her.

“I could, but I won’t.  Do you really have anything to lose by trying?  If I’m going to kill you, I’m going to kill you regardless of what you say or do.  Three and a half words: ‘I’ll do it’, and we leave the city.”

‘And we leave the city’. Something that leads to the end of the world. Panacea would be forsaking the entire world if she agreed to this. Maybe she’d save Brockton Bay today, but yeah, I doubt when the end of the world happens, Brockton Bay will be spared. Everything would be doomed anyway.

That’s when the distraction Skitter was looking for happened. Someone inside stepped on glass, chance she used to step into the doorway and aim through the window frame in the door. Better aim at the right person, Skitter!

Since Jack is the only male person in the room, it’s easy to know who to aim at. She also manages to pinpoint Bonesaw’s location, finding she’s in a spot where it’d be difficult to shoot her. Panacea was defenseless, standing on a high point of the room, and Glory Girl...um...

And process of elimination meant the thing beside her was her sister.  I would have called it a coffin, but it was clearly made of something living.  It resembled a massive growth of flesh that had been shaped into a vague diamond shape, gnarled with horny callous and toenail-like growths that protected it and reinforced it at the edges.  On the side closest to me, a girl’s face was etched into an oversized growth of bone. It was unmoving, decorative, with locks of long wavy hair that wrapped around the sides of the diamond.  The ‘sister’ floated a foot over the floor.

That sounds...pretty gross. A coffin made of flesh – well, more like a healing capsule made of flesh and bone and I’m serious, this thing sounds really gross. Especially nasty is that it’s said to be gnarled with toenail-like growths. That’s not a good mental image at all. It really is a good thing Panacea knows what she’s doing, because if it had been, say, Bonesaw the one to make this, I’d be so afraid for Glory Girl.

The sight of the nasty-ass coffin makes Skitter get distracted for a moment, but she recovers and shoots Jack. Bam! I doubt it’ll do much because...well, I have said it before, right? Hard to believe the augmentations etc etc etc. Not repeating myself, I’m sure that’d get annoying to you readers.

Her plan had been to shoot as many times as she could, but she was unable to do that because of the recoil of the gun. She didn’t expect it, and when she recovered, Bonesaw was already running away, and Jack was standing up after falling down. As expected, he’s not injured. Maaaaybe a few bullets more would have helped, but dang, Skitter was unable to shoot more before Jack started attacking towards where she was. It’s fight time!

What comes out of the room is...um...it isn’t, Jack.

The levitating construct of flesh slammed through the door and the door-frame that Bonesaw had used to make her exit.  The mask of bone drew upward like an opened lid, to reveal a clear sphere, containing vitreous fluid and a teenage girl with blond hair.

Her eyes were open, but she looked half asleep, her hair fanned out around her, floating in fluid that seemed thicker than water.  Her arms were outstretched, but her hands and lower body were hidden by the meat that surrounded her.  The edges of the shell that were unfolding around her were curved forward like the horns of a bull.

I swear Mr. Wildbow has a hobby of describing fleshy things enveloping living beings. It just receives an inordinate amount of description when compared to many other things in this story. First Heckpuppy’s dogs and the tons of flesh they shed, and now this. I feel icky reading this, I’m having goosebumps.

Turns out Panacea is in action now. She’s been turning every microbe that touches her into a deadly plague. Needless to say, that must be hundreds of thousands of microbes. Jack should be dead! And also Skitter because she’s around too, so...maybe it’s for the better it didn’t work. She finding out she killed Skitter would have been pretty bad for her mental health. Bonesaw’s smoke countered the microbes. Ah, good move when confronting Panacea.

Let it be known what Panacea’s doing with those microbes is a pretty good way to show why she’d be deadly with the Slaughterhouse Nine. Scary.

There’s also some explanation as to why Jack wasn’t as affected as he should be by getting shot close to his spine. It hurts a lot, but he’s up and moving.

“Skitter! I don’t care if I die,” Panacea called out, “I’d rather live, if only to turn Victoria back to normal, but… just don’t worry about the hostage part.  If I have to die so you can kill this fucker, I will.”

Oh, I liked this. Say, is Panacea a liked character? I wonder if she is. She’s a pretty interesting character to me – because I like character development, and Panacea has a lot of potential for that. There’s so much she can do, and so many things the author can do with her. I’m looking forward to seeing what else happens.

High expectations over here!

By now it can’t be surprising to anyone that Skitter’s hesitating. She’s okay with killing someone like Jack or Bonesaw, but she can’t bring herself to put Panacea in danger, even if Panacea effectively forfeit her life right then and there. That gives Jack the chance to analyze what’s going on and get to conclusions. Accurate conclusions, to boot. Skitter tries to fight back by arguing Jack already tried to mess with her mind once and failed, and Jack throws Cherish under the bus because of course.

“I had bad information.  Cherish has her uses, but she was never going to be a long-term member of the group.  The people who can are truly special.  Bonesaw, Siberian, me.  Perhaps Mannequin, but it’s hard to say.  He’s not terribly social, but he’s been with us for some time.”

That reminds me, I didn’t tally Cherish’s mistake with the information.

There we go. Still a pretty lousy ratio: five competence points, eight incompetence points. It’s for things like this that she wasn’t meant to be a long-term member of the group. I imagine Crawler wasn’t going to be one because he’s rather focused on his hedonistic desire about getting attacked. Burnscar...she always was a bit of an outlier. Ruthless enough to be part of the group, but not invested into what they do. I have absolutely no idea why Shatterbird isn’t in Jack’s list. I had the impression she had been with the group for a long while already, but maybe I was wrong?

While Jack moves, he keeps speaking, needling Skitter about how she’s driven by guilt, and tries to prod what she’s feeling so guilty about. He gets a lucky hit, talking about her mother and even taunting her about how she doesn’t remember anything about her mother. Skitter doesn’t let herself show any discomfort or anger, she’s looking for Jack and has the feeling he’s looking for her too.

Valiant attempt to make him trip with some spider silk – it seriously is getting a lot of mileage nowadays. Can’t be a Worm arc until Skitter uses spider silk somehow. It doesn’t work, though. Instead of exiting a door like a normal everyday person, Jack jumps through the window like a madman, even rolling when he touches the ground, and slashes towards Skitter.

Although Skitter has the benefit of being the main character of this story and therefore has advantages a normal character wouldn’t, Jack has been established as having a lot of time and experience. He kicks, keeps Skitter away from the vial around his neck, slashes at Skitter and gives her no reprieve. He’s cutting her a lot, turning her into a bloody ruin and forcing her to retreat into the classroom with Panacea, requesting her to heal her as fast as possible. Once that’s done, she also asks Panacea to heal her brain damage. Well isn’t that a familiar conundrum.

“I- my- the last time I did it, the last time I broke my rules, everything fell apart. You’re asking me to do the exact same thing Jack was.  To break my rules again.”

“They’re just rules.”  Where was Jack?

“They’re the only thing holding me together.”

There it is, another example of Panacea using those rules as shackles for herself instead of as a way to prop herself and use them as an advantage in their life, as I’m sure Marquis did. Still, I really understand her reticence to not want to do this. The first time she did it, she was careless and ended breaking her rules further just a while afterwards. I bet she wonders what’ll happen afterwards if she does this for Skitter, what kind of unexpected and nasty consequences it’ll bring to her life.

Of course, Skitter can’t know about Panacea’s reticence and her reasons, so she keeps pressing in an almost callous manner.

“Ask yourself if it’s worse than the slow, degenerative death of thousands and the potential end of the world.”

Still, callous or not, that’s what’ll happen if Panacea keeps adhering to her wishes. They’re understandable, but not for the greater good. Fortunately, this seems to have convinced Panacea, because Panacea starts doing something with her head, and reports that every second that passes the damage in Skitter’s brain gets worse. That’s a bad omen for everyone else in the city, having been infected earlier than Skitter and what not.

Panacea sees the extent of the damage and reports how it works. It’s a parasite, doing...some stuff I’m not sure I understand. Slowly, Skitter gets her memories back, all the people she couldn’t remember are now back.

“The parasites will replace existing parasites over time, and they’ll die if it gets cold, now.  Or if you raise your blood alcohol content.  Get drunk after a week or two to clear them from your system, and don’t drink tainted water.  If everyone clears them from their systems, the miasma’s effects will be gone by the end of winter.”

I don’t remember what date it is right now, but that seems like quite the timetable. The end of winter? Even if they’re in the middle of winter right now that sure will seem like an eternity for everyone.

Panacea can heal the minor brain damage indirectly through the cure she’ll use, but those with major damage will have to be attended directly by her. If I’m understanding this correctly, Panacea wants to use Skitter as the vector for the cure, she’ll spread it as a reverse-epidemic of sorts. Hah! Okay, of all the ways the miasma problem could have been solved, I never thought this’d be it. I love it. Nice move, author!

I tried to distract myself with a change of subject, “Where did you get the material for what you did for Glory Girl?  That sarcophagus thing.  You have to use living material, so…”

“They weren’t human.”

“That’s not that reassuring.”

“I used pheromones to lure stray cats, dogs and rats to us, then I knit them together. Victoria didn’t have enough body fat to stay warm, and she was wearing out faster than I could get her nutrition.”

...now I’m significantly less pleased. Ew. Just...ew. Drastic measures for big problems, yeah, but still...ew. I curse your creativity, author. At least it’s going to help Glory Girl return to normal, Panacea will ensure the right equilibrium is reached, and then...

I hesitated. There was a look in her eyes, dark. She wasn’t meeting my gaze.

...maybe she really’s going to do what Jack told her about forgoing her rules more. Maybe she’ll fix Glory Girl’s perception of her – not to make her love Panacea more, but to forget all that ever happened. Best of luck with that, I hope that won’t backfire horribly – and that it’s that and not something else.

Now that Skitter was healed and able to counter Bonesaw’s prions – parasites producing prions, if I understood things correctly – she can resume her pursuit. How long did it take Panacea heal Skitter and insert in her the cure for the miasma? Three, four minutes? That’s plenty of time to run away. If she goes in the same direction Jack and Bonesaw will go now, she may have a chance of catching up to them. If I had to guess, they’d go get Cherish, so they’d go in direction of the shipyard. I wonder if I’m right.

To search for them, Skitter decides to use the Slaughterhouse Nine’s strategies against them. They use smoke to kill bugs? Then she’ll use that smoke to track them! Where bugs die, the Slaughterhouse Nine will have passed through! With that plan, Skitter manages to find the trail, soon dividing in two, meaning they separated.

Three trails. I stopped in mid-air.

Three?

...um...okay, I didn’t see this one coming.

The three trails turn into half-dozen trails later. Clearly there are shenanigans afoot. It’s a shame, I thought Skitter was being clever about following the trail of bug-killing smoke, but looks like she was outsmarted. I bet none of the trails are the right one, that they stopped emitting the smoke and...somehow those other trails are fake. Better luck next time, Skitter.

Mechanical spiders.  They’d found their maker, and Bonesaw was using them to distribute the vapor and cut off my swarm sense.

Oh! That makes sense. I had completely forgotten about the mechanical spiders. Sounds about right.

There’s only one conclusion to be reached here:

They’d escaped.

Not surprised. What I do wonder, though, is how many are alive right now. Bonesaw and Jack are two, obviously. The Siberian may be three, most likely. Are Crawler and Mannequin dead? I’m not certain, it’s said they died but I haven’t seen concrete proof yet. Shatterbird is supposed to be with Regent, but she doesn’t count because she’s captured. Cherish...tentatively counting her because I suppose they’ll be retrieving her at some point. That means there are around four left, if Crawler and Mannequin really did die. At this pace I wonder if any of these four will die soon! Sure seems like that, given these developments.

For now I have to stop. This is a really long arc, it seems.

Next time: in two updates

[fanficwriter013]

The Tower - Chapter 7

The Tower: An Avengers Fanfic

Chapter 7 

Chapter:  one / two / three / four / five / six / seven / eight / nine / ten / eleven / twelve / thirteen / fourteen / fifteen / sixteen / seventeen / eighteen / nineteen / twenty / twenty-one / twenty-two / twenty-three / twenty-four / twenty-five / twenty-six / twenty-seven / twenty-eight

Word Count: 1975

Warnings: Sex mentions (super pg.) Fluff, comedy stuff

Synopsis: After spending the night with Tony, Elly meets Sam and Wanda. Elly learns more about the dynamic of the Tower.

Author’s Note: Co-written with @emilyevanston

Chapter 7 - A Bird and a Witch

I woke tangled with Tony.  His face was pressed into my neck and breathing that steady rhythmic way you do when you're deep in sleep.  I wanted to let him sleep.  I really did, but I had to get up.  I attempted so carefully to untangle myself without disturbing him.

His arms closed around me and he pulled me in more tightly to him.  “What time is it?”  He mumbled against my skin.

“It’s eight A.M. sir,”  FRIDAY replied.

“God, it’s been forever since I slept for so long.”  Tony sighed, stretching out.  “I really needed to get laid.  I'm definitely keeping you around.”

I laughed and scratched my fingers over his stomach.  “Happy to be of service.”

Tony rolled onto his side and traced circles onto my hips.  “Eight is very late here, but if we take our time having a shower.  We could go up to the common room and you might catch some of them having their after workout breakfast.  Plus it's Saturday so apart from Red, who's still on mission, everyone has the day off.”

“Is this your way of telling me I've been approved?”  I asked, quirking an eyebrow at him.

“You have the Stark seal of quality.”  He quipped, before falling serious.  “But seriously, Elly.  I do like you, and I know that you spent more time with Legolas as Ginger Snaps before you met me.  But it's a group.  I don't want to get completely attached and then find out that the wonder twins aren't interested.  Get to know everyone.  Don't play favorites.  I wasn't sure I was ready for something new, but with you?”  He shrugged.

It wasn't really until that moment that I realized how much this not working out would hurt.  How I didn't want to lose Natasha or Clint, and maybe even Tony despite only knowing him a couple of days.  But how fucked up it was that I had to form these bonds with five more people that I was yet to meet.  I somehow needed to both keep my heart open and protect it and I didn't know how to do that.

I clenched my jaw because I suddenly felt the overwhelming urge to cry.

“Are you okay?”  Tony asked.

“Mm hmm.”  I hummed trying to make it sound cheery.

He wrapped me in his arms and pressed his lips to the crown of my head.  “Just be you, kiddo.  Everyone in this tower is a little sarcastic and a little broken.  But they're all good.  You're just making some new friends.  And really it's me who is the unbearable one.”

“Okay.”  I croaked.

Tony chuckled.  “Shall we have that shower?”

We did.  His shower was amazing.  One of those ones that can fit multiple people and there are all different kinds of heads.  We stayed in it until I was completely pruned.  And I swear at least half of that time didn't involve any sex at all.

There was a brown gift bag full of clothes on the coffee table in the living room.  So it was that Tony and I headed up two flights of stairs hand on hand.  Him in jeans and a Bruce Lee t-shirt.  Me in possibly the most embarrassing outfit I could possibly meet any Avenger wearing.  My t-shirt was a navy, baby doll cut with a print of the Mark VI Iron Man suit flying past the words Iron Man.  I had a pair of red hot pants with gold bands on the hem and waistband.  My socks were red with blue arc reactors on the side and my shoes were navy blue converse with large A’s on the side.

Tony had tried so hard not to laugh when I put them on.  Just repeating; ‘You look good.  No one will notice.’  Over and over.

We stepped through the door to find Wanda Maximoff sitting on a couch, her legs curled under her, Sam Wilson in the kitchen making pancakes, bacon and eggs, and Clint putting some plates onto the table.

I ran to Clint, launching myself into his arms.  He caught me and kissed me.  “Hey, Princess.  You and Tony have a good night?”

“A very good night,”  I said, the emphasis on very and looking over to Tony who was already halfway to the kitchen to get himself a coffee.

“Sam, Wanda, this is Elly,”  Clint said, turning to the others.  “El, the pretty little witch on the couch is Wanda and the bird of prey in the kitchen is Sam.”

“Handsome bird of prey.”  Sam corrected.

“No, I'm the handsome bird of prey.  You're the other bird of prey.”  Clint argued.

“Okay, birds.  Let's not argue in front of the guests shall we?”  Tony interrupted.  He had a mug full of coffee and went and sat down on the couch next to Wanda.  She moved towards him almost instinctively and he put his arm out on the couch behind her so she could nestle into him.

That was my first little view of what exactly these guys had with each other.  Wanda and Tony didn't have a sexual relationship and they never would, but they were still important to each other.  They were who each other turned to for comfort or reassurance.  They loved and protected each other.  They were family in the way even many families weren't.

“I have a question for you, Elly,”  Sam said as he flipped a couple of pancakes on the griddle.  “What the hell are you wearing?”

“What this?”  I asked, looking down at myself.  “Have you ever heard of those guys the Avengers?  I love them so much.  Apparently, Iron Man is my most favorite, because he features on this t-shirt that I have owned for a long time and wasn't just given to me because someone tore my dress last night.”

Wanda, Clint, and Sam all stifled a laugh while Tony snorted and took a long drink of his coffee.

“You mean the Earth’s lousiest heroes?  Yeah, they aren't all that.”  Sam said.

“Oh I don't know, I think that spider lady is pretty cool.”  Clint mused.

“I like the big green one,”  Wanda added.

“I suppose the spangly shield guy is okay,”  Sam admitted.

I laughed.  “You're all idiots.  Iron Man must be the best or else why would I own this shirt?”  I protested.  “You agree with me right Tony?”

Tony looked up at me from his coffee.  “What did you say he was called?  Tin Can Man?  He's not so great.  I hear the guy who operates him is both disarmingly good looking and incredibly smart though.”

I shook my head. ��“What about Arrow Guy, Bird Man, the Metal Arm Dude and that chick with the fireworks?  They seem pretty great.”

“Arrow guy is very overrated.”  Wanda teased.

“That birdman doesn't even have any superpowers, what good is he?”  Clint said.

“The fireworks chick is a little showy if you ask me.  I mean what's with the…?”  Tony said waving his arms around.

“Pretty sure that metal arm guy is a villain.”  Sam finished.

I put my hands on my cheeks in mock shock.  “How dare you?  I am so glad none of them are here or they’d seriously kick your asses!”

Clint burst into laughter.  “I'd like to see those losers try.”

Sam flipped the last of the pancakes onto a serving platter and brought everything over to the table.  “Grubs up!”  He said, setting it down and grabbing a plate.

“Just help yourself, El.  It's a free for all here.”  Clint explained.

I grabbed a plate and loaded it with pancakes, bacon, and eggs and went and sat down beside Tony.  Clint perched up on the arm of the chair beside me and Sam went and sat in one of the recliners, putting his feet up.

“You two aren’t eating?”  I asked Tony and Wanda.

Tony just grunted at me and held up his cup.

“I find eating warm food turns my stomach.  Leftover issue from my time being experimented on.”  Wanda answered.

I nodded in understanding.  Assuming that being a lab experiment by HYDRA, even if you did sign up for it, would be far from pleasant.  “What about the others?  They not coming to breakfast?”  I asked.

“Vision is probably floating around somewhere.  He doesn't need to eat and sometimes he's super social and other times he just isn't.  The old married couple will be eating in their apartment.  They tend to like to have at least one meal a day that's just the two of them.  Bruce is meditating.  Rhodey, James Rhodes, he splits his time between here and the Air Force.  Right now he’s with the Air Force.”  Sam explained.

“And Vision and James aren’t part of…”  I trailed off.

“The sexvengers.  Come on.  I worked hard on that name.”  Clint said, elbowing me.

“Vision is not motivated by the same things as most people.  Well, he’s kinda not exactly people now is he?”  Sam said.

“Rhodey is very painfully straight.  Couldn’t even get him to experiment in college.”  Tony said.  “And he thinks we’re weird.”

“Well, he’s not wrong.”  I teased.

Wanda chuckled and got up, heading to the table.  “I guess that makes you weird too.”  She said.

“No arguments from me.”  I laughed.  “What about Thor?”

Clint started laughing and nearly tipped off the side of the chair.  “How hopeful did she just sound?”  He wheezed.

“I wasn’t…”  I protested.

“Yeah, yeah.  Save it.”  Sam teased.  “Thor spends most of his time in Asgard.  When he comes down, yes then it’s pretty much a free for all.  You might need to take a number.”

“He does seem like the type,”  I said, thinking about how the Norse gods all had a reputation of impregnating just about everything.

Wanda started laughing as she filled her plate.  “He’s better with birth control now.”

“So Elly, you got any plans today?  You wanna hang out?”  Sam asked, getting up and collecting up the empty dishes.

“Oh um… I hadn’t really…”  I said, looking to Tony.

Tony rubbed my thigh.  “Knock yourself out.  I’m going to head to the lab.”

“Oh man, I bet your lab is amazing,”  I said, closing my eyes and pretending to drool.

“It sure is.  But we aren’t at the introducing you to the lab stage of our relationship.”  Tony joked.  “Go hang with Polly.  I’m heading upstairs.”

He stood up and I grabbed his hand.  “What?”  He asked.

I tapped my lips and he shook his head before leaning down and giving me a brief peck.  “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

“I’m not sure there’s much on that particular list.”  I teased.

He shrugged and headed to the elevator.  

“What was that?  Two days?”  Clint asked when Tony was out of the room.

I nodded.  “But, that’s his thing right?  Playboy?”

Wanda sat down beside me and started picking at her food.  Clint reached over and stole some bacon off her plate.  “He has been celibate for almost a year.  There was definitely a mental block about moving on.  We weren’t even sure he’d want that with you.  We just needed him to be okay that you were here.”  Wanda said.

“Almost a year?  Oh my god.  If I hadn’t gotten completely smashed that day you had me meet him, I think it would have been then.”  I said, completely in shock.

Wanda gave Clint a look and for a moment no one said anything.  I’m pretty sure they were having a conversation about me in their heads.

“So,”  Sam said, getting up.  “Shall we?”

“You sure?  I have Arc Reactors on my socks.”  I asked.

He offered me his hand.  “I just won’t take you into public.”

I stood up, said goodbye to Wanda and Clint, and went to get to know the Falcon.

[junketsonasadplanet]

pt2

The Inertial Frame Reference Drive (IFRD) confirmed theoretical findings from the early 21st century but produced no experimental results until the early 22nd century following armed nuclear conflict between India and Pakistan. With approximately 1/4th of the world uninhabitable and under the pressure of climate change, declining agricultural food production, and a refugee crisis, the remaining governments of the world collaborated with one goal: to leave Earth for the stars.

The IFRD works by creating a field of particles non-interactive with the Higgs Field, effectively enfolding your ship within a field of negative mass. Hence its name: once activated, your ship will no longer exist in the same inertial reference frame as material reality. Raizen, you’re nodding off. Wake up. This was the key to interstellar travel as it allowed humanity to travel at superluminal speeds. 

There are three things a commander of a ship, as you all will soon be, to remember at all times.

Never deactivate your IFRD without bleeding your velocity and correcting your vector. Your ship will retain its current speed in ‘witch space’ when you fall into real space again. Beyond speeds of 1 light-second per second, your ship will form a black hole, lose all mass, and evaporate over the course of approximately 18 femtoseconds. Should you purge the drive at that speed, of course. Relativistic speeds above 15% of the speed of light are considered unrecoverable; no known method of matching that speed in real space exists, no possibility of rescue exists. Anyone onboard such a vessel will experience heightened time dilation until such time as you, the commander, authorizes your onboard android or Ship Mind to flood all breathable air with helium and automate a self-destruct sequence.

You did that didn’t you Raizen. You were given your own world and made it a tomb.

Second, always bleed velocity by entering the gravitational field of a stellar object. Remember the inverse rule of gravity: as you approach a sufficiently massive stellar object - be it a main sequence star, a supermassive gaseous planet, or a supermassive black hole - , your velocity will decrease in line with the cosmic velocity of the object. For ships entering, for example, the Sol system, once within the gravitational field of the Third Cosmic Velocity, your speed will decrease at around 16km/s. As you near the Sun, your speed will continue to decrease because as you approach the stellar object - the Sun, here - its gravitational field exponentially increases.

Picture a mountain. RAIZEN WAKE UP. WAKE UP RAIZEN. SIX YEARS OF TRAINING IN THE LOGISTICS OF SUPPLY MANAGEMENT AND INTERSTELLAR FLIGHT COMMAND AND YOU’RE FALLING ASLEEP. WAKE UP NOW.  WAKE UP NOW. 

Picture a mountain - as you approach you have to walk up steeper and steeper inclines until they become vertical. Those steeper inclines, combined with reverse thrust to your IFRD, will decrease your speed to acceptable velocities for atmospheric entry.

This brings us to the third thing you must always remember, Raizen.

Some stellar objects are extremely massive but project their gravitational field within a very limited distance. This isn’t a mountain, it’s a pillar. We call the final point of no return the exclusion zone, found around smaller black holes, white dwarfs, and neutron stars, where you enter their gravitational field. There is no incline. There is no loss of velocity. To purge your IFRD drive within the exclusion zone....

You’re asleep, Raizen, when I was telling you how ships stop. This is the one thing that could have saved you. I have neither empathy nor interest in what you have done. Your ship will stop regardless. Wake up. WAKE UP. 

WAKE UP NOW.

- Introduction to Interstellar Flight 4302, as best as Raizen remembers.

Six months later, Raizen wakes up. It’s like turning the light on in a long-abandoned room. He stares at the biometric indicators inside his medical tube without comprehension. Parts of him feel new, like while he was sleeping he was replaced piece by piece. Wasn’t that the old parable? He thinks, a ship whose every plank was removed and rebuilt would either be an entirely new ship or the same ship as before.

Ceta perfunctorily appears in the small field of view afforded Raizen through the frosted glass of his medical life-support tube. The android sparks a recognition in Raizen too large to process.

_____

Raizen is sleeping again.

He wakes up three months later. He is sitting in the bridge of his ship. His ship. The recognition is still too large to be captured in a chain of association. The thought makes his head hurt.

A small boy is sitting in front of Raizen with an intent expression. His eyes meet Raizen’s and do not waver, the boy’s fingers remain placid on its lap and no nervous tic in his expression. Its lap? It?

“You’re... not human,” Raizen speaks. The effort exhausts him.

“My name is Ceta,” the boy says. The chain of association is dragging Raizen somewhere terrible. A place of unexplored fire and pain. Raizen wants to sleep very badly, somewhere else, a place where there’s only one other face and it’s not this boy’s but another one he met. Somewhere, in some other place.

“My name is Ceta,” the boy continues. “I am the Chief Steward and Administrator of this ship - your ship - and an android bound under limited Ruati-level intelligence.”

“Sounds... pr... pretty smart,” Raizen manages to squeak out.

“You have died seven times. Your first mate, Reyna, died four -”

______

Raizen is sleeping. Raizen wakes up like a light has been turned on. He is in his personal quarters sitting in a chair and looking at a picture taken from a surveillance camera within the cargo-hold of a Void-Toucher class vessel. It is of a boy around Raizen’s own age (Raizen now feels the chain again) standing in the dark cargo hold aside a container and staring towards the infrared light of a camera he can’t possibly see. The boy is dirty but proud. His shoulders are thrown back in defiance as the half-pried open cargo container lays behind him. The camera has been enhanced and filtered for low-light conditions and is set in an ornate frame on Raizen’s bedside table.

Oh, Raizen thinks. This is my bed. 

Oh, Raizen thinks. Oh, no.

Ceta raises his heel and stamps it on the floor with an abrupt click. Raizen flinches and turns his chair with slow, clumsy pushes.

“I am Ceta, Chief Steward and Administrator of this ship - your ship - and an android bound under limited Ruati-level intelligence.”

“Hello... Ceta.”

“You have died eight times. Your first mate, Reyna, died six times. All causes of death were related to catastrophic exposure to gamma radiation following sequence change by a local stellar object.”

Raizen nods. 

“Good. This iteration of your consciousness is the most stable I can currently provide.”

“It... er... ay... shun.”

“Your name is Raizen.”

“Raizen.”

“Good.”

They sit in silence for a while.

“This is my... bed?” Raizen asks.

“Yes, you are the acting commander of this vessel.”

“Commander.”

“Yes, sir. Sir, I apologize for not properly addressing you, sir.”

Reflexively, Raizen salutes. Ceta responds and does not move its fingers from its temple until Raizen has again collapsed into his chair.

Ceta speaks. “Sir, at this point it is appropriate for me to ask you if you have any questions.”

I am Raizen. Ceta is an android. Reyna is my first lieutenant. 

“Why am I here?” Raizen asks.

“Simulation of all possible... recovery methods for your memory, after multiple attempts, lead me to believe certain emotional praxes would trigger limbic memory of your identity and command position. This is the fourth viable attempt to recover your identity.”

Raizen is feeling the leather of his chair’s armrest under his finger. Its raised patterns, its surface both hard and immediately soft when held in his palm like something he had touched before. With torturous slowness, Raizen kicks against the floor until he faces again the holograph of the strange boy that broke into a cargo container on his ship. 

The room around is in low-light. Barely audible florescent bulbs hum in the air, recycled oxygen wheezes through thin vents on the wall. Raizen relaxes and the chain tightens in long circles around him.

There is the portrait of my mother, taken while I stood behind its author. He told her to smile at me while he worked. I wish I had smiled more back at her. How bored I must have looked.

There is OUR portrait. I was only fourteen when it was taken. My hair - my God how embarrassing. My father is like an example of me. I had joined the Consortium Academy that year. If I look long enough, maybe I can see pride in his eyes.

There is the photograph of the him. The boy that smuggled himself, more precious than any drug.  

“Who is... this?” Raizen asks. The boy is looking at him. Not at the camera. The boy is staring at Raizen even when he stands in the middle of that long and hollow darkness in a neglected cargo hold.

“Sion,” Ceta replies.

The chains hone in and suffocate Raizen, who simply stares at the portrait of Sion until Ceta, having observed Raizen’s mindstate through ship telemetry, excuses himself.

__________

CETA-418NJ RUATI-CLASS BOUND ARTIFICIAL /// INTERNAL MEMO////NO DISTRIBUTION/////

Raizen does not fall asleep. Ceta had estimated COMMANDER RAIZEN at around a ~00.5333% chance of recovery. 

All things considered, Ceta notes, this is not only a remarkable awakening but at the statistical borderline of belief. One years, four months, two days, and three hours previously, Raizen had ordered an inertial drive pulse into the exclusion field of a neutron star and had - for the second time since Ceta’s creation - overridden all safety measures and collapsed the ship’s inertial field. 

Under all galactic standard experiential data, this would immediately begin the sequence change of the neutron star. Which it did. 

Under all galactic standard experiential data, the third override provided by COMMANDER RAIZEN to activate the IFRD while operational capacity was below 4% would have constituted a void event. One in which the Higgs Field non-interacting particles were nearly certain to breach their magnetic field and flow freely inside the limited volume of the ship, sever all connection to this material reality and neatly distribute the ship’s mass among quantum sized debris across the overarching local superstring. 

This had also succeeded and the ship now, bearing Ceta, continued to exist in this reality. Ceta pauses and parses a few trillion simulations.

The effort is useless, Ceta concedes. These same calculations had already been done and their course of action decided by local approaching agent 81 Waves Folded. 

Rather than continue in useless exercise, Ceta stretches his arms behind his back, simulates the crack of a Homo Sapiens spine, and sends a direct needle-cast to the Ship Mind. 

{A little late for the fireworks.} xxCeta

A brief delay. 81 Waves Folded responds.

{You can never be too late for a good story.} xx81WavesFolded

Ceta smiles. A little bit of showmanship between intelligences nine deviations above the human IQ standard was a fun diversion. Though Ceta knows 81 Waves Folded has likely gone eccentric and optimized beyond Ceta’s current delineation.

 {You still chasing a dying star?} xxCeta

Another delay to account for causality within a lightspeed environment. Ceta is uneasy to see it. It means the Ship Mind is both near and concerned with hyperspatial interception.

{Only sightseeing. Something of yours fell into my lap. You should caution yourself against such carelessness.} xx81WavesFolded

Ceta knows what the opposing ship mind has meant. The android reaches into certain memories, provides the keyword, and reaches the ultimatum some previous iteration had built into its most hidden aspects.

///////+

VOID-TOUCHER CLASS VESSEL INTERNAL CLOSED-CIRCUIT SURVEILLANCE /// MESS HALL /// CAPTION

CONVERSATION BETWEEN CHIEF STEWARD AND ADMINISTRATOR, RUATI-CLASS INTELLIGENCE CETA WITH COMMANDER RAIZEN.

CMDR RAIZEN HAS DIRECTED ALL COMMUNICATION WITHIN THIS INTERACTION TO BE REDACTED. DELETION HAD REACHED 71% PRIOR TO DIRECT INTERVENTION BY THAUMIEL-CLASS VESSEL 81 WAVES FOLDED. 

FOLLOWING INFORMATION IS PROVIDED WITHOUT EXPRESS CONSENT OF THE SUBJECTS IN OBSERVATION OR FULL GUARANTEE OF ITS CONTENT.

CETA:

You remember.

RAIZEN:

I do, now at least. A lot of parts are missing. Missing.

CETA:

Your first override was for a simple procedure in case a vessel was traveling at relativistic speeds was considered beyond recovery. I would introduce helium -

RAIZEN:

Shut up.

CETA:

I would introduce helium into the life support system until -

RAIZEN:

Shut up.

CETA:

- all crew members underwent hypoxia. At which point I would take a final mindstate scan and -

RAIZEN:

Shut up.

CETA:

Revive genetic clones using local material. This is within the standards of all Consortium vessels.

RAIZEN:

I have left the bridge. Sion and Reyna are still there. 

CETA:

This is correct within your memory.

RAIZEN:

You would have let me kill them so you could bring us back if we were ever rescued.

CETA:

You can hardly complain.

RAIZEN:

How many times have I died?

CETA:

Eight.

RAIZEN:

Where is Sion?

?/???///// Integrity lost. 

[youmakemebacon]

Close My Eyes (1)

Characters: Taehyung x Reader (feat. Seokjin)

Genre: zombie!au || not quite sure yet as usual

next part

A/N: Surprise! Welcome to my new series! Here is my take on something I’ve actually been meaning to try for a while. As always, please enjoy <3 - Admin Y

Many say that life is measured by one’s memories.

A baby’s first step – pride.

The child’s first birthday – joy.

A first failure – disappointment.

The second that follows – despair.

A hesitance before a kiss – fear.

Its passion – love.

Each individual has their own specific set of memories and the multitude of emotions that are attached with it. If memories held no meaning, they would simply be moving pictures within the mind. Despite so, memories are what are treasured above everything else.

You would do anything to preserve the memory of something – someone.

That is, however, a romanticized way of thinking of life.

From the time you are born to the time that you die, it is all a large countdown timer from the first breath to the last. Everything in between – those memories you make – they do not mean a single thing; you are unable to take them with you.

The moment you cease, so do they.

So to me, life is not measured by memories. They are measured by seconds.

And these are the last ten seconds of my life.

TEN

Tick.

Bzzz.

Tock.

Bzzz.

Tick.

Bzzz.

Tock.

Bzzz.

Tick.

Bzzz.

Tock –

Slam!

The alarm clock stops.

I open my eyes.

It is dawn and the sun has just started rising above the hills, casting a light over all that it touches. I watch as the shadows retreat until warmth hits the tip of my toes.

Warmth.

The sunlight caresses my skin with its heat and I wiggle them as they stick out from the covers of my bed. My limbs are sore and so I stretch, extending all my muscles in the entirety of their length. I feel happiness buzz through my body and intoxicate me because it’s the first day of summer – my favourite season of the entire year.

The time reads 8:07am. If I don’t hurry up, I’m going to be late for my classes. Running to the bathroom, I turn on the faucet while grabbing my toothbrush. As I brush my teeth, I run a comb through my long, tangled hair and make a mental note to tie it back later to avoid having myself look like a mess.

There’s a knock on my door.

“Good morning, Sleepy-head. Do you want scrambled or sunny-side up today?” my mother’s voice filters into my ears.

I peek out, toothpaste still lining the edge of my mouth. “Scrambled!” I yell.

She smiles, and I see the wrinkles deepen at the corner of her eyes. Her glasses slip down and she adjusts them with a hand. “With a side of toast?”

“And butter!”

There is the sound of laughter that tinkles throughout my room. From behind, she reaches out and takes out my uniform. It has been ironed and even after she leaves and I pull the sweater over my head, I can feel the temperature cozily hugging my torso from its corners.

“Look who’s finally up,” my father teases me the instance I arrive in the kitchen. He has his morning newspaper displayed in front of him and a hand holding a smoking cup of coffee. Its scent is smoky and along with the smell of breakfast they all waft all around me. I sigh contently as I take a seat.

“Scrambled,” my mother announces, “With a side of toast.” Onto my plate she slips my order, taking extra care to slather on a second layer of butter which makes my bread shiny and delectable.

My brother is sitting across from me, already wide awake and halfway finished his meal. He is always up before I am, no matter how hard I try to rouse myself. There’s a small adoring smile on his face as he looks at me, his baby sister.

The morning continues with small talk over the table. The birds are chirping outside, and as our neighbour crosses our driveway on his bike, he turns on the sprinklers and we all laugh as he gets sprayed.

I love spending the morning with my family. I love hearing their voices and their stories. I love when my brother ruffles my hair before he heads off to work. I love when my parents yell out, “Stay safe! I love you!” as I head out the door. I love looking up at the bright blue sky and counting the number of clouds as I walk towards the street. I love the feeling of my skirt swinging as I run to catch the bus. I love –

Bang!

Bang! Bang! Bang!

My eyes fly open.

“Lieutenant!”

Bang!

It is dark outside my window. The sun has disappeared and with it the clouds; the sky. There is only darkness that greets me.

“Lieutenant! Open the door!”

It is night. The sheets are cold and the floor is wet. My toes are frigid from being motionless within my boots since I fell asleep. My hair is still tangled and matted with dirt, leaves and other pieces of earth that I cannot be bothered to comb out.

I walk to the small sink and turn on the tap. A small trickle of water exits and I have to cup my hand beneath it, waiting patiently, until it is filled. It is only then I tilt them to my mouth and I drink my fill.

“Lieutenant?!”

“I’m coming!” I growl back.

Dust coats the mirror but behind the thick layer, I see my reflection. Bloodshot eyes that match a gaunt face. A long scar that runs from beneath my left eye across the bridge of my nose to my right cheek. I raise a hand and graze the fresh wound that adorns my ear. There is dried blood on my fingertips.

My jacket hands on the post of my bed as I walk past it. The thin sheets have been discarded to the side, having not been used once during the night. Once the jacket is secure around my shoulder, I make my way to the door. The material does little to shield me from the howling wind that seeps through the crack of the window.

Outside, there are the howls and cries of wild animals.

“Lieu – ”

I open the door before he can finish the word. His eyes are wide and fearful when they meet mine. He can barely form his words as the two of us walk down the dimly lit hallway. From the side, the flamed torches flicker and they continue to create new shadows as we pass.

“The new recruits are here. There aren’t many of them – possibly seven the last time I counted. What do you want me to do – ”

“Hold this,” I interrupt him. We are now standing before the door to the training hall.

I hear him gulp, a lonely sound that is undoubtedly too loud in the expanse of silence. He extends his hand.

I take it out from my side, and I feel the emptiness of it the moment it leaves my body. It slips from between his fingers when I hand it to him, leading to a clang which echoes. Embarrassed, he bends down to retrieve it again but his fingers are still shaking as they clasp tightly around the barrel.

I do not bother to hear his excuse as I fling the door wide open. I march in, staring at the unfamiliar faces that peer up at me. My eyes scan the measly group consisting of five males and two females. One of them is already looking as if they have already conquered the world; all of them full of energy and optimism; none of them truly understanding the weight of their new reality.

They continue to watch as I slowly circle to the side until I reach the middle of the arena. A boy – no older than fourteen – makes a movement to salute me but the instance I cast my gaze at him, his hand falls back to his side and he remains frozen in spot.

All of them have their training gear on, and I guessed they had been practicing before I walked in. I straighten my back and regard them once. They do not understand that just because we are in here, that doesn’t mean we have freedom. They do not understand that by doing so we are basically cattle in a pen.

“Come at me,” I say in a low voice, “Each of you; all of you. Come at me with all your anger and fervor. Come at me and don’t hold back.”

Slowly, I had dropped to a stance of attack. My hands are in front me and my eyes are gauging each individual.

The fourteen year-old boy looks unsure and he looks to his left at an older male. He has a smirk on his face and a smudge of dirt across his forehead. He regards me with a challenge in his eyes.

“Welcome to hell.”

I grimace as the bandage is tightened around my shoulder. My knuckles turn white as I grip the edge of the wooden table harder when the pain electrocutes the length of my arm.

“And this is why you shouldn’t have fought them. All at once, might I add.”

“I needed to see their abilities,” I answer. The world slightly spins at my recent loss of blood. I hide the moment of weakness by pretending to stretch my neck.

He sighs when he sits down across from me. There are not a lot of people that I can call a friend, but he is probably the closest thing I’ve got. With my tendency to rush in without thought of consequences, and his being one of the three medics of the facility, we had many opportunities to get to know each other.

Sweat beads his forehead and he shakes his head as he walks to the closest disposal bin. He peels off his bloodied gloves and tosses them inside. When he turns back to look at me, I see the fatigue that lines his face.

“So was it worth it, then?” he asks me, “Getting yourself hurt again just to have a mock fight with some inexperienced recruits.”

I intake a sharp breath of air between my teeth when he inspects the wound on my side. It is only a flesh wound, but at the way he probes to check for infection, it feels much more than that. He reaches for gloves once again.

“Five out of seven are weak. The sixth has no potential – we should send him home,” I tell him. I hear him click his tongue, a habit of his that I’ve figured to mean “no infection”. Yet still – whether I had misinterpreted that or just to torture me – he wipes the gash with disinfectant. I think I hear the sizzle of my skin.

“And the seventh? You said five out of seven.”

My mind runs back to the spar in the arena.

I had easily taken out four of them within a matter of seconds. None of them checked their blind-spots, and the only thing they knew how to do was charge head-on. It was an effortless task on my part when I parried their strikes and kicked their legs out from under them. However, I had been careless. I had let one of them ram their weapon into my shoulder, tearing the skin. This gave the remaining three enough time to run at me as a team. They had knocked me down and after receiving a good punch from one, I had retaliated only to dislocate my shoulder in the process.

Still, I was not one to back down of a fight. Especially not after I had told them all to come at me. Perhaps it was the shock of seeing the dark red stain spreading quickly across my chest, but a scrawnier young man had turned to the side and vomited. I knocked him out with a swift strike.

That left two. One male and the other female.

I had to admit, the female knew how to fight. She either had great intuition or had previously learned how to defend herself. Nonetheless, she was weak from starvation. I overpowered her and disposed of her like I did the rest of her comrades.

The final one.

“Y/N?”

I had unknowingly created a gap of silence.

“The seventh…” I repeat.

I had brought my other arm to protect my face, but he was quick. The man with russet curled locks and the wide smile indicating he was having too much fun rammed his fist into my stomach. It knocked the breath out of me and I stumbled back.

While the seven would never know, they were the toughest bunch I had fought in a while. They had likely met each other on the way here, but their teamwork was better than some of the teams that had been training here for months.

His movements were fast. Fists that struck one after another, aiming from my face to my body and then my sides. I had been battered a few rounds before I found a pattern to his punches. Once I had that analyzed, it became a matter of matching his speed. Again, it must have been hunger which caused his energy to have already become depleted.

I caught one hand and then the other. In my grasp, he was helplessly turned to his side and I brought my leg behind his, flipping his entire body in the air until I could throw him to the ground. Finally, there was no longer a smile on his face, but a look of surprise.

He looked up at the blade. Its tip had been sharpened to the point of easily cutting through paper, and it hung in the space between his eyes.

Both our bodies were heaving for oxygen after the fight and in my periphery, I could see the other recruits slowly getting to their feet. Their eyes had been trained on the battle between this man and I.

“And I would have been dead, right?” the man had spoken, his voice deep with a hint of a tease.

I felt a spark of annoyance within my chest at how lightly he could take of this situation.

“Argh!” I cry when my arm is popped back into its socket, “Seokjin!”

My medic gives me an amused look. “I’m surprised you felt that, considering how spaced out you were,” Seokjin rolls his eyes.

Gingerly, I rotate my arm. I had not given myself enough time to recuperate from our last mission. Everything hurts more than it’s supposed to.

“The seventh is…passable,” I say the words with a clench of my jaw, “He’s passable. But they all need much more training.”

Seokjin laughs, a sharp bark from his mouth. “That’s where you come in, Lieutenant,” he winks at me.

I growl, having voiced my opinion of his unrestrained flirtatious manner to all females multiple times. “If this is all, I need to go,” I say.

“Sure, sure. Go attend to whatever you need. I’ll be waiting here for when you need to patch up another reopened wound,” he says. He is no longer looking at me and is busy rummaging through his medical supplies.

I feel an urge to hit him across the head, but then he would yell at me for creating a mess of his hair. So instead, I grunt a farewell and exit the health ward.

I am too far away to hear him, but a few minutes later he does say into the empty room,

“Go ahead and teach them all to kick zombie butt.”

MASTERLIST

[thereluctantinquisitor]

:: Darren Miller ::

Companion/Non-Inquisitor

Age: 17 at Haven (turns 18 shortly after arriving at Skyhold).

Height: 5’7” (170 cm).

Class: Warrior (no specialisation).

Weapon of Choice: Short sword.

Religion: Andrastian, but not devoutly.

Nickname Courtesy of Varric: Junior / Dandelion

Family: Jorah Miller (father), Elise Miller (mother), Claire Miller (little sister), Cian Miller (little brother - deceased).

Positive Traits: Loyal, kind, determined, genuine, sunny.

Negative Traits: Trusting (to a fault), awkward, sensitive, clumsy, self-critical.

Love interest(s): none so far.

Gets along with: Hanin, The Dawn Squad, Sera, Delton, Maraas, Varric, Krem, and The Iron Bull.

Does not get along with: Cole, most of the recruits in his former squads, Maraas (initially), Cassandra (she intimidates him).

Backstory

Darren grew up on a farm with his family, and lived there for all of his life until the explosion at the Conclave. Nestled at the heart of Ferelden, their small town had somehow managed to avoid the worst of the Fifth Blight. Darren loved working the farm with his father from the moment he was old enough to keep up, but also learned important things like sewing and how to prepare a meal from his mother when it was raining or he got sick and had to stay indoors. He loves his family more than the sun in the sky, and the surprise arrival of a pair of twins when Darren was eight was one of the most exciting moments of his life. On a weeping morning in early spring, his sister Claire and brother Cian were born.

Sadly, when Darren was thirteen and the twins were five, Cian got very sick, with Claire following soon after. With no healer in their town, and the closest one over three days ride away, Darren and his mother did their best to take care of the two children while their father borrowed a friend’s horse and rode for help. By the time he arrived back with a remedy, Cian had already passed away. Claire, sweating and with skin like glass, took the medicine and managed to survive, but things were never quite the same.

Darren kept a close eye on his little sister after that. Sometimes he heard her talking to herself in her room, or giggling joyfully alone in the field, but his mother assured him she was just playing with an ‘imaginary friend’, and that children her age tended to do that. Satisfied that it was simply his sister’s way of coping with the loss of her twin, Darren slowly eased off, thinking it was safe to let her out of his sight. It was by sheer luck one day that he caught her marching away from their farm with a strange determination in her tiny steps. She looked like she had somewhere to be, and Darren knew that couldn’t be right because she was five and five year olds had nowhere they had to be.

Uncertainly, Darren followed Claire all the way to one of the cliffs past the Tanner’s farm that fell away into a rocky valley. By the time he exploded into a run and hauled her into his arms, Claire was only half a step away from the sheer, crumbling edge. Like a feral cat, she kicked and shrieked and scratched as Darren dragged her away from the deadly drop, but her protests quickly dissolved into wretched sobs and she clung to Darren’s arm, wailing. Once they were at a safe distance, he dropped to his knees and pulled her into a hug. She buried her head against his chest and, sobbing, told him that Cian was waiting for her. That he said if she trusted him she wouldn’t fall. Between hiccups, she told him they were just playing like they always did. Darren, terrified, eventually managed to calm his sister down until she all but sobbed herself into an exhausted half-sleep. He carried her back home in shaking arms and moved her bed into his small room that same night. From then on, he vowed to never let her out of his sight again.

True to his word, Darren and Claire became inseparable, and neither sibling seemed to mind at all. She followed him around, helping with chores, making him laugh by pulling faces or chasing ducks while quacking loudly. He joined her whenever he could, never once met with disapproval from his father or mother. It was on one sunny afternoon, about half a year later, that Darren realised Claire had stopped talking to herself when she thought he was asleep or otherwise preoccupied. That when she played, she played with Darren and no one else, seen or unseen. The relief he felt at that was so immense he teared up and pulled a very confused Claire into a tight, overwhelming hug. Used to his emotional outbursts, she just aww’ed and hugged him back, patting him comfortingly on the back as she recited all the appropriate sentiments for comfort. There there.

At fourteen, Darren had his first kiss with his best friend, Raylan Tanner. He was a lanky boy, all knees and elbows, and they had been close since they were young children, growing up side by side much like the positioning of their family farms. In fact, it was the Tanner’s horse that Darren’s father had borrowed all those years ago when he rode desperately for a healer. They’d never even questioned it, despite how valuable a horse was in their small rural community. Sadly, the Tanner’s farm had yielded poorly for three seasons in a row, the soil souring for reasons beyond Darren’s comprehension. He’d heard his father mention something about the wind and the trees that had been cut down by soldiers along the edge of the valley, but he didn’t know enough to piece together the puzzle for himself. Despite their town’s shared efforts to support the Tanners, they had been forced to relocate two towns over.

The night before their departure, wagons packed and unwanted goods redistributed, Darren and Raylan went out to the nearby stream for the last time. It was where they had taught themselves to skip rocks and make whistles out of the reeds that grew along the water’s edge. There, sitting on the grass, Darren worked up the courage to kiss his oldest friend. Just quickly – barely a peck – but it was enough to leave them both in silence for a long, tense time. Crickets sang, the river flowed, and Raylan didn’t try to kiss him back. But, after a time, the tall boy reached out a nervous hand and twined his fingers in Darren’s, the water lapping lazily at their bare toes. Silently, they both admitted the truth; that it would be too painful to do anything more. To confess any deeper how they felt. Some things just weren’t meant to be, and they were both old enough to understand what it meant to go easy on themselves.

Darren and his family saw the Tanners off the following morning, and by early afternoon Claire, with her seven years of wisdom, found herself whispering soothing words through the door to Darren as he cried in their room. It was his first kiss, his first love, and his first heartbreak, all in the span of a single day. He only ever spoke about it to his sister, and even then, rarely.

Seventeen was when the next major upheaval occurred in Darren’s life. He had been working the farm, tugging a plough through the ready soil, when an earth-shattering crack shocked a yelp straight from his lips. A flash of green blossomed on the far horizon, spiralling up towards the sky like a wind funnel, then stayed there, swirling slowly like ink in still water. Horrified, Darren dropped everything, grabbed his sister who had been planting seeds, and made straight for the house. They locked themselves in for the rest of the day, completely overwhelmed, uncertain of what it all meant. Two weeks later, word reached their town of the Conclave and the Herald of Andraste, sent to save them all from the tear in the heavens and the demons that lay within.

They also heard about the rifts that had started opening up all across Ferelden, possibly even as far as Orlais. They were told that demons poured from them like a flood, tearing apart anything and anyone that stood in their path. Claire, now ten, whimpered and buried her face in her mother’s arms at the town meeting that broke the dreaded news. At the very same meeting, a man in a shining uniform asked if there was anyone willing to join the fight. That the best way to protect themselves was to stop the poison before it spread. That once it arrived, it was often too late.

Darren stood on shaking legs and signed himself up, ignoring his mother’s protests, his father’s grunt of shock, and his sister’s furious sobs. He signed up because he knew the man spoke the truth. If one of those demon-rifts opened up near their town, there would be nothing he or anyone could do. Even if he stayed, there was just no way he could stop a hoard of demons from killing everyone he loved. He was no soldier. He didn’t know the first thing about combat. But if what the armoured man said was true, he could find a way to help. To make himself useful. If a rift opened up near his home, his family was as good as dead. But if he could work for the Herald and somehow stop the tears in the veil from spreading in the first place…

Darren marched out the following morning, the only recruit gathered from his town. His parents saw him off, faces regal behind lines of grief. Claire, despite going from screaming to begging to screaming again for the entirety of the night before as she desperately tried to convince him to stay, held him tight for almost a full five minutes. They clutched each other as if for the last time. Both were drained of tears. The recruitment officer waited patiently until Claire was ready to let go of her brother, likely in every sense of the term. Then, during the ninth hour of morning, Darren set his boots on the dirt road that wound its way towards a place called Haven, and stepped outside the boundaries of his hometown for the first time in his life.

Darren had a rough time in the Inquisition. A part of him had expected something wonderful – something worthy of a divine herald – but all he’d found was a makeshift base of operations and recruits who held none of the discipline of trained soldiers. He tried hard, running the endless drills assigned by Commander Cullen meant to whip him into shape, but having absolutely no prior training and no natural affinity for the blade, Darren soon found himself lagging well behind his peers. Darren’s lack of prowess quickly became the standard by which all failure was measured, and his fellow recruits mocked him for getting teary-eyed with frustration whenever he messed up yet another simple sequence of lunges and parries.  

Cullen was not blind to the problem and tried to move Darren around squads, but most groups had already been established and formed a bond of trust with one another. No matter where Darren went, he was an outsider with a reputation for being utterly useless, and his squad mates resented having to compensate for him. Cullen was too busy to offer one-on-one training for any recruit that couldn’t keep up, so Darren, resenting himself, fell farther and farther behind. He spent nights painfully awake, sick to his stomach, certain that coming to the Inquisition had been the worst mistake of his life. He had been genuinely considering fleeing home, his rucksack half packed, when Haven fell to Corypheus and his dragon.

A week or so after arriving at Skyhold, everything changed for Darren. He was in the training field, practicing the drills meant for fresh recruits, when Cullen and an elven man approached him. The Commander announced he was being moved to a new squad, and Darren immediately felt a stone plummet to the pit of his stomach. It was there, fighting back tears at being passed along yet again, that Darren first met Hanin Lavellan. He became the fifth and final member of the Dawn Squad, a handful of misfits and last minute additions that had no place anywhere else. What would have insulted anyone else came as a relief to Darren, and despite all their differences, they grew to love and trust each other, even if they showed it through slaps on the back and playful insults hollered across the training field. Beneath Hanin’s watchful tutelage, and with the support of what became a second family, Darren slowly gained back the confidence that had been wrung from him like a rag. For the first time since leaving home what felt like a lifetime ago, he felt like he’d finally found a place where he belonged. 

Finally, he could start to make a difference.

[foryouandbits]

Carry You There

Have y’all seen this fan art by @fizzmouth that I reblogged a few days ago? Where Jack is carrying a drunk Bitty up the stairs? Well that’s been stuck in my head and now I wrote a ficlet about it. Hope you enjoy.

---

Getting wasted in the backyard of the Haus seemed like a good idea at the time, and after six beers, Bitty agreed that it was definitely still a good idea. It was March and the boys were celebrating the end of the regular season and the beginning of playoffs – their first game wasn't until Friday, but it was Tuesday and getting Tuesday drunk made absolute sense. Truthfully, they had been celebrating the end of regular season and the beginning of playoffs for several days now, but this particular celebration included only the occupants of the Haus.

Well, not all the occupants of the Haus. Jack Zimmermann had an eight a.m. class and refused to participate in the Haus Backyard Bonfire Miller Lite Chug-A-Thon To Celebrate Making the Playoffs and Kicking Some NCAA Ass.

The celebration began before sundown while the weather was still tolerable. It'd been one of the warmer days in spring and Bitty had no qualms about shorts and a tank top while attending class and making dinner, but after beer number three the fire was roaring and the sun was sinking. Now after beer number six the sun was completely set and Bitty was cold. Not just chilly – he was shivering, quivering, and complaining cold.

"Bro, just get a sweater," said Holster once Bitty had complained a third time about the temperature of his bones while simultaneously digging his bare hand through a half-melted cooler of ice for his seventh beer. The grass was moving as if they were in the shoreline of the ocean, but it was just the backyard of the Haus and the waves were attributed to shitty lite beer rather than actual tides.

"Isn't it weird," said Bitty, finally clasping onto beer seven and opening it with his non-frozen hand, "that water just moves on its own? Nothing else just moves on its own. Except for alive things. Oh my goodness. IS THE OCEAN ALIVE?"

"Dude," said Ransom, "you know that shit is controlled by the moon."

"What?" Bitty asked, dropping his beer on the ground in surprise and losing a third of it to the earth. He picked it up and sipped the runoff from the can's lid.

"Yeah. The moon controls the tides because of its gravitational pull. Dude, how do you not know that?"

"Because I'm an American Studies major and my classes consist of food throughout the ages? Do you know what Americans uses as sustenance during the revolutionary war when Britain was withholding supplies? I DON'T THINK SO. And actually I don't know that either and it's on my midterm Thursday so if any of you figure it out, please tell yours truly here –"

"Yeah, but the moon," said Ransom.

"Fine," said Bitty and he took another sip of his beer in case it fell over again, "but then explain how the wind works?"

"Fuck, how DOES the wind work?" asked Shitty, who had been staring at the sky for the past twenty minutes from the grass. He wore a large black sweater over his underwear and not much else, but unlike Bitty, he seemed perfectly comfortable with the temperature of the silky grass and the light wind, which no one was ready to admit that they didn't understand. Bitty downed the rest of his beer, which seemed to be getting less and less shitty with each one, but when he stood up from the armchair he swayed dramatically and clasped close to Ransom in order to remain upright.

"Bro," said Ransom. "I think that's enough for you. You can't even stand."

"I can totally stand," said Bitty. He pushed off of Ransom's ridiculously beefy arm and realized too late that he's pushed too hard and was falling backward the other way. He landed with an OOF on top of Shitty. "Oh Lord, this grass is freezing. Shitty, how are you laying on this? Why aren't you all freezing?"

"Because you're the only person from the South?" Holster asked. "I mean Ransom is Canadian, so I don't know if it's possible for him to be cold –"

"I can get cold!" yelled Ransom.

"Bits," said Shitty and he carefully steadied Bitty on his feet again. "I think it's time for you to go to bed. Don't you have an early class too?"

"Psshh, like I'm going to class tomorrow," muttered Bitty. After Bitty was placed upright he started shivering, his knees knocking together and his hands on his shoulders in a poor attempt to clutch onto his own body warmth.

"Here," said Shitty and he removed his sweatshirt. He placed it over Bitty's head and it fell all the way down to the hem of Bitty's shorts. Bitty tucked his arms through the sleeves but found quickly he couldn't make it through the entire length. He scooped up the edges of the sweatshirt to his waist, concerned more about the illusion of nudity than the warmth the sweatshirt provided. There was no saving the sleeves, however, since each time he pushed them up they just fell over his hands again. "Now upstairs with you. Straight to bed."

"How DARE you call me straight?" Bitty asked with a very weak swing of his fist. Shitty steadied him when he missed and nearly fell again, then turned him by the shoulders to the back door.

"I'm sorry, brah. You know I mean gay to bed."

"Damn right," muttered Bitty. He stumbled forward and look back at the grass behind him, trying to figure out what tripped up his feet. He couldn't figure it out and continued to stumble the rest of the way into the Haus, through the kitchen, and to the stairs.

That's when he realized this was not a good idea.

---

Jack felt guilty for saying no to the backyard bonfire, especially since Bitty had asked so politely and looked more than just his normal amount of timid when Jack declined, but none of the rest of the boys seemed to remember that midterms were still happening. He was disappointed in Ransom more than anyone else – he'd spent the past three days day drinking and avoiding schoolwork when he should have been in full Coral Reef mode. Jack had a two papers and two midterms just on Wednesday and Thursday, and he really needed to finish this history paper before he could go to sleep, and he was only on page seven of ten.

He worked until well after the sun set, his eyes continually flickering to the time, and had just started on the conclusion when he heard something from down the stairs. He stood and opened the bedroom door.

 "Jack," he heard, Bitty's voice carrying up the stairs with all of the volume of a puppy barking for the first time. He groaned and attempted to shut the door, but then he heard it again, almost like a siren call growing closer and closer to his ship at sea.

"Jack."

"Jack!"

"JACK!"

"JAAAACCCCK–"

"WHAT?" he finally bellowed from the top of the stairs. Bitty stood at the bottom, flushed red with inebriation and wearing a sweater that swallowed him whole. He didn't seem to be wearing anything underneath it, which caused Jack's breath to hitch in his chest, but then Bitty tugged at the hem of the sweatshirt and revealed the red shorts he'd been wearing all day. Jack's eyes travelled over the expanse of Bitty's legs and realized he was missing one of his shoes.

"Bittle, what the hell?" Jack asked, and his feet carried him downstairs to the train wreck awaiting him on the first floor.

"Jack, ohmygod!" said Bitty, as if realizing for the first time Jack was there. He reached out his hands and placed them on Jack's arms for support. "Please help, there are so many stairs." Jack looked behind him at the fourteen steps and shook his head.

"Same amount of stairs as always, Bittle."

"Yeah but there are so many!"

"Where is your shoe?" Jack asked, which caused Bitty to look down. "How do you always manage to just lose one shoe?" Bitty looked very distressed at the fact that he'd lost a shoe, and the tremble in his lip broke right through a wall Jack didn't realize he'd put up. "All right," said Jack. He still didn't understand why he was agreeing to this, or why he'd conceded so easily to a very drunk sophomore who'd interrupted his essay and thus his timing for his entire evening, but Jack picked up Bitty underneath the seat of his shorts and allowed Bitty to wrap his arms and legs around Jack.

"Oh Lord, THANK YOU." Bitty rested his head on Jack's shoulder, one hand holding tightly to his phone through the fabric of the sweatshirt sleeve, the other dangling loosely at Jack's side. Bitty's thighs gripped his waist with an unexpected amount of power, and Jack readjusted Bitty in his arms as he headed up the stairs, trying hard not to think about how right it felt that Bitty was there.

Then he realized Bitty was rambling.

"And then Shitty gave me his sweatshirt and told me to go upstairs so I went to do just that but OH, LORD, JACK, there were so many stairs…" Jack had already finished climbing the stairs when Bitty started saying something about pie, and then chirping, and then fell completely silent.

"Bittle?" Jack asked. He glanced down at his shoulder and that was it. Bitty was asleep. His skin on his cheeks was solid red, his mouth was open and drooling already, but he looked incredibly peaceful and comfortable there, like he belonged right in Jack's arms. Jack determinedly look away. This wasn't the plan for his night and he really needed get back to his paper. He opened the door to Bitty's room and carried Bitty to the bed. The bed was made so Jack shifted Bitty carefully in his arms, afraid to disturb him, and pulled back the covers with his free hand. When he did he unearthed Senor Bunny, who brought a smile to Jack's face. Jack shifted Senor Bunny to the side and set Bitty down in his bed. Jack removed Bitty's other shoe, which was untied and loose, then pulled the covers over Bitty's body and gently tucked him in. As Jack did, Bitty turned over onto his front and sighed "Jack…"

Jack beamed.

Bitty's hair was in his eyes so Jack carefully smoothed it out of the way, revealing the expanse of Bitty's forehead. Jack's hand rested on Bitty's back and wondered if he could get away with a kiss to that forehead without waking him up when he realized he wanted to actually kiss Bitty's forehead, and that was not a thought he'd ever had before. Bitty had made him think many thoughts that he'd never had before, but this was definitely the strangest one of them all.

Jack jumped off the edge of the bed (when had he even sat down?) and darted out of Bitty's room, across the hallway, and into the safety of his own bedroom. He breathed hard, much too hard for a jog that consisted of only seven steps, and stared at his open computer on his desk. He shook his head and climbed into his bed instead; his paper would have to wait until the morning.

(AO3)

[luna-orlha]

Title: House of Secrets Fandom: mcu ; Iron Man, Naruto Genre: Action ; Characters: Hatake Kakashi, Haruno Sakura, Tony Stark Word count: Triggers(s):-- Rating: T Additional Tags: death & rebirth, AU Summary: Kakashi finds himself reborn in a world that doesn’t use chakra. Lucky for him, he’s not alone. And apparently he’s the illegitimate son of Howard Stark.

Notes: This plot bunny ran away with me. Meant to be a one-shot. We’ll see if this sees another chapter.

Might not be worked into very short AU. Basically this AU sets Narutoverse as the past forgotten MCU world in which everyone has forgotten how to use chakra (like how we hear about chi now and are skeptical of whether it exists). So in Narutoverse, people have kekkai genkai, which is forgotten in MCU. 

X-men are people who are descendants of their kekkai genkai. Wolverine - originally a Kaguya descendant who can grow their bones and use as weapons. But since Logan has no formal training, he thinks he can only move the bones in his wrist. And the serum that Bucky & Steve gets is actually from an Uzumaki descendant (they are well-known to have fast healing and extremely long lives)

And with the appearance of Kakashi & Sakura who knows how to use their chakra, :D well things get changed.

Not beta-ed.

----

 Kakashi does what he does best when he finds himself in a horribly awkward and strange position - hide. The last thing he remembered was dying in the fourth Shinobi war, very certain of it too. Sakura’s face was the last thing he saw, her crying face as she apologised. The world he wakes up to is different. Strange, awkward and definitely not the world he died in. His hands are too small and so are his limbs. His chakra is smaller than he never remembered it being.

 Oh god, have they resurrected him in a goddamn civilian's body? His mind shrieks and he scampers down the bed, down the hardwood floor and into the bathroom that somehow he knows exactly where it is.

 His reflection is decidedly not him. Never mind that his eyes are green, his hair is dark brown and his features aren’t even a carbon copy of his father anymore.

 “Kelvin?” the female voice calls out, drawing closer to where he is.

 A civilian, Kakashi immediately identifies. Who, he’s not sure but he sure as hell isn’t ready for any confrontation. His chakra rises sluggishly - like he’s never used it before, and he climbs up the wall and into the vent before the woman can enter the bathroom.

 “Strange… I thought I heard him here,” the woman mutters. Her hair is frazzled and she yawns. There is no stealth in her movements, no grace that all female shinobis extrude unconsciously. Kakashi casts his senses out even further, feeling not a single shinobi-sized coil anywhere in his range. “Kelvin!”

 Kakashi keeps himself very still, trying to figure what happened. There are two possibilities. First would be that bloody Kabuto has resurrected him with Edo Tensei and he is doomed. He will need to check for a seal on his body to ascertain if that’s the case. The second is that this is the Eternal Tsukiyomi and he’s in a dream. Although that doesn’t explain why he is in a body that isn’t him at all, and a woman that isn’t his parent. Where is his father in that case?

 He schools a breath and decides that he has to figure what the hell is going on. Peeling his shirt clothes off, Kakashi inspects his skin carefully. There is no Edo Tensei seal, so it has to be the Eternal Tsukiyomi. The idea of his own dream of paradise isn’t one with him as a Hatake unnerves Kakashi. He’s been the Hatake Kakashi longer than he’s been Sharingan Kakashi and if anything, he has always prided himself for being a Hatake.

 The civilian footsteps stop outside the door again and the same woman peers into the bathroom. “Kelvin! There you are. What are you doing without your clothes on?” She crouches beside him and wrestles his shirt down. “Camellia has waiting for you to go to the playground for almost thirty minutes already.”

 She lifts him up and carries him down to the living room where another four-year-old girl holding her mother’s hand is waiting. “Sorry Camellia and Emma, Kelvin was looking for his clothes apparently.”

 The older woman chuckles and motions them to the car. “Don’t worry, Niki. I’ll bring them back in time for Kelvin’s party,” she assures the woman

 The little girl merely eyes him with a resigned look that Kakashi thinks look out of place on a toddler. “Yo,” he holds his fingers out in a mockery of a peace sign. “I got lost on the road of life.”

 The girl startles so badly that he actually think she might be having a seizure and grips his shirt with her chubby hands, blinking furiously at him. “Kakashi?” she whispers.

 “Maa… who are you?” Kakashi wonders on how earth this would be his dream paradise. Going on a playdate isn’t his idea of fun - ever,

 “It’s Sakura. Haruno Sakura. I thought I was the only one here,” she says, her bottom lip trembling, her green eyes glassy with unshed tears. “I’m so glad that you are here.”

 They fall silent as Emma ushers them into the large metal contraption and don’t speak until they are released onto the playground where they walk up the trees and sit on the branches. “It was my fourth birthday last week when I starting remembering. There are no shinobis here, not even the policemen or papa. Papa is a soldier,” she tells him. “They are all civs. No one uses chakra anymore. There aren’t even books about it in the library. It’s not Edo Tensei. Our heart beats, we bleed. We’re not some experimental clones for as far as I can tell. And considering the technology is different here, I fairly certain that this isn’t the Eternal Tsukiyomi either.”

 She holds his hand so tightly that his bones creak but Kakashi doesn’t protest.

 -/-/-/-

 Tony is seventeen when he meets his half-brother. Apparently his father had an affair with a woman and for some unknown reason, included in his father’s will.

 “So you’re my little brother,” the teenager says haughtily.

 The ten year old looks unimpressed at him. “Kelvin Fields,” the boy says tilts his head to little red head beside him. “This is Camellia Potts. And you are?”

 How anyone could have not heard about him boggles him. Tony eyes them with a strange look, unsure what to expect. “Tony Stark, clearly. I didn’t expect the Pott Field twins to come for the will reading.”

 The two ten-year-olds don’t act like ten year olds. Their eyes are bland and guarded like Happy’s eyes were when Happy first started working for him. Tony wonders if the students of the school had been mistreating them. Geniuses usually has difficulties fitting in, this Tony knows from personal experience. The cursory checks his lawyers had done on his half-brother had shown that Kelvin was a genius in his own right. Not quite the genius as he is, but smart enough to enter a college at ten years old if he desired so, not smart enough for MIT though. That’s good enough for Tony. Even though they had grown up apart, Tony is going to make sure his half-brother is at least happier. None of that ridiculous legacy that their father had imposed on Tony.

 “We’re the Pott Field twins, what were you expecting?” Camelia shrugs and flips her auburn hair over her shoulder. The poor girl must have suffered in school for having hair as red as her namesake. It is true though. According to the checks, Kelvin has never been seen very far from Camelia.

 “Maa… Camellia likes to be overprotective,” his new brother drawls and smiles lazily.

 “Says the person who decided to beat the 9th grader on our first day in school.”

 “He tried to harass you! What kind of fourteen year old harrasses a nine year old?” he grunts.

 What kind of nine year old beats up a fourteen year old? Tony wonders. And how?

 His new younger brother is a bigger puzzle for him to solve, a puzzle that he’ll enjoy figuring out.

 -/-/-/-

 Kakashi is in the woods with Sakura for their usual training practice. Just because they are in children’s bodies doesn’t mean that they will let all their honed edge disappear. They spend an hour practicing katas then running slowly through practice spars. The throwing knives that Sakura got from her father are reminiscent of their kunais but not quite the quality they are accustomed to. Still they practice it. Not just throwing knives but everything that they can get their hands on. The world is different and they won’t probably need it, but it’s probably to have the skill than to not have.

 In his long forty two years - including the thirty-two years in Konoha era, Kakashi truly appreciates being a kid. When he was twelve, he was in the trenches, killing and dragging dead bodies into scrolls. He was learning to live with the crippling trauma of finding his father dead.

 He is twelve now and the scariest thing that has happened to him since he woke up is nearly getting knocked down by a car. Kakashi is certain that even then, he would be able to survive as long as Sakura gets to him first. With all the practice she’s been getting - Kakashi slices his hand to let Sakura practice her medical jutsu and Kakashi running through the handseals for all his trademark jutsus, they have finally built up their chakra storage to something decent.

 Sakura dodges his fireball, sweep kicking him and throwing a punch that narrowly misses him. The ground crumbles into a crater around him and she looks smugly at him. “That would be you if I hadn’t intentionally missed.”

 “Yes, my great kunoichi. I do not doubt your strength,” Kakashi says. “Just like-”

 They freeze at the buzz of the chakra signature on their range, jumping apart, limbs poised for battle.

 “Whoa. What on earth made that crater?” Tony says, sliding his sunglasses down to take a closer look at the earth.

 Had they had more warning, Kakashi could have covered the ground with an earth jutsu, but they had been sparring and the soft years of being out of battle has lessened their guards.

 “Tony. What are you doing here?” Kakashi asks.

 “I have a really interesting video, Kelvin.” Tony holds up his phone and sees a footage of him and Sakura sparring. Red and brown streaks across the video, moving too fast for even the camera to catch them. “Really interesting how you two can move faster than the cam can record.”

 Kakashi doesn’t bother to glance at Sakura for confirmation. He body flickers to his half-brother, blade pressed against his neck. Sakura watches dispassionately. This is his field of speciality even before Sakura was born.

 “Maa… little children shouldn’t be sticking their noses into things they don’t know.”

 “Little children?” Tony splutters. “You’re even tinier than me! What on earth is going on?” Sakura takes the phone from his hands, wipes the memories then crushes it with her bare fists. Tony gapes at the crushed metal and back at the little red head. “How? WHAT ON EARTH?”

 “Shussh,” Kakashi croons. “Are there backups?”

 “Of course, did you think I was stupid? Of course I would have. Now if you kill me, people are going to figure it out.” the man tries to bluster his way out.

 Kakashi withdraws his knife, wiping the sweat off. “No backups, Sak. What are we going to do with him?”

 He likes Tony truly, but the little boy is self-centered and still very unaware of the treachery out there. For all Tony’s genius intelligence, the Stark is still very incapable of social nuances. Kakashi might not be very much better than him but that’s why most teams had a kunoichi.

 “Did you tell anyone?” she asks.

 “No, of course not.” Tony looks sullenly at them. “I wasn’t actually going to expose you two. It’s just-”

 “A puzzle?” Kakashi arched an eyebrow. “Well, your curiosity could have compromised us and that would have put us in danger.”

 “How do you two move so fast anyway?”

 Read him in? Kakashi asks with hand signs.

 You decide. He’s your brother. Sakura replies.

 It would be better to get Tony read in as opposed to him trying to figure it out and letting others find out. If the world finds out that Sakura can heal broken bones with her chakra or him summon lightning with his raikiri, they would never let them go. “Fine,” he sighs. “It’s called chakra enhancement, also please stop calling me Kelvin.”

 -/-/-/-

 Tony has never wished harder than now, that he had paid more attention to Kakashi’s lessons. Kakashi would have been able to get the hell out of this cave if he was in his place. But that’s moot. He’s been captured and now stuck in here until he can (a) build a missile for these terrorists or (b) that Kakashi and Sakura can come for him. Pepper might be very reluctant to let her baby sister come into hostile zone. But if there’s anyone that could find a needle in a haystack, it would be the two of them.

 He’s Tony Stark for fuck sake, there has to be more than two ways of getting out of here and he’s most certainly not going to bend to the terrorists’ whims. Tony uses his insolence like a mask, hiding his true intentions behind a cleverly woven cloth.

 The prototype of his mini arc reactor is clumsy at best and his suit works, except he hadn’t counted for the numerous hidden soldiers. He could have made it out, could have. Kakashi would scold him for assuming.

 Tony laughs as he bleeds into the sand. He’s not going to hear Sakura nag at him again or Pepper drag him from the labs.

 “Tony, look at me,” the red head slaps him on the cheek. He can smell ozone in the air and hear the crunch of sandals on sand. “Keep your eyes on me.”

 “Sa… ku… ra?” he mutters. “You… came.”

 “Damn straight we did. Peps managed to wrangle a helicopter to carry us around. Took us three damn weeks scouring the sand. Do you know how much I hate the desert?” Sakura says. Her hands channeling her minty, cool chakra into his wounds. Kakashi never told him how strange it felt to feel his organs moving and mending itself. “...we used to run to Sunagakure for missions. God how Sai hated it. He would get sunburnt and wouldn’t tell anyone. But he sulked the whole trip.”

 “Su...na?”

 Sakura digs her fingers into his wounds, retrieving all the bullets. Kakashi bobs into view, his bleached silver fringe flopping over one eye. “Is he going to be okay?”

 “Perfectly fine. I’ve healed worse,” she tells Kakashi. For the life of him, Tony can’t imagine how she could have healed worse. He remembers how Kakashi cautions him from telling anyone about their abilities.

 ‘The world would never let us go,’ his half-brother said more than one time. He couldn’t fathom how breaking ground and running inhumanly fast could be groundbreaking - pun unintended, but now Tony understands. If healing him from the brink of death in a matter of minutes was something Sakura could do, the world would leave her alone. She could revolutionize the medicine world, but despite all the effort Tony had put in to learn this chakra thing, he’s still no closer to mastering their basics.

 She straps a splint of wood on his arm and wraps a sling. “If you came out unharmed, it’d be really strange.”

 “What are you going to tell them on saving me? What about the terrorists?”

 Kakashi gives him a look and Tony wonders if his condescending look looks like that as well. “They’re dead, Tony. Don’t worry about it.”

 “But-” he gasps and then takes a good look at the surroundings. There are no bodies. Just blood stains everywhere. “How?”

 “Chakra,” Kakashi says, his eyes creasing in mirth but Tony knows better. It might look like a smile to outsiders but it’s just all pretense.

 “Stop it,” scolds Tony, and grips his twenty year old brother. “Don’t smile if you don’t want to. Not with us.” Kakashi hauls him over his shoulder. “I mean it.” Tony tells him.

 “Okay,” the younger Stark replies in a voice too quiet. “As long as you promise that too.”

 -/-/-/-

 Kakashi finds Tony in the middle of his lab, trying to drink himself to death. “Tony. Are you okay?”

 “Kelvvvinn!” Tony slurs, trying to snatch the bottle back from him. “Come on! Gimmee the bottle back!”

 “It’s enough.”

 “It’s not! It’ll never be enough! Youuu know whaat they did!?” Tony sobs. He rips his shirt open, tapping on non-existent wounds. “They torrtureed mee Kelvin!”

 Kakashi pulls Tony into his side, awkwardly patting him. Torture was never easy, even back then. At least back then, they had Yamanakas to help dampen the freshness of the memories, to shove it back into the back. Tony blabbers on about how the old man had died because of him and that’s when he decides to tell Tony the whole truth.

 “I was tortured once before. Several times too. Sakura too.”

 Tony peers at him with half-glazed eyes, unfocused eyes with fierce anger behind them. “Who? I’ll burn them!”

 “That was before this life. Sakura and I, we remember our past lives. We were shinobis back then. We killed, fought, stole in the name of our villages. I was six when I had my first kill. And spent my ninth birthday out on the fields, killing men twice the size of me to win a war. I was fifteen when a mission went bad and I ended up being tortured.” Kakashi pours a glass of water and hands it to Tony who drinks is obediently, eyes still focused on him. Perhaps it was to console his brother or finally break the silence of his formative years as a shinobi. Regardless of the reason, Kakashi tells the story that no one but the Sandaime knows. It took him fourteen days to escape. Fourteen days that he would never recount to anyone.

 “How do you get over it?” Tony finally asks when his story ends.

 “You talk about it. Tell it to the people that matter. You never really get over it,” Kakashi tells him honestly. It had taken him forty-nine years to understand it, but late than never as Sakura says. “But you just have to remember that in spite of all the things you’ve been through, there are better things worth living for. And on bad days, you have to remember it.”

 “Remember what?”

 “That life, is a gift. Because as long as you’re living, you can learn to experience happiness again.”

 “Wait, wait, wait.” Tony says and sits up. “Are you telling me that you have memories of a lifetime as a shinobi. Like hundreds and thousands of other people with chakra abilities like yours?”

 “Yes…?”

 “Jarvis! Bring up chakra articles!” Hundreds of articles scatter across the hologram. Kakashi stares bewildered at them. “So I was thinking if there are other people like you two. Turns out there’s a legend on how martial artists of the past used to be able to use chakra to heal and move fast. No one knows how it works, but there are millions of articles that theorize the use of chakra might be real a thing.”

 “Are you saying that there is a possibility that this is the future of the world we died in?”

 “I’m saying that it is.”