#He thinks he’s not important enough to DIE

[salty-autistic-writer]

Buck has something to say. (Or: an alternative take on that kitchen scene)

“I think you should leave.”

The words cut into the cold, tense air in the kitchen like a knife.

They take Buck's breath away for a stunned, heart-stuttering moment. Did that just come out of his mouth?

Eddie finally looks at him, finally sees him. “What?” He asks, baffled.

“I want you to leave,” Buck repeats. And yes. He does. He’s tired of this. Tired in general. Enough.

Eddie blinks, his lips slightly parted. He exhales a disbelieving scoff, throwing his hands in the air. “Really? We are doing this now? Now, when we are both grieving? Seriously, Buck …”

“How dare you?” Buck hisses, curling a hand into a fist. “How dare you suggest I didn’t do what I could. That I didn’t do enough to, to save Bobby?”

“Buck,” Eddie starts.

No.

Buck raises his hand. “Now you listen. You listen to me. I watched him die, Eddie. I watched Bobby die. I saw death on his face, in his eyes. I was there. And I was alone. Bobby knew he was going to die, and he sent me away. He … He said I’m going to be fine. But I’m not. I’m not fine. And that’s okay. Because I just lost one of the most important people in my life. Bobby was the father I never had.”

Eddie sneers. “Bobby was your Captain. Our Captain. We all lost him! You don’t get to claim him! We all have to live without him, move on with our lives. But you don’t see any of us behaving like a child throwing a tantrum!”

Buck crosses his arms over his chest, his blood rushing in his ears. “I’m not a child, Eddie. I’m an adult, and I have enough of you telling me how I’m supposed to feel. These last few days, I’ve been thinking about the 118 all the time. About how to fix everything. Because everything feels so cold without Bobby. Everything feels broken.” 

He stops, swallowing heavily. There are so many emotions bubbling up inside of him. And now he can’t stop. He has to let it out.

“You are my best friend, Eddie. I thought friends are supposed to be there for each other. I thought a friend would be able to offer some kind of comfort. But I guess you’ve been too busy with your own grief. Look. I’m sorry you had to wake up at night and hear about this over the phone. But that’s not my fault. And it’s not my fault that you had to tell Chris either. It’s also not my fault that Bobby died. I didn’t want any of this to happen. And every day, I wish I could go back in time to change things.

I’m not okay. And you should know. But here you are, telling me I might not have done enough. You of all people should know. You should know what Bobby meant to me. But it starts to feel like you don’t know me at all. I’m not that great at communicating my feelings or, or my needs. But I’m working on it. And what I can tell you right now is that I’m tired of this, Eddie. I’m tired of being blamed and being told I’m making everything about me, when actually, my stomach, chest, and head hurt every day when I think about everyone else and how sad they are. That includes you, by the way. But I guess, in some way, I lost you too. Now, leave. I want you to leave.”

Buck stops, breathing heavily. It’s been a long time since he talked so much. Maybe he never did. But he needed this. Needed to get this weight off his heart.

The rage inside him is loud. But the sad and aching part of him hopes that Eddie will say No, I won’t leave. Hopes that he will stay. That he will say, it’s okay, we can solve this problem. We can talk. We can comfort each other. We can work on fixing this.

He looks at Eddie, and inside, he’s yelling. Say something.

But Eddie only stares at him, his brows furrowed and his jaw tense. Finally, he nods curtly and says, “Alright. Alright, Buck.”

He storms out of the kitchen. Buck can hear him pack his bag. His stomach sinks. So. That’s it then. There’s nothing left to fight for, it seems.

His heart pounding, Buck waits in the silence until he hears Eddie walk out and slam the door.

He winces, wrapping his arms around himself, breathing heavily. He feels so cold. And alone. Tears are burning in his eyes.

God. Everything is so broken.

Buck wipes at his eyes with the back of his head, sniffs, and reaches for his phone with a shaky hand. He hesitates. Maybe this is a bad idea. Maybe it’s selfish. But … he needs. He needs a little bit of warmth.

Hey. Can you come over? Only if you have time. I really need to talk to someone.

He sends the text after staring at it for a few long minutes and tries to ignore the voice in his head calling him pathetic.

* Buck opens the door and Tommy smiles at him, “Hey - What’s going on?”

Too much.

Almost instantly, the smile fades and Tommy’s brows furrow as his eyes flicker over Buck’s face, down to where he’s nervously fidgeting with his fingers.

“Evan. Are you okay?”

No.

Buck just shakes his head. He talked so much. Now, he doesn’t have any more words left. He’s empty. 

Ashamed, he lowers his head. Avoids prying eyes. He shouldn’t be like this. He’s an adult. Maybe Eddie is right. Maybe he is nothing but a child throwing a tantrum, making everything about himself …

“Come here,” Tommy says softly.

Buck looks up, seeing Tommy opening his arms. He exhales shakily and falls forward into the embrace. Sinks into it. Into the warmth. He closes his eyes and allows himself to feel safe for a moment.

Everything is broken, but this feels like a shell he can hide in. At least for the moment.

(AO3 Link)

[sparrows4bats]

Dick Grayson is the victim of his own choices when it comes to Jondami. Aka Dick sets up Jondami, this time on purpose, but quickly regrets it.

Damian grew up to be a beautiful, kind young man, and Dick can't be prouder of him.

When he left Robin to be a doctor Dick had his feelings about it (ie hes growing up so fast! Make it stop!) but respected Damians' choice and gave as much support as possible as he went to med school and started his internship and residentancy. Damian is an adult now, accomplished and intelligent and Dick couldn't be more happy.

The only issue is other people's reactions to Damian.

Ever since, he was reintroduced to hero society for his medical expertise under the code name Nightengale (Tim chose it and suffered Damian's wrath for weeks) Every young hero Dick knows has delevoped 'an admiration' for his baby brother. (They want to get into his pants, but Dick refuses to even think about it), and Dick can't take it anymore!

He deals with this with every member of his family, and eventually, the love lorn stares die down.

But with Damian, they seem to only be increasing over time as he saves more lives and endears the younger heroes with treats and stories of his many pets.

That is his baby, and if they don't stop with the lecherous gazes soon Dick is enacting contingency plans!

It's getting plain dangerous! With the other bats, the way to impress them was competency, but because Nightengale is rarely in active combat, his admirers have resorted to injuring themselves or exaggerating symptoms to get his attention. It's gotten so bad that Bruce had to put out a League Wide memo on safety and, somehow, had gotten Damian to teach a first aid class. But that only made it worse! Nightengale claimed even more hearts during the class! He had an army of suitors practising CPR and gave everyone his com frequency at the end in case of emergency!

Dick has walked in on way too many conversations discussing Damians' datebility. He almost murdered the poor soul that started describing what they thought the doctor would be like in bed. (They were so lucky Kory was there to hold him back from disfiguring the pervert.)

The worst part is that as soon as it was revealed that Nightengale is a bat. Nightwing, the friendliest bat, was inundated with questions about the doctor. A brave few even asked him to put in a good word for them!

Dick needs this to stop. Now.

So he starts to think. How did the wave of crushes end for the rest of his family? Dick realised they only stopped after the object of their affections started dating another hero.

So all Dick has to do was set Damian up with someone. (He despairs at the thought, but anything is better than watching people he is meant to trust with his life oogle his little Robin as Damian just tries to do his job.)

So Dick Grayson makes a list of attributes any partner has to have. (Not that any of them will ever be good enough to deserve him.)

The person he sets Damian up with has to be a good hero, non judgemental about Damian's past, be able to handle his more acerbic attitude, and just crazy enough to keep up with a bat. They have to be competent, intelligent, and willing to defer to Damian when he makes his own choices but stubborn enough to dissaude his more reckless behaviour. They have to be kind, an animal lover, and willing to move heaven and earth for his baby brother at the bare minimum.

Most important of all, they can't under any circumstances have a reputation for dating around or being a massive perv. Damian is his mother's son, and as much as he tries to deny it, a true romantic. If Damian falls in love, there's no doubt in Dicks mind that Damian will remain loyal. If he's not careful, Damians' compassion and incredible capacity for forgiveness will be his doom.

So Dick needs someone who would never dream of taking advantage of another's heart.

Dick is left with a surprisingly short list. He considers asking the rest of the family for help but can't risk it getting back to Damian.

Then, after a half hour of despair. It hits him. Jonathan Kent!

They are childhood Friends, Jon knows all about Damian's childhood, they trust each other, Jon think Damians insults are funny, respects his decisions, loves animals, and would literally break the world to protect him. Jon doesn't date much, usually committed relationships, and is interested in men! It's perfect!

Dick mentored Jon himself. He's a good guy and definitely wouldn't take advantage of Damians' loyalty.

So, with his decision made Dick begins his plan to set them up.

It's a delicate operation if he goes right out and says it there's no way Damian will go with it. So he starts assigning Jon to Nightengale at the Watchtower during low activity.

He smiles as he watches the two laugh over restocking the medbay.

Next, he gets Damian to bring Superman 2.0 to visit the children at the paediatric hospital he works at as a day job. Jon happily agrees and afterwards meets Dick with a bright blush in his face and a sappy smile that doesn't fade.

Dick makes up excuses for them to hang out, training, humanitarian missions, and abusing superspeed and flight to ensure Damian is fed after long shifts.

The two are definitely interested in each. It's cute. Jon starts glaring and hanging around Damian whenever the other heroes start flirting. Damian lets Jon help him with projects, and the two are never out of each others sight for more than two minutes.

The plan is progressing beautifully, but they need just one more little push.

It happens without Dicks intervention, in the worst possible way.

Nightengale is out during an invasion, fighting and providing emergency medical help when he's hit. Hard.

Dick doesn't see it happen. But turns to see Jon with red eyes standing in front of a bleeding Damian as he takes down hundreds of the aliens. There are very few times Dick has really understood the power the Supers hold. This is like watching a vengeful God. But no hostile gets anywhere near Damian again.

The rest retreat after the carnage, but Jon doesn't care. He gathers Damian in his arms and flies away. Hours later, the batfamily finds them at a hospital, Damian is out of surgery, and Jon is sitting holding his hand. Both out of their hero gear, Thank God.

Jon doesn't even acknowledge their presence just keeps staring at Damian who is out cold.

Bruce starts to lecture him but stops when Clark very firmly drags him from the room. Dick watches the two in silence and slowly takes the chair on Damians other side.

"Thank you, for keeping him safe."

Jon just brushes Damians cheek and replies, "Always."

Jon doesn't leave until Damian is released a few days later. Damian moves back into the Manor temporarily to continue to heal. Jon visits him everyday.

Dick is celebrating his success. The two are well on their way to a relationship, and all of Damians admirers have backed off and only enquire about his health now.

Life is good.

Until he walks in on a Naked Jon Kent in Damians bed. He screams and flees before he can see anything else.

After he has calmed down and given them a chance to dress, he returns to lecture Damian about strenuous activity only to be lectured in turn about holistic pain management and rehabilitation after surgical intervention.

Dick shuts up, glares at Jon, and ensures Damian hasn't disturbed his stitches.

It would be fine if that was the only time he found the Super menace feeling up his baby.

He has, somehow, in his quest to save Damian from the lecherous assholes of the Watchtower, set him up with a pervert!

Everywhere he looks, he finds them canoodling, and Jon doesn't seem to fear him nearly enough. The little shit can't seem to keep his hands to himself!

The worst of it is when he and a few titans walk into the medbay after Damian goes back to work and finds the two of them using one of the beds!

They have no shame, and the titans spread news about the encounter to everyone. (At least Damian would be harem disperses) But Dick now wants to bleach his eyes out of skull.

But Damian is happy, so he resists the urge to break out the kryptonite.

That is until, one day, he notices a ring on Damians' finger during a hangout between the two brothers.

"You're engaged to Jon!!"

"No Richard."

Dick breathes a sigh of relief.

"We eloped."

"WHAT??"

Dick Grayson has many regrets.

[iggyshippingcorner]

alright... a bit of medical malpractice stobotnik as a treat <3

the intro formatting on this is going to serve as a teaser for the rest of the long fic :3

tags for this include: medical procedures, questionable medical procedures, surgery, in house surgical procedures, medical inaccuracies, a lot of hand-waving, unwise medical practices, ivo "i have a medical doctorate i didn't plan on using" robotnik, hurt stone, stone's unconscious for this entire thing actually, mild gore, medical gore

< disclaimer: i am not a medical professional. i am an over-caffeinated fic writer with access to the world wide web and a very VERY minor background in medical terminology. medical inaccuracies abound, because i sourced all my info from the internet. >

RIBCAGE, CHEST, BACK (v1.05 - 2018.08.21 - NEW EGGLABS, SEATTLE, USA)

If Robotnik never has to use his medical doctorate again, he’ll die a happy man. His eyes burn, his arms ache, and his hateful childhood habit of grinding his teeth has resurfaced despite decades of suppression. AL02B hovers near his left shoulder, providing a helpful steady light. The other girls whizz about behind him, collecting equipment and fetching materials and carting off the corpses littered about the main lab floor. It stinks of gunpowder and blood. The mask he wears doesn’t stifle the smell as much as he’d like it to-- he adds it to his mental to-do list.

His fingers spasm slightly, and he grunts in frustration, teeth creaking as he clenches his jaw. Careful, careful, he adjusts his angle as much as he can, mindful of the clamps and the detractor, until the pressure on his wrist alleviates. The EKG beeps in time with every flex of his left hand, carefully carefully pressing Stone’s heart downwards against the firm ridge of his vertebrae. His molars grind together in a steady slide, keeping rhythm with the rocking motion of his wrist. 

“You’re almost more trouble than you’re worth,” he tells Stone, who doesn’t respond. He blinks hard, breathing in and out slowly. Of course he doesn’t respond-- Robotnik’s got his fucking heart in his hand. (Breathe in, breathe out.) The latex of his glove squeaks as he squeezes the ventilator with his other hand, keeping careful time. For as dire as it started-- Stone bleeding freely into his thoracic cavity for several minutes until Robotnik could finally open him up-- things have plateaued into this awful waiting game. If only the doctor (and what exactly does he think he’s doing, calling himself a doctor? Can’t even keep his hands steady-) could do more than just hope he’s buying Stone enough time to stabilise on his own. 

AL02B beeps. Robotnik doesn’t glance at her but he does tip his head towards her, gaze fixed on the steady artificial pulse of Stone’s heart in his palm and the manual flex of his lungs as he works the ventilator. Keep the blood and oxygen flowing to his brain and other important organs until his body decides to pick up the slack once more. His eyes burn, and he wants to wipe at them but if he takes them off Stone--. 

AL02B whistles sharply then, cutting through his thoughts, and he sighs. “Mommy’s a little busy, darling.”

She trills all high and urgent, and he finally tears his gaze away from the glistening, terrible meat that houses the one human life he’s allowed himself to truly care for, in order to see what’s gotten her in a tizzy. ALPHA pointedly shifts her light from Stone’s open ribcage to his pallid face, and-- 

His eyes are fluttering. 

Robotnik freezes, hands going lax, and--

The EKG machine crammed onto the work bench beside the gurney continues beeping. Stone’s heart flexes stubbornly against his palm, and his lungs take a breath of their own volition, the ventilator sagging against his chin as Robotnik’s brain reboots itself. AL02B nudges his shoulder. Forcing himself to move feels like wading through quicksand, but he carefully extracts his hand and pulls the ventilator away as Stone takes another breath, and then another. There’s a chirping at his elbow, and when he turns to look, it’s C14N001, extending a coil of cannula tubing towards him with her single metal arm. Her flickering lens whirrs as she glances between Stone, breathing on his own once more, and himself, gloved hands drenched and trembling. 

He takes the tubing. She bobs in place for a moment before moving to hover over Stone’s legs, scanning him. The space she once occupied is summarily filled by W475.N3 and W475.L11, carefully toting an oxygen tank between the two of them. They bump against his legs once they deposit their cargo, and disappear into the depths of the lab once more, likely joining the last of the clean-up efforts. 

Robotnik takes a deep breath. The rest of the procedure unfolds in his mind’s eye. Hook Stone up to oxygen and monitor his levels carefully while he attempts to close and reinforce his sternum. Send one of the girls out to “acquire” antibiotics, because he’ll be damned if Stone contracts something horrific after all the effort Robotnik just went through to save his sorry ass. Stitch up the incisions. Check that the gunshot wounds hadn’t re-opened in the chaos. Set up a blood transfusion. Scrub down. Watch his vitals. Assess the footage to see how exactly the rats entered his domain. 

The gloves come off first, latex squeaking and stretching as he methodically removes them and places them in the biohazard bin one of the girls helpfully fetched from the janitorial closet. A new pair snaps back on in a matter of muscle memory while Robotnik solidifies his plan of attack. 

Much later, when he finally gets a break and collapses into his chair beside Stone’s gurney, free of his scrubs and the latex gloves, Robotnik creates a new high-priority project to place at the forefront of his workload. A pair of medically-focused drones-- maybe three, or a whole fleet? It should be a cakewalk, given the complex works of art he’s already created. The prototyping period might take a bit longer than the weaponry drones, if only because they’re in the exact opposite field he’s been paid to work in for years now, but sheer determination will make up for any unfamiliarity. 

He’ll do anything to avoid holding Stone’s life in his hands like this again. He’d thrilled over it, once, before they’d begun their little… arrangement. The power trip of holding his very existence in his hands— placed there so willing and trusting by a man who could break every bone in his body— was headier than any drug Robotnik had ever fooled around with. But, now, to know that every tremble of his hands and every panic-driven moment of hesitation could jeopardise Stone’s survival? He simply cannot avoid the facts any longer: he is not as impartial as he once was. There is undeniable proof now, pressed into the atria of Stone’s heart and every layer of dermis and intercostal muscle and bone separating the very meat of him from the vile mortal world. Proof that Dr. Ivo Robotnik is not the unbiased, inhuman observer he once was.

He should rest. His arms still ache. His head pounds with the looming threat of a migraine. Instead of retreating to his quarters or curling up on the secondary gurney, Robotnik tugs his control gloves on and drags a holo-screen over to his careful perch beside Stone. The thick fabric and metal sensor caps hide the traitorous shake in his fingers just enough for him to pretend like it isn’t happening. He opens his self-built schematics program, ignoring his work flow playlists in favour of keeping one ear trained on the steady beeping of the monitors tracking his agent’s vitals. 

If he doesn’t sleep until Stone finally rouses for the briefest of moments, early the next morning, well. That’s between him and the girls (and Stone’s unconscious body).

[gothicrepetitions]

I feel like this moment is not nearly talked enough about for how important it is. We know Sam has despised hunting and wanted a safe, normal life, and felt misunderstood and denied growing up. He knows that they once had a normal, safe life but he was a baby when he lost it. Mary’s a symbol of a domestic and idyllic life, but whereas for John and Dean, it is forever lost, Sam wants that life.

And in his association of Mary with it, he believes that his mother would have wanted it for him instead of a life of hunting and monsters. Like one of the first things we hear Sam say is ‘Do you think Mom wanted this for us?’. And even after returning to hunting, Sam continues to see in Mary someone who would have understood him even though no one else didn’t, hallucinating her reaffirming his actions, validating his pain in the panic room and comforting him.

But this scene here… it confirmed everything that he wished for. Mary did understand… she did want better for them… and now when Sam stands in front of her, it’s bittersweet because he knows that they were all doomed from the start, that despite what he desperately wanted, what Mary wanted, they just could never had had that life.

‘You’ll die and your children will be cursed’

[saintrvckwell]

The fair and the brave and the good must die (joel miller x platonic!reader)

joel miller x platonic!reader

summary: it felt frightening when the world gave you a second chance. but how many chances could you give joel, before it was too late?

warnings: angst at times (what a shocker with me), joel sees his daughter in reader, they travel to find her family but instead, find it in each other (sappy at times, lol almost never), reader is somewhere in her mid-teens, appearance not really specified, the father-daughter dynamic hitting as per usual, joel sabotaging himself 24/7

wordcount: 7.1k

a/n: well look at that, me releasing two pieces in one year, wow. well anyway, i got this idea last year, wrote it last year and then rewrote the ending this year. it's very much chaotic but thought the idea was cool. with the new season around, figured we need some joel x platonic!reader. well lmk what u guys think! hope u like it, it's a mess

A few months ago, if you were to describe what kind of man Joel Miller was, there probably would not be enough curse words to spit out. A few months ago, if you were to choose between saving him and saving yourself, you would probably be the one responsible for his demise. A few months ago, Joel's presence in your life was a mere part of the deal and nothing more, or less. A few months ago, you would not allow his existence carry that much importance in your life.

But now, no question needed to be asked. No hesitation on your side, no second thoughts. Just a gun in your hand, finger on the trigger, eye focused on the one who would stand in between. Because for Joel, you would not question anything. For Joel, you were prepared to walk to the edge of the universe and back. For Joel, you would lose yourself.

Not him, never.

You walk through half of the continent with someone, expecting to keep to yourself. The final destination hanging in your mind like a warning. You are not here to make friends, you are not here to share wholehearted life stories around the fire. The only reason your steps kept following Joel's, was his lead. Lead towards someone you have been searching for ever since you escaped the FEDRA school. With stolen ration cards in your back pocket and shiv attached to your belt. In the dark of the night you ran through the Boston's quarantine zone, knowing exactly who you were looking for.

He was the best at this, you kept hearing. No one had the soldiers wrapped around their finger like him. Side to side, the word didn't change. If you wanted to find someone who decided to become unwanted, he was the right fit. You bet your everything on Joel Miller. He was your one-way ticket out of this shithole. Following the same tale you had been studying since your mother died. 

Whether there was some credibility to her words, you never found out. But she made a plan for you, from one connection to another, from person onto the next one. Until you found yourself standing by his door, knocking so persistently until he could no longer pretend he was not there.

Disgruntled and annoyed, he looked at you, your hair wet from the rain, muddy clothes. He was prepared to send you away, tell you to go back where you came from. He was no babysitter, no tour guide. 

But then, you pulled out the picture. Ripped in the middle, old polaroid picture taken by your mother, you presumed. And he wondered. If it were her, looking for him. If she were to survive, get lost in the escaping crowds. Would she be standing in your place, at someone else's house, with his picture?

The salvation was something he could not decline.

Not when you kept looking at him that way. The desperation hidden behind your determined stance. The little child in the eyes of someone who had to grew up before the world did it for them. You were too much of a painful reminder to shut the door in your place. Especially once he let you come inside and saw the scars on your neck, from pulling through all the wired fences around your school. Fresh, washed down with the rain, drips of blood on your collar. It was either him or some other smuggler. Who would use the desperate adolescent asking for help.

Taking more without giving anything in return.

No, Joel made the decision. Let you lay out on the table all of the leads you had gathered over the past few weeks, from the connections your mother had left you. Day and night, he planned, he searched. And before long, he knew exactly where your father happened to be. There was a warrant on his head, not so long ago. Nothing good came his name.

Except for you.

At dawn, three days later, you set off. You noticed, second before the door shut, that he had left a note on the table. For a moment, you wondered for whom it was written but before you found the answer, Joel was already nudging into your shoulder, urging you to move faster. You had one shot at sneaking out of the zone. And although Joel had become experienced traveler over the years, he did not take your inexperience into consideration.

And thus, how the trial started.

It appeared the second you and Joel set foot out of the quarantine zone; trouble seemed to follow you everywhere. Closed calls turned out to be a daily dish and ammunition rarity that you almost never stumbled upon, unlike the traps in each city you wandered in. Just two days in and Joel started to regret not thinking this through. 

No amount of ration cards was worth saving you from every trap you managed to step into, he thought. You were a loose cannon, catastrophes seemed to walk hand in hand with you.

"How was I supposed to know it's going to be a trap?" you mumbled, whilst trying to fix the cut on your left ankle.

Joel looked up from his backpack, where, just a second ago, was trying to find what was left of his first aid kid. If he knew you would be such liability, he would pack more. No, he would not have gone in the first place.

"Common sense?" he hissed, walking over to you. "Didn't they teach you that in school?"

"No, they just taught us how to hang smugglers on the streets," you replied.

The amount of sarcasm accompanying your cutthroat response kept making it harder for Joel to maintain his calm demeanour.

Without much thought, he threw the bandage away and got up. "Fix it, smartass. We're leaving in ten minutes."

Not wanting to poke to bear any more, you hurried up and managed to join Joel back on the street. With revolver in his right hand, he looked at you, disgruntled.

"Move, we gotta make it before sundown."

You didn't know at which particular comment or situation Joel started to withdraw. His patience seemed to be running out with each day he was forced to pull you out of the trap or save you from a close call you had caused. Every time, you would be sitting on the ground, fixing up, looking at a dead point, trying to get through his scolding. He would yell, throw hands in the air, taking out all of his anger. 

At a certain point, you weren't sure whether your behaviour was truly the reason, or his chance to get everything out of his system and blame it on your recklessness.

Neither did Joel know. 

There was something so triggering about seeing you so helpless. Seeing you get into numerous troubles that could have cost you your head. He had no emotional attachment to you whatsoever, you were a business part -- if a teenager setting off with smuggler could be even called something like that. But the look, the damned look in your eyes. Each time, with each moment, his paternal instincts awakened a little more. You were a walking reminder of what he had lost, what could have been.

He would be sitting by the window, late at night, keeping the watch, wondering. How easy it would have been to take his backpack, walk through the door and never look back. No note, nothing. Go back to what he had got used to -- the stillness of life in Boston. Where nothing would remind him, nothing would pull out those rotten roots. That settled somewhere in the pits of his mind, along with the shame. No one to force him to face his mistakes.

It was odd what power your presence had in Joel's life, despite knowing nothing about you. Perhaps, when you stick to someone, twenty-four hours a day, when someone else's life depends on your actions, the fine line becomes thinner. 

Until there's none.

In certain aspects, at certain points, he could no longer tell the difference between you and Sarah. The way you quickly came to enjoy making fun of him and testing his patience. The days you spent on foot, you kept irritating the living soul out of him. You found the string to play on and there was no reason to stop. You hated the silence, that he was subtly trying to enforce.

You noticed pretty quickly the effect your comments could have on him. And, of course, you found amusement in it. The days on the road were long, especially without a vehicle so you were looking for anything that would distract the anxious thoughts in your mind. 

The longer you were gone, the more second thoughts arrived.  

You had never met your father yet here you were, travelling across the infested country to see a man who, perhaps, was not even interested in acknowledging your presence.

Why did he leave your mother? Why did he leave Boston? Did he know about you and if so, what did it say about him?

And why would your mother send you to look for someone who might not even be aware of your existence?

The answer was simple, at least according to your conclusion.

You had no one.

Your mother was the last person you had and when she died, you found yourself living in a tiny, three-bedroom dorm room at the military preparatory school. And every night, after the curfew, you kept on reading her notes. The letter she had left you. Place like that did not leave enough space to carry a hope, yet you managed to squeeze it in. But were her last words enough of a reason for you to risk your own life? Perhaps, you were about to find out.

Although, probably not from Joel.

He was not the most talkative individual. After all, his only job was to lead you to your father, collect the rest of the ration cards and head back. This was strictly a business deal, which he kept reminding himself, each time he caught glimpse of you. Looking at you made him wonder -- about you, your life. Where your parents had been. He knew that now, in the world, there were far too many children like you, wandering alone. 

Even in the Boston QZ, there would not be a day that Joel would not run into a child, sitting on the pavement, counting their last ration cards. He usually paid no mind to it, fed with false belief that he was not interested to care in the first place.

But then, there were you. And that hopeful spark you had every time you looked at him. He was there to protect you, despite the reasons. So, naturally, after years of almost forgetting how it had felt, you found comfort in Joel's presence. He could have been mean and spiteful. And you could send him to the deepest pits of hell, screaming your lungs out.

And yet, you would not turn back.

You could have screaming matches all the way through abandoned suburbs, you could slam the door in his face and ask him to go fuck himself for being such an asshole to you.

Despite the inner voice telling him to leave, he would sit down on the stairs and wait. Until an hour later, when your anger boiled down, you would open the door and go back on the road. And he would follow. And that conversation would never be brought up again.

That was the cycle.

Through the cities, through the suburbs, through the meadows, through the highways.

There were times, where Joel's patience ran over the edge, and he ended up going further than he had initially intended. Only then his falsely justified arguments came to slap him in the face. When his eyes would lock with yours and he could see how determined you were to keep your tears back. 

"You are being an asshole," you whispered, grabbing your backpack from the floor, not giving your impulsive ideas second thoughts.

Joel sighed, rubbing his chin, before he looked your way. "Where are you going?"

"Anywhere," you shrugged your shoulders, opening the doors. "Anywhere but here."

He chuckled, crossing his hands over his chest. "Good luck with that."

Your eyes fell on the cracked floor, as you let out a deep exhale. "You really are an asshole," you whispered. "Fucking asshole."

Trying so hard to keep it together, not giving him the pleasure of winning over you, you stood by the door, watching the raindrops outrunning each other. It was already dark out there, the storm was settling in the skies, as quickly as one falls asleep, and you had no idea where to go. And when you thought about it, it was probably better to draw your guns now, as opposed to coming back here, hours later, soaked and cold. Serving the win on a silver platter.

Joel waited, convinced you would not leave. He was the compass holding this plan together and besides, as he knew, you had nowhere else to go. Your father was your only remaining connection. Joel was aware of the position he found himself in. An argument he already knew was a win. But in his preoccupied mind, there was no lust for such thing.

Perhaps, not now. Not when he noticed how swiftly you wiped away the tears with your sleeves. Of course, it was not the first time that Joel had become the reason of your momentary sadness. His words managed to hit your sore spots one too many times. 

Though, why now? Why would the guilt float above the surface of his false beliefs, waving the red flag? Why now would the regrets start to squash his entire, washed-out being?

He would ask, despite already having the answers.

There was something about watching you sit there, on the floor, leaning against the door. The shouting, the threats of leaving. It was as though he was back in Texas, twenty years ago, sitting in the kitchen and listening to Sarah complaining about short curfew. Begging Joel to let her go out with friends, stay a little longer. And he would refuse, being as stubborn as he is. Inheriting those qualities, she would insist on her wish. Until it ended up in a scream match and she would threaten to go anyways, with or without his approval.

Then both sides ended up defeated. Sarah, sitting in her bedroom, listening to the regrets setting down in her mind. And Joel, sitting by the kitchen table, cursing himself for being too harsh. He was a man of few words, always has been, when it came to expressing his feelings out into the world. So instead of struggling to find the right ones, he would take her favourite DVD of Curtis and Vipper and knock three times on her bedroom door.

She would know exactly what he meant.

But you were not Sarah, you were not Joel's daughter. There was no relation, other than the business one.

Which, in the end, did not even matter anymore.

"You should have said no," you whispered into the rain.

The reality pulled Joel out of his thoughts.

He frowned, puzzled over your statement.

"You should have just said no," you mumbled, turning around.

He stood still.

"I should have talked you out of it," you whispered. "If I knew how much you will hate me, I would never knock on your door."

And suddenly, everything he had convinced himself with, came undone.

You found all the sore spots, striking into the pits of their existence. Until the shadow of man, he once used to be, stood right behind you, looking into his eyes. What he thought had died that night with her, was standing in one piece. He had nowhere to run, no beliefs to feed himself with, only the truth. Now it was up to him whether he was going to face it.

You wanted him to say something, more than anything. Even if he should just scream at your existence, damning you to hell. Everything would have been better than him, surrendering to his shame. The anger in you was starting to boil. You loathed Joel -- simply for the fact of what his role now meant in your life. Joel was your source of safety, despite the arguments, the curse words headed into his direction. And the only thing you wanted was to know whether there was at least a part of him that would sympathise.

You knew giving your hopes into someone like Joel was a risk with little to no chance of winning. Yet, you allowed yourself to hope, as you looked at him, awaiting.

You should have known how that would end.

Putting a faith in a man who’s past has been coming to haunt him every night for the last twenty years was perhaps as reckless, as running towards a clicker, with a friendly handshake. It would cost you an arm and a leg, you knew it. Of course, you knew it. 

But the hope, rotten to the core. The sweet-talking hope. 

Which he was well aware of, seeing it in your desperate eyes. The guilt was about to swallow him all. What Joel wanted and what he allowed himself to want were two different categories. And what frightened him the most, was the fact that you were in both. 

Despite his best of efforts to bury it. No matter what he tried, the truth could not be undone or destroyed. Even though his guilt kept feeding him with the false claims. Convincing him that after betraying her, he was no longer worthy of that title. When in reality, he would never become someone else. It was who he had always been. 

Didn't matter where would he run, what amount of liquid courage his organs would absorb to numb the pain, it would always be there. Waiting for him, waking up from a hangover. Joel spent twenty years searching for salvation in the wrong places, in the hands of wrong people. 

And there he was, scarred, old and defeated. 

You were his second chance. 

"Stop confusing me with the man you are looking for." 

But the anger, oh the anger. And the frustration he fought with. The what ifs, the possible scenarios recreating his life-long failure that haunted him relentlessly. It could go wrong, he thought. He could not even count the exact number; it was too many of them. 

So, he settled with the thought of doing what was best for both of you. But selfishly, as he was well aware, he welcomed the pain with open door and a handshake. Whilst you were left in the rain, watching it close. 

It would have been too dangerous to act differently, he continued to sweet-talk himself with lies as the dawn fell upon his feet. The truth kept on eating him alive, through the roads and through the woods. Flesh by flesh, until there was nothing left. Joel stood against his own mind, his own beliefs. 

How long could he keep on denying them? 

You wondered about it, even though you forbid yourself from doing so, when you stood in the door the following morning, eyes swollen from how you quietly cried yourself to sleep. The consequences of Joel's previous actions were falling down on you. You avoided him like plague, waking up before sunrise and hunting in the nearby woods before the two of you set off. 

He did not comment on your unannounced morning trip but with all honesty, there was not much to say anyway. One thing that Joel knew, which you were grateful for, although you would never admit it out loud, was to keep quiet when it was needed. 

Unfortunately, this habit of his showed up even when it wasn't required. 

The distance he created between the two of you could not be erased. So, for your own sake, you followed his lead. There were no more jokes, no more comments about Joel's age being close to dinosaurs. Because there was nothing left to say or do. 

And as the days continued, your guilt and regret, naturally, turned into anger. 

Anger towards Joel. 

The more you thought about it, the more resentful you had grown to be. You gave him a chance; you gave him a piece of something only your mother has been worthy of. Something you had once buried but for Joel, you would search for it through the deepest pits of your soul. 

You wanted to feel safe, more than anything else in this world. And there he was. When you looked at the picture of your father, then back at Joel, you knew which one was the option you would choose. 

But what would that be good for, when Joel did not choose you?

As hurtful as it might have been to admit it. 

It was pointless, stupid, you kept telling yourself. Joel's reasoning for this voyage was simple, different from yours. And it would always be different from yours. 

That's how it started to bubble up inside of you. Through days, through nights. It would take one look at him for you to clench your fists and curse yourself for ever being this naive. At a certain point, there was no reason for you to hide it. 

And Joel knew it. He knew how you felt when you yelled at him, spilled out that he should not care whether you had eaten or not, whether you had got enough sleep or not. You would let it all out, frustrated and disappointed. 

He would never say anything, just let you get it out of your system. And once you were done, he would hand you the last bits of jerky from his backpack because he was right -- you did not eat that day. But he would not once try to get back at you.

Perhaps, when he stood against you, watching your eyebrows dance up and down, your hands gesticulating in the air, hearing each word sounding faster and angrier than the one before, Joel had realised he now stood in your position. 

There it was. 

The metaphorical blink, perhaps? 

That found Joel standing above the map, marked with your estranged father's supposed location. 

If you kept heading east, you would arrive to his quarantine zone by next week, according to his counting. A week. 

Seven days. 

There was an odd feeling, growing inside his chest. The symptoms of guilt had arrived into their places, occupying his indecisive existence. The time was slipping through his fingers and selfishly, Joel did not anticipate the meeting that was yet to happen. Despite not doing anything to stop it. 

Your father was no exemplary man, quite the opposite. He made trouble wherever he went, so it was not that shocking when one day, Joel saw a soldier putting up a warrant flyer with your father's face. 

He was supposed to be hanged, the day he vanished from the Boston quarantine zone. FEDRA was searching through every place that could carry his trace, but nothing. A few months later, via radio tower, Joel heard his name again. 

With his connections around the zone, it was not too difficult for Joel to find his current supposed whereabouts. Still, as the days on the road went by, he started to have less and less sympathy for finding someone like him. If there ever was some. 

For personal reasons, of course. Being too attached and too subjective, he could not see past his selfish mind, despite doing everything in his power to have you run to your father with open arms. 

He could only blame himself for not seeing how lost you were. For not seeing through the opportunities falling upon his feet. Especially when they started to run out. 

"How long, Joel?"

Your voice pulled Joel out of his frustrated thoughts as he looked back at you, sitting by the fireplace. He realized he has been standing above the table the whole time, gripping the pencil. 

He has been still all evening, which you tried your best to not care about. Spent almost two hours drawing things on the map, running around the house, looking for more pencils. For a moment, you thought he was going insane. 

Would not be so shocking. 

You attempted to pay no mind to it, mostly browsing through the farmhouse, looking for something to kill your time with. The books were ripped apart, rooms raided, so eventually, you ended up sitting by the fireplace to warm yourself up. 

While you waited for the answer that did not seem to be coming. 

"Week or more," he replied, after another minute. "Though we will be lucky if he's still there by the time we arrive," he mumbled, packing up the map. 

The tone of his voice raised your eyebrows. You could have let it go. 

But weather got you both stuck here in the first place, you might as well square up. 

„Well, you won't be there to see it," you whispered. 

He looked at you, confused over such statement. 

"What?" you got up, "Wasn't your whole plan to drop me by the gate like some baggage? Suppose that was the only thing I ever was for you.“

There was no reason to suppress your frustrated thoughts inside. At such point, there was nothing to lose, not on your side. Miles away from Boston, in the middle of nowhere, your hands were empty. Nothing to treasure, nothing to hold. 

Nothing to hope for, anymore. 

The spark in your eyes that once scared the living soul of Joel was fading away. Perhaps, the reality of that became much more frightening for him. 

"You seriously don't have anything to say to me?" 

The desperate tone of your voice, breaking at the end, frustrated you. 

Not more than Joel's nonexistent stance, though. That was still at the top of your list. 

Just two feet away from you, halfway in the shadow of the night, he stood there defenceless.  

"Seriously, Joel?"

But then, for reasons unknown to your being, the cycle had fallen apart. 

"What the hell do you want from me?" his voice echoed around the living room. "We had a deal. That did not include reading you a goddamn bedtime story and tucking you in." 

Joel himself did not know why he was so harsh. The defence mechanism was running on its own system, leaving him out of the door. 

You could not help but chuckle over his angry statement. 

If he was going to cut deep, so were you. 

"Don't flatter yourself," you whispered, stepping closer. "I don't even think someone like you could ever be capable of that. You will always be too selfish for that." 

He knew he had it coming, of course he knew. Just, perhaps, did not realize how severely he would lose this war. How severely would the last strike hurt. 

Until those words left your mouth. Only then the dust settled as the room had fallen into a deadly silence, with Joel's dignity vanishing into the fireplace, like a lonesome soldier surrendering. 

There was no desire to look into your eyes. On Joel's side, there was no anger left; he waisted it all out. Now, the guilt had won the war, creeping through the pits of his mind, sitting on his shoulder, trying to pull down the rest of his tired, scattered being. 

The shame has been weighing on his shoulders for the past twenty years. Its existence could never be denied nor annihilated. He knew, somewhere in his heart, she would never want him to wander through life like this, of course. But choosing to let go was a price he was too afraid to pay. 

When in his mind, he was not allowed. To have life she could have had. It would have been a betrayal, he thought. To leave it all behind, to prove to you that there once had been and always will be part of him that would do anything for his child. 

Joel was aware of the amount of childish naivety you had within yourself when you knocked on his door. The dedication to see through the plan your mother had prepared for you, Joel knew the final moment would never live up to the expectations you had fostered in your mind. The salvation you had been waiting for. 

And there, it ached. The idea of having you reach the final destination, only for the spark of light in your eyes to die once and for all. To see the disappointment settle in your mind for the rest of the days. 

Same as the one you had; every time Joel let you down. 

By the time the truth had dawned on him, you were already sitting on porch, right by the stairs, wiping away the rest of the tears you had waisted on him. If it were not for the lack of weapons and dark night, you would have been gone. 

But where to road would lead, suddenly remained unknown. In the middle of nowhere, stuck by an old farmhouse, you wished to retrace your steps. Stay in Boston, pull through the military school, become another soldier without a soul and eventually, walk into death with open arms. 

What else would the world give you anyways. When what you had yearned for, has been declined. 

By Joel, standing still in the living room, analysing the spot you occupied just a few minutes ago. He looked around, seeing the glimpses of life this place had before outbreak. The last bits of wallpaper, the broken framed photographs on the credence. He used to wonder what it would have been like to set up a little sheep farm, somewhere outside the Austin, just him and Sarah. 

The two of them running the place, not needing anything or anybody else. Occasionally, they would spare a room for Tommy, force him to help out with the livestock, to repay Joel for bailing him out of the jail, again. It sounded almost idyllic; what could have been and never was. 

Joel knew that he was not the only father losing part of himself on the night of the outbreak. Yet, he found no comfort in this fact. If anything, it added another layer of guilt upon his shoulders. He thought, there was no father who had failed as miserably as him. In his eyes, there was no father guiltier than him. 

What he had buried under glasses of moonshine and traded pills, you ripped out. Pulled it on the surface and close the door on your way out. 

After everything that happened, all through the woods, all through the meadows, there was one, last question Joel had to face. 

Was surrendering to his shame worth losing, perhaps, the very last chance of making things right? 

Of honouring what he once had, instead of grieving what he once lost. 

Of being the one for whom you had knocked on his door in the first place. 

Despite his actions, Joel was not an idiot. He was well aware that the chances and opportunities you had given to him would run their course soon. And then, then -- he will be left alone, awaiting the arrival of his remorse. Why couldn't he try, you wondered by the moon. 

You sat there, eyes on the skies. 

The thought of your mother danced in your tangled mind. Of the wish she had put together for you. Back in Boston, you would do anything to fulfill it -- after all, that is how you found Joel. 

But now, there was no desire to continue. 

Of course, there was the urge to know your father. The other half of you. But would he do what you had done? Would be travel across the states, just for you?

Even if he would, you thought, he could never live up to Joel. 

Whose steps pulled you out of your thoughts, as you heard him closing the door. 

Not so long after, he found himself sitting on the opposite side of the stairs -- doing so, when he realised how persistently you tried to maintain your distance. He would not blame you, only the numerous times he had managed to disappoint you. 

There was no desire to look at him. Part of you wished for him to never speak, to collect the little he travelled with and set off, for good. Part of you wanted to curse him out. 

But the other part, oh the other part. 

That damned part. 

The questions that came along, the thoughts. 

The fear. 

That joined you on the stairs, in the dark of the night. 

The fear you caught in Joel's eyes. Clear as the skies above you. 

There was one last battle remaining, for Joel. 

The broken watch sitting on his wrist caught Joel's attention. The crack was bigger than Joel had remembered. Surely, as the years went by, as the roads came along, some of the glass pieces fell out. But the hands stayed the same. The time forever more imprinted in his scarred mind.

Long ago, he convinced himself his clock would never resume, never having a reason to do so, without her. 

But, perhaps, the reason was sitting right next to him. 

"I know you think I am an asshole," he whispered into the night. 

Joel had to think. It has been a while since he led a conversation with an adolescent -- a conversation, not a screaming match. Surely, he had his fair share of arguments with Sarah. But the differences were incomparable. 

Unlike her, you grew up in the world where kindness came with a price ticket and dignity as an exception not many accomplished to hold onto. You had no recollection of what it meant to have a home. 

Or perhaps?

"That is an understatement," you mumbled. "It is not fair, you know?"

Joel's gaze met with yours. The sadness danced in your eyes. 

"It's not fair how hardly I tried to hate you, Joel, but failed miserably, whilst you succeeded for both of us," you uttered, not letting go of his sight. "You have to hate me, you made it so obvious. But, I  still wonder. Why walk through the woods, through the roads, through the cities with someone whose presence holds no meaning in your life?"

You got him, time and time again. How far was he willing to test your abilities to forgive him? Until there was none?

"Did you walk all the way because of the pity you had stored for me? If your guilty conscience needs a verbal order, then you are free to go," you mumbled. 

The silence entered the empty sphere. Your trembling voice went quiet, as the sleeves of your jacket wiped away the rest of the tears, strolling down your red cheeks. The anguish seemed to never end. 

"Joel, leave," you whispered, not daring to meet his gaze in such condition. "Pack your shit and just leave."

"Actually," he spoke, as though ignoring your disheveled state of mind. "Now, that the deal is off, I think I might stay for a while.“

For a short moment, you could not say for sure whether was mocking your statement or happened to be deadly serious about staying in this half-destroyed house. The jury was out. 

You dared to look up -- solely to convince yourself that there would be a vicious smirk on Joel's face, hitting the final nail in the coffin of hope you had left for him. 

There was no such thing, other than him, looking around. 

"Joel," you whispered, "Leave."

"Some of the walls are busted, the roof is leaking but it ain't nothing I could not fix," he mumbled, not paying a single ounce of attention to you.

You thought you might as well go insane. 

"Joel, I swear to fucking god, leave!" the frustration was pouring out. The hands were thrown in the air, the redness in your cheeks filled your whole face, as your voice rose because of Joel. "Seriously, you treat me like some fucking burden the whole time, but now, you have a what, a change of heart?"

He shrugged his shoulders, remaining calm. "I don't need a change of heart. I just need to fix this house."

Unbelievable. 

"If you do all of this to just laugh in my face, you are probably more pathetic than I ever thought." 

The longer you stayed, the heavier the ache had become. 

"You know, I was so afraid meeting my father would disappoint me," you whispered. "Thankfully, you had prepared me. Now I know that whatever waits in the east, it won't hurt nearly as much as this."

In that final moment, Joel knew the chances he waisted, took for granted, had, at last ran out. There were no words to say, no ropes to hold onto. Everything you had given him, everything you allowed yourself to feel for him, vanished into the night as you got up from the stairs, brushed off your knees and disappeared inside. 

The hopes you had given into this, now ached deeply in your chest as you walked upstairs. For a moment, you wondered, whether this would be the end -- of everything. Whether this wound be the final destination. 

Head buried in the bedding; you thought the agony would never go away. The suffocating feeling in your lungs, the cries. The pain swallowed you whole, piece by piece until you found yourself wishing to tear off your own skin to escape it. 

There has not been this much pain inside of you since your mother died. That night, you held her lifeless body, screaming until there was no air left in your lungs. Cursing yourself, cursing the world itself, wishing to come away with her. 

You hoped to never go through this ever again. 

Now, here you were. 

Yet, what turned out to be the worst part of it all was not the pain itself, however intense it might have been. It was the sole realisation that for Joel, you would go through it. The same way you had done with your mother, for Joel, you would do it, too. The role he had earned in your life, despite denying it, settled down. And there was nothing you could do about it. 

Only accepting the grievous conditions. 

He would not, you thought. No, you convinced yourself. 

Would he? 

He wondered, as he found himself standing by the door of your temporary bedroom, watching you sleep. Would he? Would he put his shame and guilt to rest? How many times would he need to ask himself this question before the time ran out? Before the last bits of patience, you had stored for him, vanished along with his chances. 

He looked around the room, taking it all in -- the teared-up wallpaper, missing pieces of furniture, cracked wooden floor. He was right when he said that house was no lost cause. He could have done wonders with it, saving the treasured, replace the destroyed. 

He would paint the walls for you, fix your bed, find new bedding for you -- just to make sure you would have a place to call home. In the middle of nowhere, surrounded by peace. He would make you dinner, he would eat it with you on the front porch, whilst the two of you would be watching the sunset. He would force you to help around to garden -- only because he would want to make it safer for you. 

You mattered -- that was the most frightening part of it all. However big of coward he could be, his impulsive urges could never be stronger than the fear. The swallowing, harrowing fear.

So, would he? 

He asked himself again, sitting on the edge of your bed. 

Would he fix it? Instead of the broken windows and leaking celling, would he fix the damage he had done?

Joel sighed. 

His hands grabbed two ends of a blanket. 

There it was -- the feeling. Looking down on you, lying there quietly, he wondered again. 

He wondered that long he did not even notice you had woken up. 

Only when his gaze met yours, all red and tired, he realised he was still holding the ends of the blanket. 

He could have waisted the words. 

Or he could do what felt right for him. What felt familiar. 

"Joel," you mumbled, half-asleep trying to grasp the situation. 

It was hard to keep your eyes open, being too worn out. The only thing you felt was the warm of the blanket you wished to hold onto. You grabbed so tightly on the thread of comfort -- as tight as you could, before you passed out again. 

Holding Joel's hand. 

There it was.

His world collapsed. 

The spare defences left in his scarred hands, vanished. Now, the only one he could have held onto, was your hand. 

Almost twenty one years later, under the hoards of pain and buried memories was the feeling of peace he would never find at a bottom of any bottle. 

Looking down on your, falling asleep under his guard, Joel sighed, before he leaned over to your face. Staring at you quietly, he felt at strangely calm. 

How easy it was for Joel’s world to collapse, with just one look at you. If there were ever to be a salvation, a chance to fix what he had done, pay for mistakes no one would ever put on his name, there it was. Holding his hand.  

There was nothing to forgive, nothing to repay. Despite the anger and frustration he managed to awaken in you with confusing actions, despite your vocal wishes of leaving you alone, you held for your life on the last thread you had given him. 

He wanted to leave -- somewhere in his mind, the coward voice of his past failures urged him to leave and never look back. He could have done it anywhere on the road, having more than enough opportunities. But if his doubts made him a coward, then the fear of losing you made him a twice of one. 

He walked through the cities, through the highways, through the meadows for one reason. The one he denied himself of having, pushing you so far away, he almost lost the last thread. He could never lose the reason, no -- for it lived in him for the past twenty years. It never left, however much Joel tried to convince himself. 

There was something to fight for -- someone to fight for. 

He sat there for a while, losing track of time, holding your hand. He could not move -- he did not want, no. Instead, with shattered breath and trembling existence, Joel dared to squeeze your hand.

In that moment, across the quiet bedroom, Joel could have sworn on his life, his watch started to tick again. 

[whitenoisewhatanawfulsound]

Not Quite Friends.

Spencer Reid x Reader

A difficult case brings you to your "friend" Spencer's apartment. Spencer realizes that maybe, just maybe, he doesn't have to be alone with his thoughts, as well as some other things.

1.4k

cw: Angst, comfort, nightmares, crying, reader is shorter than Spencer, Spencer is in love and barely knows it.

Spencer doesn't sleep most nights.

It was hypocritical, he would ramble to you about how important circadian rhythms are and how sleep health is important but often overlooked, and then completely disregard the advice himself. 

His head ached and his thoughts ran far too fast to be able to calm down enough. The nightmares were just as bad, pictures of a never-ending cornfield recurring. He would wake up hyperventilating and wishing he’d never tried to sleep at all; anything would be better than this. He couldn’t do it anymore.

He’s flat on his back in the middle of his floor. It’s uncomfortable and his back hurts but the ceiling is all too familiar and comforting. He would murmur all his thoughts to it, but he’d be too scared that they would plaster themselves there forever in bold letters, and people would know every part of his mind he’d spent his entire life hiding. Maybe it just wasn’t as comforting as he thought. 

Too scared to write in his notebook, (someone will break in and blackmail him) can’t call someone, (they won’t answer) can’t leave the house, (where would he go?)

For what must be the twentieth time this week, he’s alone with his thoughts. He could’ve read a book, but they’re just out of reach, and he’s too tired to reach for one. He wonders if this is what it feels like to be alone. He doesn’t think it’s very far off. 

His apartment is too loud, for being so late. The faucet is dripping and with every plop he wants to sink into the hardwood floor and rot. He can hear the rain pattering against his window, but it’s not comforting like it used to be. He hears a knock on his door. Persistent and loud. This is it he thinks, I’m actually going insane. The knocks continue. And continue. And one minute goes by, and the knock grows more and more hesitant. He’ll have to get up. If the knocking is someone waiting to kill him, he’d say thank you.

The walk to his front door is slow and aching. His fingers wrap around the cold metal of the doorknob, and it opens. He hadn’t bothered to look through the peephole.

The air is knocked out of him.

“You’re wet.” Is all he can think to say, which is stupid, because just minutes ago his mind was overflowing.

You’re standing in front of him, drenched. Your eyes look red, but he can barely tell in the low light. The light in the hallway died months ago, and it still hasn’t been fixed. 

He suddenly feels very, very embarrassed just standing there in his pajamas. He can feel his face getting hot. God, he wants to die. 

He shakes himself out of his head, and finds his words again. 

“Come in?” He murmurs, fully opening the door to usher you in with his hand. 

You hesitate, mouth opening but words not coming. “I shouldn’t have come here. I’m sorry, Spencer. I woke you up.” You murmur, he barely hears it. He can see the gears shifting in your head, and can tell you’re about to leave.

“Wait, no, come in. Please?” His fingers gently reach for your wrist. You purse your lips, but comply. 

He fumbles for the lightswitch, and warm light floods his vision, making him blink. He looks at you, really looks at you. His lips form a frown and his eyebrows pinch together familiarly. You look tired, sick, almost. Dark rings frame your undereyes, and you stand rigidly by the door, arms crossed over your chest.

“I’m going to go get you some clothes, make yourself at home.” He murmurs, gesturing to you vaguely, not sure why he’s doing so. 

What clothes he’s getting you, he doesn’t know. Pajamas would be best, obviously, but his flannel pants would be too long on you. Opening his drawer, he scans all his options. They’re not great, but they’ll have to work. Grabbing a sweater and a pair of flannels, he rushes back. 

“They might be, um, a bit long on you, the pants that is, but I think it will work. Is this okay?” He asks, offering the clothes a bit sheepishly. 

“Yes, thank you, Spencer.” You respond. 

“Uh, the bathroom is down the hallway to the left.” He adds, messing with the hem of his shirt anxiously. 

He realizes that he forgot to ask why exactly you’re here, but it hardly matters. He’d let you for whatever reason anyway. He nervously runs a hand through his already mussed hair. He should make tea. Tea, tea, tea, runs through his mind as he digs through his drawer of tea bags, his hands hover above the box he knows you like best, taking it out and quickly moving to boil water. 

He turns around, kettle in hand. You’re standing there, out of place in his kitchen. The flannels are a bit long, you’ve rolled up the hems so they don’t drag so much. The sweater looks comfortable, though.

“Tea?” You nod.

“Do… You want to tell me why you’re here?” he asks quietly, glancing over at you. He doesn’t mean to be pushy, he just wants to help. You don’t often ask, so any chance he gets he takes. 

“The case was… Hard.” You murmur. He listens. He’ll always listen; it’s not hard when it’s you. “I mean, God, those kids.” You say, scrubbing at your eyes with your hands. 

“I didn’t mean to just, well, show up. But I did anyway. I guess- I didn’t know where else to go. You’re just, I don’t know, I figured that you would understand.” You say. He notices you purposely avoiding his eyes. “It’s stupid. I shouldn’t have come, if Strauss finds out I’ll get us both fired.”

“No, it’s not.” He corrects. “You’re not stupid for wanting someone to.. To talk to. I mean, we’re friends, right? They’re meant to help each other. And being your friend comes before being your coworker. The agreement says nothing about platonic mingling, just, well, mingling.” He says ‘mingling” noticeably quieter. 

“I don’t want to intrude.” 

“You’re not intruding.” He says firmly. The kettle screams, and he pours two cups, handing you your tea. “Let’s sit.” He places a hand on your shoulder, giving you a genuine look, a small smile hanging on his lips. 

~ 

You sit a comfortable distance away from each other on Spencer’s couch, mix-matched mugs in hand. The silence is comforting, not deafening. Spencer notices how the rain against the window and the creaking of his home doesn’t bother him so much anymore. 

“I want you to know,” He starts, hesitant. “That you’re always welcome here. It doesn’t matter what time. I want to help you, but you have to let me. You don't have to be sorry.” He sneaks a selfish glance at you. 

You’re crying, he realizes. His heart physically aches. He feels sick. He wants so badly to make it all better. 

Setting his tea down on the coffee table, joining yours. His hand reaches for yours, thumb grazing over knuckles gently. He shifts on the couch, closer to you. His other hand reaches up, brushing away a hot tear running down the slope of your cheek. 

You’re pulled into a hug, soft and warm in all its innocence. He feels your chest heave under him. He draws shapes into your back, sloppy stars and circles. 

“When you experience a traumatic event, the amygdala, which is meant to process emotions like anger, fear, and anxiety, becomes hyperactive and sensitive. When you’re frightened, the amygdala tells the rest of your body to panic, which is why you feel anxious or stressed, or a variety of other things. It’s not your fault, your body is just unnerved and panicking. It’s a natural response, and you have to know that, what with our job.” He rambles. 

“Only you could turn this into a biology lesson.” You laugh wetly. He would feel bad, but you don’t exactly seem to mind. 

He properly looks you in the eyes for probably the first time this night. He wants to kiss you, and horrified with himself, he pushes the thought deep within himself, along with everything else. “Do you want to stay the night?”

“Can I?”

“Of course.” I love you goes unsaid. He almost wishes it didn’t have to, but that gets pushed aside, too. 

For the first time in years, he feels like he has someone to tell all of his thoughts to, someone who would understand the nightmares just as well, and someone to call. He couldn’t bear to lose you, so you’ll just remain not quite friends. 

[problemswithbooks]

They aren't really comparable.

First off, Himiko was not kicked out by her parents--she ran away after killing an innocent boy at her school. Yes, her parents were cruel to her because they didn't understand her Quirk and that was wrong on their part. But we never get anything that shows anyone else was mean to her because of her Quirk or she was ostracized. In fact, she was apparently pretty popular and well liked, which was why her classmates were shocked when she jammed a straw into a boy's jugular and sucked him dry.

Past that, she continued to kill people and drink their blood after fleeing. She was introduced to Shigaraki as an experienced killer--essentially a serial killer.

She never shows any remorse or guilt for killing her classmate, or the strangers she used to get her next blood fix. It's not even implied she internalized her parents "monster" comments and fell into the trap of thinking she could be nothing else, but deep down feels badly for killing people she clams to 'love' so much.

Also, if it's implied that Enji raped Rei, I think it's important to bring up that Himiko's Quirk being tied to her sexual attraction to others (she sees it as kissing, and the blushing, almost Hentai-like faces she makes, make it clear it's not Platonic) is essentially implying she is sexually assaulting people too--then killing them, making her on par with sexual sadists like Ted Bundy.

This isn't even bringing up all the people Machia kills as they ride him (while upset about how mean Hawks was for killing her one bff). Then doesn't care and goes along with AfO who continues to throw all of Japan and it's millions of citizens into extreme danger, and makes it clear he wants to rule the world as the most evil person who ever existed (seriously that's his entire goal, and he never shuts up about it). She does so after seeing how much he's hurting Shigaraki, someone she claims to care so much for (but not enough to look more than mildly concerned for a second and sit on her hands, as does the rest of the LoV).

The main thing though, and what I think Hori must be talking about when it comes to "had to die to atone for her sins" is actually her stabbing of Ochako. This is the only thing Himiko shows any remorse for, and only after Ochako tells her everything she wants to hear. Himiko dies due to her own choice to try and kill Ochako despite Ochako never doing anything wrong to her, and validating her. If she'd been less willing to go for the kill, or thought about how her actions affect others, perhaps she wouldn't have needed to give her life to save Ochako. She couldn't atone any other way because she did not give a shit about any of the other terrible things she did to get to the point of fatally stabbing a girl who genuinely wanted to help her.

And that's the main difference between Himiko and Endeavor, and why he survived and she didn't. Endeavor, whether it was written well or not, was shown to care about his past wrongs and want to fix them and help those he hurt. He wasn't the same abusive shitbag he was at the start of the story. While Himiko never really got the epiphany that her actions were wrong and harmful--only understanding her stabbing of Ochako as wrong, and only because Ochako was unrealistically nice to her. In fact, she chooses to die because she specifically did not want to pay for her past and current crimes by being locked up (she says this).

And you can still be mad at Hori for writing it this way. He could have had Himiko and the rest of the LoV show remorse, or refuse to side with AfO and helped the Heroes stop him instead. He could have made Shigaraki more moral than AfO and reject him, rather than showing him choose to side with him again and again no matter how bad he's shown to be or how much he personally fucked him over. Likewise, he could have had Touya care more about his siblings, instead of having him nearly get Natsuo killed and not care. There were so many opportunities to make these characters better and therefore give them genuine atonement/redemptions like he gave Endeavor. But he never did, and by the end saving them wouldn't have made any sense because they never showed the capacity or desire, or remorse enough to be better people.

Meanwhile, Enji did, for the vast majority of the story. Yes, it has issues, like Hori having him stall out at times or not showing that he is doing something that he must be doing (like finding Touya post reveal--there is zero way he's not also looking for Touya, when Touya would be a lead to finding AfO), or focusing too much on his pain rather than showing his victims'. But the one thing the story makes clear over and over is that he does feel guilt, and he does work toward changing.

That's why he lives and Himiko dies. One actually was written as remorseful and wanting to change, while the other was not.

I'm sorry Horikoshi what do you mean Himiko "had to die" to "atone for her sins?"

One of the biggest criticisms of MHA for the past few years has been people saying Endeavour shouldn't have a redemption arc and every single time someone makes that critisism someone else responds "it's not a redemption arc its an atonement arc."

Why does the man who spent years abusing his family, is responsible for the creation of the villian Dabi, and is implied to have raped his wife get to live so he can "atone" but the teenage girl who was abused and kicked out of her home by her parents simply for being born with a quirk they didn't understand have to die?

Every day, my patience for Horikoshi grows smaller.

[barbiediamondcastleofficial]

Actually I lied I don’t like sex put your clothes back on today we’re going to talk about CHARACTER ARCHETYPES, TROPE SUBVERSION, and MARTIN K. BLACKWOOD

[aingeal98]

More Jason and Cass thoughts (sorry but also not sorry) but if I was magically given full control over DC and could write what I'd want obviously I'd make Cass Batman but I've been thinking of what sort of reaction and role Jason would have in response. I think I'd write his version of "Congrats on the new job!" as a test, involving the Joker and civilians and gangs and Red Hood and a ton of explosives. Bruce failed me, and now he's given up. You're his successor, let's see how you handle this dilemma that freaked him out so badly he threw a batarang into my throat rather than let me avenge my own death in front of him.

So obviously Cass will overcome the traps and the puzzles. That's the fun part to show how competent both of them are and sprinkle in little character moments as we go. But then we reach the emotional crux of the matter, probably laid out as some sort of saw trap because it's Jason. Here I am, a victim of murder. You say nobody dies tonight but I did, and I want the man who did it dead. Not only did Batman fail to avenge me but he failed to stop the Joker from going on to create even more victims. What right do you have to stop me from getting justice for myself? What right does this man have to life after what he's taken from me and from countless others? I'm not trying to kill a random stranger, I'm specifically demanding justice for my own death that I never got while I was gone.

There are two ways this could go. The straightforward route if I knew my time on this run was limited would probably be a pyrrhic victory like the ones Cass's og series was so fond of. Just like Bruce in utrh, she acts on instinct and saves the Joker (and Jason this time) . A win technically, but she fails the test. Jason is once again vindicated but with nothing to show for it. The story ends with Cass sending the Joker back to jail and going back to the batcave, where the old Robin costume looms judgementally, highlighting her failure. It would be the most fitting end given their character molds, all tragedy and conviction and unstoppable force meets immovable object etc.

However... I think the option I prefer would be a little different. Cass levelling with Jason, a killer talking to a murder victim. She has no right to stop Jason from getting justice, she has no love for the Joker but she knows any death she allows to happen like this would devastate her, just like that death row inmate long ago she tried to break out but ended up letting go once the family of the victim talked to her and demanded justice. I think... In this specific situation, she'd just be honest. Morally she has no right sure. Personally she just really really doesn't want anyone to die. Give her one chance, please. Let her try it her way. Not demanding, not lecturing or insisting, just... Please. Don't do this. Let me try another way.

And then what? Jason asks.

In the end a deal is struck. Cass will take the Joker and lock him up, ensuring he never harms anyone again while also trying to rehabilitate him. But the second she fails and he gets free, Jason kills him and she won't stand in his way. It's the kind of deal that leaves both of them mildly disgusted and dissatisfied with themselves, neither of them naturally creatures of compromise when it comes to this specific topic. But Cass is willing to do anything to avoid death and Jason did not expect the new Bat to be so... Flexible? Kind of? Of course maybe she won't actually hold up her end of the deal and when the Joker gets loose she'll try and stop Jason from killing him and he'll get his miserable vindication, but right now this is something strange and new and he's mildly confused and curious about where it will go. He doesn't believe in her ability to contain the Joker forever but he's willing to let her try because her reaction to that future failure interests him. She's given him a sword of damocles to hang above her head and he didn't ask for it or expect it. It's the type of power he never thought the Bat would just... Hand to him.

The conflict ends with neither of them fully winning or losing. They both don't really know what to feel about this.

The thing is, the second Cass let's Jason kill the Joker she's hanging up the mantle. She's staking the Bat on this, because it's always go big or go home with her when it comes to saving others, even someone like the Joker. In this magical universe where I have unlimited power, Cass would lock the Joker in a secret bunker and have Leslie Thompkins talk to him daily, mostly because I think her pacifism speeches and debates in the comics would make a fun contrast to the Joker's evil sadism. (But what about his rights? Doesn't he deserve a trial and to be held in a regular prison? I'm going to be honest I think Cass would be very comfortable bending the rules on this specific situation. Morally questionable but I'd have fun with it. She's going to let Leslie treat Joker like her personal pet project to save his soul because yes she wants him to change but also she's got a city to save every night so go crazy Leslie, have fun.)

And the Batman series would continue with Cass as the lead, new challenges and new antagonists and every twenty issues or so for the first hundred we'll cut back to the Joker briefly if his chats with Leslie can help highlight some thematic element of the current arc. But bit by bit he'd slowly fade away onto oblivion, maybe getting referenced every hundred issues or so until eventually no one remembers or cares about him because there's so much else going on. Meanwhile Jason's got a good thing going as Red Hood, primarily based in Park Row and a tentative ally on the occasion when their vigilante work aligns. Unlike Joker he's a much more frequent character in the comics, and after say 10 years (this is my magical fantasy universe Cass's batman run is going to last for a very long time alright) when people think of DC characters they think of Red Hood long before they think of the Joker.

Is any of this realistic? Right now of course not. It's why I'd go with the pyrrhic victory if I actually got the chance, because it would be the best way to tell the story in the larger context of the Bat narrative. But it's my fantasy DC editor and writer daydream and I'm going to dream big. They're never going to be normal happy siblings, their personal demons will never fully let them be free and the looming possibility of losing everything they currently have narrative wise if Bruce comes back as Batman will always be there. But it's maybe the closest to peace they'll ever get. Unsatisfying and tame compromise that probably violates several laws and ethical codes but whatever. Cass has never read the Geneva convention and Jason's not going to shed tears over the Joker. Let him die relevancy wise if not physically.

[kingjasnah]

still somewhat baffled by both moash and el's place in this book. both of their impact being so fully confined to the shattered plains felt so weird like at the end of the book when dalinar is facing odium's champion and he's like "dude what the fuck is this. let me fight moash or someone i thought you were bringing out moash" i was also like. yeah hold on where did moash go

[beatcroc]

something about perspective, representation, or finding beauty in imperfection, i don't know. i mostly just wanted to say that fake pep looks like shitty ice cream.

[sysig]

You’re looking a bit different than usual! (Patreon)

[science-lings]

It’s funny that like every 2-6 months Bruce makes the decision that he clearly makes everyone’s life worse by being in it and distances himself to keep them safe and realizes that either he needs them or they would actually benefit to have him around sometimes so he has to casually make everything right again or get bullied into being a dad again.

Dick is kind of sick of it but also so in tune to the cycle that he can accurately predict when it’s due to occur, in which case he notifies the batfam (-Bruce) group chat. Everyone has their ways of dealing with it from suddenly wanting to hang out (read: being annoyingly clingy) all day (Jason) to convoluted schemes to root out the cause of Bruce’s current depressive spiral and proving that he can’t do it alone (Tim), to not doing anything at all bc that is ‘not my fucking problem’ (Steph), etc.

What they haven’t all realized is that even when Bruce is going through his sad little hermit episodes, he would still be at their sides the moment they ask for him because no matter how much self hatred he feels at any given moment, his kids needing his help snaps him out of it so fast it gives him whiplash.

[limonjarritos]

WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU GUYS DON'T LIKE HARU?! Who else does it like her?

[light-wrath-paradise]

Animorphs Book club book 8

My reaction can be summarised as this (yet again):

I don't have many thoughts because uh. That was depressing as hell and I need to stare at a wall.

But I DO gotta say that the subplot with the dead "wife" was so telenovela-esque that for a good minute it was more funny than depressing. Then it got depressing. But it was so jarring and so far out of the left field that for a good second my friend and I had to pause the audiobook and laugh because ????????? Unhinged to just appear, go "I am Eslin, I have a G U N. My secret wife was killed. By my boss. Now I yearn for sweet sweet revenge." and not elaborate. Like. Damn dude ok. Sorry about our wife also. Fucking killed me that he continued like "So anyway I reacted adequately by killing all of my boss' friends. Starvation style." Like ???? Jjhsgdjsdfghsjdfh what????? I mean damn I do respect the grind set but also that's such an absurd escalation out of context. Did your boss kill your wife? Kill all of his friends! And in context the most absurd part is probably the notion that Visser 3 has friends??????? Like??? Wait no Eslin. Eslin wait. I love your John Wick-esque "fridged wife" trope swag but you need to slow down. I need details. I need you to tell me HOW your boss even has friends.

In my heart I do not believe we will see that madman ever again but on god I do wish for an insane telenovela-esque sequence of him just showing up at the most random moment to do exactly one thing and that's to pull a gun on Visser 3. For no reason, I just think it would be kinda funny. Like,,,did your boss kill your wife?:

Kill all of his friends

Acquire a G U N

Attempt to make the local Andalite youth assassinate your boss for you

Pull the gun on your boss

???????

Profit (probably die)

Aside from that, I also need to say that the moment when Ax called Tobias his close friend at the end was so sweet. Also ngl kinda...concerning/harrowing how much Tobias really doesn't give a shit about not being a human. Like it doesn't seem so concerning from other points of view but the way Ax gets increasingly weirded out by Tobias not asking him about the nothlit (idk if I'm spelling that right rn) really reminds you that it IS kinda worrying. Like I get it, I mean...Tobias has no family that cares about him, he has no friends outside of the Animorphs friend group, why would he care? But it's still kinda...yeah.

Also unimaginably surprised by the amount of collective guilt present in the Andalite society. You'd think they're Catholic or something the way they keep beating themselves up and force everyone to also beat themselves up and their system itself is saturated with the guilt and shame and they teach it to kids at school from an early age. Like. Jesus Christ calm down. Stop that. As the Animorphs said at the end of the book - the Andalites made an oopsie once. It sucked, yes, it continues to have consequences that suck, yes, but it happens. Sometimes you think you're doing something kind and it turns into a disaster. That does not mean you should beat yourself up for it or, god forbid, tell other people that they should not be kind lest they make a mistake. Damn I guess we should all be cold assholes forever, huh? I'm sure that can't have any negative consequences.

Andalite society in general seems kinda unhinged. Like...do I get why it is like that? Yeah. But do I find it unhinged? Also yeah. Like ok duty and the collective being the most important things is totally sensible for a prey animal. Safety of the herd and all that. But it's still kinda unhinged that they do make everyone have duty as their number 1 priority and that they have rituals devoted to it. Not all rituals are spiritual or religious in nature, but the morning ritual is kinda...borderline religious in a way. More spiritual than religious, I suppose, but yeah.

Also I love Ax so much. 10/10 character. He has it all: an incredibly hilarious desire for cinnamon buns, the inability to act like a human being (same dude), spitting random facts at completely random times, a thirst for blood only a 13(?) years old could have, a dysfunctional obsession with duty and doing what is right that only a 13(?) years old could have (also lol yeah dude I was like that when I was 13 too. dw you'll grow out of it), he can even code. And he might even be bi (I'm joking but I' referring to the fact that he was like "Yeah so when I morph into a human form I suddenly agree that Rachel is beautiful and that Marco is cute.").

[greenerteacups]

Are there any other wizarding families that are underexplored in canon and pique your interest in a similar way to the Blacks?

This is a unique function of what food my brain worms like to eat, but no one's doing it like the Blacks. The drama? The intrigue? The Gothic horror? The prodigal sons and lost daughters and killers and sinners and martyrs and saints? The wizard Catholicism of it all? The story of the House of Black is the best book never written.