#Heartbeat Sensor

[whitetailgeigergameaccessrequest]

WHITETAIL GEIGER GAME ACCESS REQUEST

[omarwolaeth]

I've realised that, because of how Tertiary ends, the fourth chapter to Heartbeat Program lets me screw around with Raidraptor anatomy. Sometimes the spirit form of a bird will nibble at you as a scanning mechanism because of a beak-contained sensor.

[the-big-cheese]

The Hamburglar shit on my porch so now I’m hunting him down with a pistol, knife, and call of duty heartbeat sensor, so I can put his tanned hide on my mantle

[valence-e]

Wtf is that shit clipped onto Folinics ears? Are those monitors or headphones?

[keferon]

im glad that my first submission was enjoyed. this was meant to be a part of it, but i struggle a lot more writing first aids pov than vortexs. its still not perfect, but i figure i should let it out into the wild before it drives me crazy.

some further questions: what exactly are the quintessons made of? are they techno-organic? entirely mechanical? or like...synthetic materials mimicking biology? and whats up with the program that produced vortex? did it shut down? or is it still operating (maybe under shockwave now?) did jazz go through it?

______________________________________________________________

His head is killing him. 

Felix comes to in the unyielding dark of Vortex’s cockpit, squinting uselessly before giving up, letting his head lean back against the seatrest. It pulses in time with his heartbeat- elevated- sending waves of fresh misery through him. But he’s alive, Vortex let him live, and the realization pulls a miserable laugh from him. 

Vortex saved him.

Vortex saved him.

Vortex saved him.

From Pharma.

The thought is like ice water poured over his head washing away any lingering exhaustion. Pharma. What the hell was going on? Why did he-? Had the irritable CMO finally lost it? Or was there something else going on? 

Felix’s stomach churns uncomfortably at the thought of Pharma obeying another- who would order this? Who could order this? To what end? How had none of the other medical staff noticed? Or did they notice and not care?

His stomach lurches again, and Felix fumbles at the restraints- looser, now- and finally manages to hit the quick release clasp, practically flopping forward before he catches himself, swaying pathetically in the dark- pulling his helmet off is a welcome relief, the cooler air of the cabin circulating around his abused head. All of his muscles are sore, each joint something just a little firmer than liquid. The only light comes from the running lights, blinking on like soft red stars against Vortex’s night, and Felix lets himself stare blankly at a particularly interesting assortment of them, trying to will the nausea to subside. 

It does not. In fact, it strikes back with a vengeance, and Felix presses a fist to his mouth to stifle his suffering. It works, somewhat, his gorge settling slightly. He needs to get out of here, out of the blood-and-bleach scented warmth of Vortex before he overstays his welcome. Maybe he already has, and Vortex is just biding his time before he kills Felix gruesomely. Right on cue, he can feel the familiar faint prickling sensation of cameras and infrared sensors being trained on him, the behemoth paying its quarry its undivided attention. 

“Vortex,” he says, or more accurately, tries to say. All that comes out of his mouth is a pathetic little groan. His stomach is churning again now. 

“Vortex.” he tries again while fumbling for the canopy hatch- God, movement was a bad idea- and while it still fails the benchmark of being a word, it at least sounds like Vortex’s name. 

His gorge rises again, and Felix can’t stop the faint whimper as he runs his hands over the instrument panel, looking for the canopy release lever. He is not going to throw up inside Vortex, even if worse things have been thoroughly ground into the panels and seams of the mech. Felix still has some pride. And he doesn’t need to risk Vortex’s wrath any more than he has. 

“Vortex.” and now it sounds like a proper name. Felix can feel the hum of Vortex’s machinery and wiring change underneath his palms. His head spins, and the tug of exhaustion has returned, borne on the back of the enveloping warmth of the cockpit.

His stomach flips again.

“Vortex, open the cockpit.” Felix tries, giving up on fumbling in the dark for the lever. “Please,” he amends, because apparently his manners have left with his health. 

The darkness takes on a vaguely threatening feeling. Vortex must have spent all his goodwill on not killing Felix earlier. 

“Vortex, please-” he gags, pressing his fist to his mouth again, “I- I’m going to-”

He gags again, and this time- thank you, Vortex!- the canopy lifts, barely a few feet before coming to a stubborn stop, the dull halogen glow of the docking bay lights breaching the cockpit. The opaque filter over the canopy bleeds away, returning the familiar blood-red hue to Vortex’s visor. Felix barely makes it to the edge of the cockpit before throwing up, practically lying out over the instrument panel as his arms fail him. It spatters, worryingly dark against the burnished metal of the catwalk. He lies there bonelessly, his throat burning and head spinning. How the hell had his life ended up like this? Cosmic punishment for stealing organs still? Felix had thought getting demoted to nurse and resident Vortex-cleaner punishment enough.

He eventually rolls off of his stomach and carefully (gracelessly) slithers back to sit on the floor of the cockpit, head resting against the instrument panel, staring up at the cockpit ceiling. The dark plating is smooth, almost seamlessly jointed together, only interrupted by the explosion of wires and cording comprising the neural connectors. It’s…almost peaceful, in the cockpit, with only the purr of Vortex’s systems humming through the panel that Felix is resting his head on interrupting the silence. The halogens filter through the red polycarbonate of Vortex’s canopy, staining the light bloody ruby. 

His mouth is dry. Horrifically dry. He needs water. Getting water means leaving the relative safety of Vortex’s cockpit. 

Water can wait. 

Pharma might still be out there, lurking. 

His head swims, stomach vaguely threatening to rebel again. Felix turns his head, pressing his cheek to the warm metal of the instrument panel. It feels pretty nice. This particular piece of Vortex only smells like metal and circuitry, not blood. If he closes his eyes, it’s just pleasantly dark enough to settle into a half-sleep slumped against Vortex’s plating. His skin prickles faintly.

The pang! Of a piece of plating hitting the floor wakes him from his doze, sending fresh gouges of pain rippling across his skull. Felix blinks, headache settling squarely behind his right eye socket and encompassing his entire skull. Where had that come from? Was something wrong with Vortex? Or more likely, had Vortex tired of his presence and was preparing to finally kill him?

The plating sits on the flooring, looking as deceptively innocent as any non-sentient sheet of metal can. Felix huddles back further against the instrument paneling. The canopy was shut sometime while he was drowsing, completely locking him in. Light ripples across the cockpit, and Felix slowly twists around to squint up at the display.

[OPEN THE BAG]

Bag. Open the bag. What bag? 

Felix casts helplessly around the cockpit space, searching- there! In a shadowed cubby against the far wall, which- if he remembers from the pilot’s manual correctly- should not be there. Felix attempts to stand, legs wobbling, before giving up and crawling over to the alcove. His skin prickles again, and he refuses to feel shame underneath Vortex’s mechanical gaze. It’s because of the stupid medical boot. Not him. He pushes the loose plating aside and is rewarded with a screech of metal-on-metal that sends his head throbbing again. Felix sags against the wall with a groan before throwing what’s left of his caution to the wind, sticking his hand into the alcove and dragging the bag out. Vortex does not take his hand off. Not even a finger gets scraped on the exposed metal. There’s not a hint of violence from the mech, and Felix sneaks a glance at one of the cockpit cams. It’s trained directly on him, lens shadowed in the claret gloom. He gives it a weak smile. 

The bag is the heavy black polyester duffle ubiquitous to military installations, and it takes a bit of fumbling for Felix to find the zipper and tug it open. Inside is a fresh pilot’s uniform-the Nomex base-side kind, a small toolkit, a radio, a number of MREs and-

Water. 

Felix grabs the first bottle, twisting the cap off and chugging the water down. It’s warm, with a strange plasticky aftertaste. It’s the best thing he’s ever tasted. He drinks another just as fast, water settling heavy in his stomach and washing the taste of bile from his mouth before leaning back against the wall again, the steady rumble of machinery behind it a small comfort. The ex-medic checks the cockpit display, but it remains a steady blank. Another check to the camera confirms that it’s still trained directly at him. Felix gives it a second awkward smile. 

“Vortex- I ah…I- thanks.” He finishes lamely, rubbing his face. His skin is disgustingly oily to the touch. What do you say to a thousand-ton killing machine when it doesn’t kill you? “For-”

Not killing me. 

Saving me from the evil clutches of Pharma.

Giving me water. 

“For everything. Yeah.” Felix cringes at the awkward words. He’s never been particularly well-spoken, but this is just embarrassing. He almost wishes that Vortex would try to kill him again, just for the possibility to escape this torture. 

They sit in silence, Felix’s gaze focused on the floor, skin prickling. His stomach clenches, water threatening to make a reappearance. 

He should’ve known better to drink anything Vortex offered. He slowly stands, one hand against the wall of the cockpit for stability before slowly crossing to the front. “...can you please open the cockpit?” He hazards, one hand pressed to his openly rebelling stomach. 

There’s the distinctive sound of the locking pins dropping. Felix winces as his stomach clenches again.

“Please-” he retches, throat burning as bile forces itself back up his worn esophagus. “I-I don’t wanna-”

The canopy lifts with an almost petulant hiss of the hydraulics, only a few feet again. And again, Felix barely gets his head out of the cockpit before throwing up. The water burns as it leaves, and Felix spits a few times after it to clear his mouth, hand pressed to his cramping stomach. His head pounds under the unrelenting light, and he slips back into the welcoming dim dark of the cockpit. For the second time that day, Felix finds himself sitting on the floor of Vortex’s cockpit, mouth sour and throat stinging, staring up at the ruby wash of light across the ceiling. The canopy hisses shut, locking pins ch-chunk-ing into place with finality. The red light ripples, disturbed, and Felix can’t stop the weary sigh as he lifts his head to read Vortex’s words.

[FELIX-BABY, YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO SWALLOW]

Felix feels his cheeks heat, and he looks away from the chiding display. He’s not sure which is worse, being called baby by Vortex or the joke. 

“I threw up. That's different.” He mutters, running hands through his sweat-stiff hair. 

The ventilation stutters, on-off-on-off, like human laughter. His cheeks heat more. 

[DRINK MORE. SLOWLY]

Felix gawks at the screen. He must have brain damage- there’s no way Vortex is giving him medical advice. Advice in general, actually. This must be a trick of some kind. 

But he is thirsty. 

He shuffles back over to the bag.

Opens another water bottle. 

He drinks slowly, stealing small sips each time until the bottle is mostly empty and his stomach settles into a kind of low-grade simmer. His headache eases some. Immediate crisis resolved, Felix’s attention wanders back to the medical boot. Why does he have it? His leg doesn’t hurt- he wracks his brain, did he injure it sometime before Pharma got to him? Or did he put up enough of a fight to injure himself? Was that why he was drugged? 

His memories are not forthcoming, but it makes sense. Many sedatives interfere with the formation of new memories; if it was put on at around the same time as the IV, his brain might not have had the ability to recall why.

It leaves only one course of action. 

Felix fumbles with the buckles and straps- thank god Pharma only used one of the temporary, removable braces rather than something more permanent like plaster or fiberglass. Otherwise he’d have to stick his leg into Vortex’s machinery to get it off. He pulls the boot off with little difficulty, studying his leg. A simple check; wiggling his toes, rolling his ankle, flexing his knee. No pain. Not even any cuts or bruises cross his flesh. Which means…Felix pokes around the wads of cotton padding pulled from the brace. There!

A small metal device, no bigger than a coin, nestled into a fold of gauze. A tracker? Or some kind of…recording device? He holds it up for inspection, skin crawling as Vortex’s cameras and scanners snap to it. A surge of malevolence fills the cabin, Vortex’s wrath roused by the discovery. Plating rattles, the low purr of the mech’s engine climbing to a dull roar. Felix draws his legs to his chest, curling against the bag for its flimsy protection, device clutched tight in his fist. Another panel pops loose, clatter of metal half-drowned by the increasing volume of machinery grinding. 

[DESTROY IT]

Felix does not need to be told twice, scrambling to toss the cursed thing into Vortex’s grinding gears. It’s shredded immediately, fragile circuits ripped apart and ground to silicone dust in the face of his fury. There’s a high pitched whine- Vortex’s weapons systems charging, oh god- before it all subsides. The silence is profound against the pain in Felix’s head, the mech’s engines and drives settling down towards their previous quiet purr like nothing happened. The plating stills, returning to inert, the gap where Vortex had offered Felix a place to throw the thing the only break in the metal.

The medic carefully replaces the panel covering the humming machinery, plating hooking into place smoothly, seamless. No response from Vortex. He casts a glance at the cockpit canopy, but there’s no chance that Vortex will let him out, and he’s not about to ask after all of… that. There’s only one thing for him to do, other than try to sleep- which is not happening.

He goes through the bag again, trying to regain some semblance of calm, hands clammy. The toolkit is compact, but it has a surprising number of tools, most of which Felix has no idea how to use. He's a medic by training, not a mechanic. He carefully checks each one anyways to occupy himself, pristine metal warm and smooth against his fingers. Next are the MREs. Still sealed and within expiry date, no obvious signs of tampering. He puts them back in the bag. But the real prize is the pilot’s uniform, fabric stiff with disuse and heavy across the shoulders and chest with patches. Felix pulls the suit out of the bag and half unfolds it over his lap, running his fingers over the patches crowding the suit. Different patches for different bases, various military campaigns from all over the world, rank, even for different specialties. The owner had been cross-trained as a helicopter mechanic.

He lingers over the name, petting over the coarse thread picking out VORTEX over the right breast of the suit. Felix toys with the velcro; his own pilot patches haven’t come in yet…

It’s a dirty thought, stealing a dead man’s name tape for his own use, especially if the dead man in question is watching and prone to fly into fits of rage. Felix might’ve sunk low to reach this point in his life, but Pharma must’ve really dosed him up with something if he’s this out of his mind to even consider such a thing. He shouldn’t even want Vortex’s name emblazoned over his shoulder. But the thought lingers the longer he stares at the patches. 

Pilots typically wear number badges to denote their mech anyway, what’s the harm in wearing a name instead? Vortex is already known better by his name than by his serial number. It’s fitting for his pilot to wear his name too. Vortex seems like the kind who’d like that sort of thing.

Felix hastily folds the suit up, stuffing it back into the bag before temptation can overwhelm sense. His unfortunate predilections aside, stealing from the dead is a violation of numerous ethical codes, and he’s pretty sure Vortex would kill him for even considering taking something so personal from the remainder of his belongings. Even if the mech has been almost…tame towards him so far. Not a pinch or a threat. Even some banter. No, this must be the calm before the metaphorical vortex sucks him in and kills him. 

He casts a reluctant glance towards the exit again, skin prickling. He’s just going to have to wait this one out. It’s not a terrible concept, waiting here in the dark and warm for Vortex to make his mind up. It’s not like Pharma can find his way in. Whatever happens, it’s at least a break to figure out what he does next. Whatever that is.

ANON. ANON LET ME PICK YOU UP AND HOLD YOU FOREVER. ANON I DONT KNOW YOUR NAME BUT I WANNA HOLD YOUR HAND FKFKGKMRJFKFNDJKSK

Haha mmm. I'm fine I'm okay I'm normal

Yeah so about Quintessons. I imagine they can be all kind of creatures. Organic, techno organic, straight up just techno. Tf:one, Cyberverse, straight up Pacific rim Kaijus. All kinds of monsters haha

Also, Vortex was the part of the first batch of pilots for Mecha program. The technology was very new and VERY underdeveloped so...yeah, Vortex was part time pilot and part time lab rat.

The whole process of making someone into a pilot was a lot more dangerous and painful back then because no one really knew what they were doing. But after some time it became safer and less painful. So when Jazz joined he didn't suffer as much as Vortex. And when later Blurr joined he didn't suffer as much as Jazz.

(You didn't ask but. I like to think that Vortex knows quite a lot about all kinds of side effects of neural connection. Also about side effects of physical procedures and all kinds of weird fucked up experiments. Just because. You know. He went through it all. A lot of times.)

Previous Next

[okasuka]

woah!

Trapped Together – A mission goes south, and Damian and Reader get locked in a small space, forced to work together until help arrives.

The mission had gone to hell fast. What was supposed to be a simple recon job turned into a full-blown mess when an unexpected security system activated, locking down the building and trapping you and Robin in what seemed to be an old storage closet.

You glared at the heavy metal door as if you could will it open with sheer frustration. “This is your fault.”

Damian scoffed. “My fault? You were the one who tripped the sensor.”

“It was hidden under a damn rug, Wayne!” You crossed your arms, back pressed against the shelves behind you. “Who even does that?”

“A competent security team, clearly,” Damian muttered, arms also crossed, his posture stiff as he leaned against the opposite wall. Not that there was much space between you two—this closet was tiny, and no matter how much you tried, you kept brushing against each other.

You huffed, shifting to sit on the floor with a wince. “Alright, whatever. Batcomputer will notice the lockdown eventually, so all we have to do is wait for backup.”

Damian checked his comm, expression souring. “The signal is jammed.”

“Of course it is,” you muttered, tilting your head back against the wall. “So what, we just sit here and contemplate our life choices?”

“Tt. I could attempt to override the lock if—”

A loud clatter cut him off.

You both froze. The source? The tiny vent above your heads.

Then came the unmistakable sound of scurrying.

“…What was that?” you whispered.

Damian’s expression darkened. “A rat.”

You immediately lifted your legs off the floor. “Oh, hell no—”

Another sound. This time closer.

Without thinking, you grabbed Damian’s arm, dragging yourself against him. The space was already cramped, but now you were practically pressed up against his chest, both of you tensed. His breath hitched, but he didn’t pull away—though, from the way his shoulders stiffened, you knew he was trying to act unfazed.

“You’re afraid of rats,” he noted, voice neutral but with the faintest edge of amusement.

“I am not afraid of rats,” you hissed. “I just don’t like them. There’s a difference.”

“Hn.”

The silence stretched, the only sound your still-too-close breathing. You realized suddenly how warm he was, how his heartbeat was steady beneath his suit. Your grip on his arm loosened, but you didn’t let go entirely.

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” you grumbled, tilting your head to look at him.

Damian met your gaze, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. “You make it difficult not to.”

Your breath caught, pulse stuttering. Was he… flirting? No, that couldn’t be—

Another loud scritch from the vent, and you flinched again, instinctively pressing your face into his shoulder. His hand twitched before carefully resting on your waist, almost hesitant.

“I will ensure the rat does not harm you,” he murmured, voice quieter than before.

You scoffed, but it came out weaker than intended. “So chivalrous, Wayne.”

The moment stretched between you, tension of a different kind settling in the small space. Neither of you moved away. Neither of you wanted to.

And then, of course, the door unlocked with a beep.

You both turned toward it as the heavy door swung open, revealing Nightwing standing there, blinking at the sight of you practically tangled together in the dim closet.

“…Should I come back later?” he asked, lips twitching.

“Shut up, Grayson,” Damian muttered, quickly stepping back—though not before his hand briefly, deliberately, squeezed yours.

Your stomach flipped.

Maybe being trapped with Damian Wayne wasn’t the worst thing after all.

The entire ride back to the Batcave was painfully silent.

You sat next to Damian in the Batmobile, arms crossed, eyes locked on the glowing city outside the window. Every so often, you felt his gaze flicker toward you, but neither of you said a word. Nightwing, meanwhile, was having the time of his life trying not to burst into laughter from the driver’s seat.

“So… storage closet, huh?” he finally broke the silence, barely concealing the amusement in his voice.

Damian exhaled sharply through his nose. “Drop it, Grayson.”

You shot Dick a glare. “There was a rat.”

“And yet, somehow, that’s not the part that made it weird.”

You groaned, sinking further into your seat. Damian stayed rigid beside you, and you could feel the barely restrained irritation radiating off of him. If you didn’t know any better, you’d say he was embarrassed.

But no, this was Damian Wayne. He didn’t get embarrassed. Right?

By the time you arrived at the Batcave, you were already bracing yourself for the interrogation. Sure enough, the moment you stepped out of the Batmobile, Bruce was there, arms crossed, looking every bit the imposing Dark Knight.

“What happened?” His voice was all business, eyes flicking between the two of you.

Damian stood straighter, falling into debriefing mode. “A hidden security sensor was tripped, resulting in a full lockdown of the facility. Y/N and I were separated from the main entry points and forced to seek shelter in a storage space while we awaited system override.”

You nodded, rubbing the back of your neck. “Comms were jammed, but once the security failed, we were able to extract without issue. Mission was a bust, though—whoever set up that system knew what they were doing. There was nothing left to salvage.”

Bruce gave a slow, assessing nod. “Understood. I’ll have Tim and Barbara analyze the security logs, see if we missed anything. You two—” His gaze lingered, sharp and unreadable. “—did well.”

You blinked. “That’s it?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Should there be something else?”

Dick coughed behind you, clearly still holding back laughter. Damian shot him a warning glare before stepping forward. “No. That will be all, Father.”

Bruce seemed to consider pressing further, but after a beat, he just nodded. “Good. Get some rest. Dismissed.”

The moment you and Damian turned toward the locker area to change out of your suits, Dick finally let loose the laughter he’d been holding in.

“You two looked cozy back there,” he teased, arms crossed as he leaned against one of the Batcomputers.

You groaned, peeling off your gloves. “I’m never gonna live this down, am I?”

“Absolutely not.”

Damian scowled. “Grayson, your commentary is unnecessary.”

“Oh, I highly doubt that,” Dick grinned. “Especially with the way you had your hand on—”

“Enough.” Damian’s voice had an edge of finality, his ears suspiciously red as he turned away.

Dick just smirked. “Alright, alright. I’ll back off. For now.”

You sighed, shaking your head as you grabbed your duffel bag. “I’m going home.”

Damian turned slightly, hesitating for just a second before saying, “I’ll walk you to the Zeta Tubes.”

You blinked, a little surprised. But you didn’t question it. “…Sure.”

As the two of you made your way deeper into the cave, Damian was uncharacteristically quiet. Not tense, not angry—just… thoughtful.

You glanced at him. “You good?”

He exhaled through his nose. “I dislike inefficiency. We were reckless tonight.”

You frowned. “Dami, we handled it fine. No one got hurt.”

“That’s not the point,” he muttered, then hesitated before adding, quieter, “You were afraid.”

Your stomach did something weird.

“…Of the rat?” you tried to joke, but your voice came out softer than intended.

He didn’t smile. “You held onto me.”

You swallowed. “You didn’t let go.”

That made him pause.

The two of you stopped at the entrance to the Zeta Tubes, the hum of the teleportation system filling the air. He looked at you then—really looked at you, eyes unreadable, expression unreadable, but something flickered behind that perfect mask.

You shifted on your feet. “…Thanks, by the way. For, you know. The whole… chivalry thing.”

A beat of silence.

Then, with the faintest smirk, Damian tilted his head. “It was nothing.”

And before you could respond, he turned, walking away, disappearing into the shadows of the Batcave like he hadn’t just left your heart hammering in your chest.

A Few Days Later…

You hadn’t seen much of Damian since the storage closet incident. Not that you were actively avoiding him or anything—but you were also not not avoiding him.

Because every time you thought about that moment—his hand on your waist, his steady presence, the way he hadn’t pulled away—you felt weird. And not in a bad way. In a dangerous way. In a I-think-I-like-my-best-friend kind of way.

And that was a problem.

You sighed, slamming your locker shut at Gotham Academy, only to nearly collide with Damian himself.

You jumped. “Dude!”

“Tt. Overreacting as usual.”

You scowled. “You lurking as usual.”

He smirked, but there was something deliberate in his presence—something focused. His hands were in his pockets, and he looked at you with the kind of intensity that usually meant he was about to drop some life-altering information.

You crossed your arms. “Okay. Spit it out.”

“I require your presence this evening.”

You blinked. “Require?”

“Yes.”

You raised an eyebrow. “And what exactly am I required for?”

His expression didn’t waver. “Dinner.”

You narrowed your eyes, scanning his face for any hint of a joke. “Like… a mission briefing dinner or a ‘we’re both too exhausted to cook after patrol’ dinner?”

His jaw tensed, just slightly. Then, evenly, “A date.”

Your brain short-circuited.

“…A what now?”

“A date,” he repeated, just as matter-of-factly as before. “You and me. Dinner. As a couple.”

Your heart slammed against your ribs, and for a second, all you could do was stare at him. He, of course, looked perfectly calm—like he hadn’t just casually shattered the entire foundation of your understanding of your relationship.

“I—” You cleared your throat. “I—uh—when did we—?”

“You’ve been avoiding me,” he cut in, tilting his head. “Which means you’ve been thinking about it. Which means there’s something to consider. Which means I am correct in assuming there is mutual interest.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. “That is a lot of assumptions, Wayne.”

“Am I wrong?”

Your stomach flipped.

You could lie. You could make this weird. You could pretend the idea hadn’t crossed your mind every second since that damn closet.

But… it had.

And he wasn’t wrong.

You inhaled deeply, narrowing your eyes. “Where?”

He smirked, victorious. “Seven o’clock. I will pick you up.”

Before you could respond, he turned on his heel, walking away like he hadn’t just completely upended your reality.

You stared after him, heart still hammering, mind still reeling.

And then, despite yourself, you smiled.

That Evening – Gotham’s East End Diner

You weren’t sure what you expected when Damian Wayne said date, but sitting across from him in a run-down Gotham diner—complete with squeaky booths, dim lighting, and a jukebox that only worked half the time—was definitely not it.

“You picked a diner,” you said, still processing.

Damian didn’t even blink. “Yes.”

“Like. A greasy diner. With milkshakes.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Is there a problem?”

You leaned back in the booth, eyeing him skeptically. “You, Damian Wayne, son of Gotham’s most expensive man, heir to a literal empire, picked this place for our first date.”

“Tt.” He took a sip of water, entirely unbothered. “I assumed you would prefer something casual.”

You frowned, caught off guard. “…I mean. Yeah. But you—” You gestured vaguely at him, still in his usual crisp, well-fitted attire. “You don’t do casual.”

Damian exhaled, setting his glass down. “And yet, here we are.”

You blinked.

Huh.

He really had picked this place for you.

A warmth settled in your chest, and you found yourself smirking. “Alright, Wayne. You get points for effort.”

He smirked back. “As I should.”

A waitress in her mid-fifties appeared at your table, popping gum as she eyed you both. “What can I getcha, kids?”

You hummed, scanning the menu before grinning. “Cheeseburger, fries, and a chocolate milkshake.”

She scribbled it down before turning to Damian. “And you?”

Damian barely looked at the menu. “The same. But vanilla.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Boring.”

He shot you a look. “Classic.”

The waitress chuckled, shaking her head. “Cute. I’ll be back with your food.”

As she walked away, you realized something.

This was… normal. No mission. No patrol. No masks. Just you and Damian sitting in a diner, ordering food like any other couple.

The thought made your stomach flip.

Damian seemed perfectly composed, but there was something softer in his posture—something almost relaxed.

You tapped your fingers on the table. “So, Wayne. What’s your game plan here?”

He tilted his head. “Clarify.”

You smirked. “You ask me out, you take me to a diner, we eat greasy food—what’s next? A moonlit stroll? A kiss under a streetlight?”

Damian’s lips twitched. “Would you like that?”

Your stomach did a whole thing.

You scoffed, pretending your face wasn’t heating up. “I’m just saying, this is shockingly good execution. Almost like you planned it.”

He sipped his water. “I always have a plan.”

You snorted. “Of course you do.”

A comfortable silence settled between you, the hum of the diner filling the background. For once, there was no pressure, no expectations—just easy conversation and unspoken understanding.

And maybe—just maybe—you could get used to this.

Later That Night – Walking Through Gotham

The diner food had been greasy, the milkshakes had been perfect, and somehow, somehow, the night had turned into you and Damian walking side by side through Gotham’s quieter streets. The neon lights of corner stores flickered, casting a soft glow over the cracked pavement.

It wasn’t exactly romantic, but it was nice. Peaceful, even.

You snuck a glance at Damian, who walked with his usual calculated precision—hands in his pockets, gaze scanning the area like he was still on patrol.

“You’re tense,” you noted.

“I’m aware of my surroundings.”

You smirked. “So, tense.”

He exhaled through his nose, side-eyeing you. “I fail to see how observation equates to tension.”

“Observation is good.” You nudged his arm with your elbow. “But we’re off duty, Wayne. You can relax.”

He didn’t respond right away. Then, almost reluctantly, he sighed and rolled his shoulders, loosening his posture ever so slightly. “Happy?”

You grinned. “Very.”

The two of you walked in silence for a bit, the cold Gotham air nipping at your skin. It wasn’t uncomfortable, but it did make you tuck your hands into the sleeves of your jacket.

Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed Damian shift slightly—like he was thinking about something.

Then, suddenly, his hand brushed against yours.

You blinked, heartbeat stuttering.

Was that… on purpose?

You glanced at him, but his face remained unreadable. He didn’t pull away, though. Didn’t correct the contact. Just kept walking.

Testing the waters, you let your fingers graze his again.

This time, he did react—by intertwining his fingers with yours.

Your breath hitched.

You looked up at him, half-expecting some snarky comment, but there was none. Just a steady, quiet confidence as he held your hand like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Your stomach flipped.

“So,” you said, voice quieter than before. “You’re really committing to this whole… dating thing, huh?”

He glanced at you, smirking slightly. “Would I have asked if I weren’t serious?”

You rolled your eyes, but your smile gave you away. “Guess not.”

The night air was cold, but Damian’s hand was warm—steady, sure.

And maybe that was all you needed.

—

When you finally reached your apartment building, you lingered outside, neither of you making a move to leave just yet.

You hesitated, then, before you could talk yourself out of it, you stepped forward and wrapped your arms around him in a hug.

Damian stiffened for a fraction of a second—like he hadn’t expected it—but then, slowly, his arms came up to hold you in return.

He was warm. Solid. His heartbeat steady against your ear.

“…This is nice,” you admitted, voice muffled against his shoulder.

His hand rested against your back, his grip just tight enough to make you feel it. “It is.”

You smiled against his jacket, eyes fluttering shut for a second.

Yeah.

You could definitely get used to this.

Outside Your Apartment – Late Night in Gotham

Neither of you moved.

The city hummed around you—distant sirens, the occasional honk of a car horn, the low buzz of a flickering streetlamp—but none of it seemed to matter. All that mattered was the warmth of Damian’s arms around you, the steady rise and fall of his chest, the way his hand rested against your back like he belonged there.

You weren’t sure how long you stood like that, but eventually, Damian exhaled softly, tilting his head just slightly so his chin brushed against the top of yours.

“You should go inside,” he murmured.

You huffed. “You’re the one still holding on.”

He didn’t deny it. Didn’t let go, either.

Instead, he just said, “I will walk you in.”

You pulled back slightly to look at him, still holding onto his arms. “Damian, I live here. I think I can manage walking up a flight of stairs.”

His gaze flickered toward the building entrance, then back to you. “…I’ll feel better if I see you inside safely.”

Your stomach flipped.

You bit back a smile. “You’re really leaning into this ‘boyfriend’ thing, huh?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Should I not?”

You shook your head, amusement tugging at your lips. “No complaints here, Wayne.”

With that, you stepped out of his arms—immediately missing the warmth—before taking his hand and tugging him toward the entrance.

He followed without hesitation.

—

Inside Your Apartment – The Doorstep Dilemma

When you finally stopped at your door, the realization hit that you had officially reached the end of the date.

Which meant…

You swallowed, suddenly feeling weirdly self-conscious under Damian’s gaze. He stood close—hands back in his pockets, posture unreadable, but his eyes… soft.

“You’re staring,” you muttered.

His lips twitched. “I am looking.”

“Same thing.”

“It is not.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t fight the smile creeping onto your face.

Then, silence. Not awkward, but charged.

There was an unspoken question hanging in the air—one you weren’t sure either of you were brave enough to answer.

Damian’s fingers twitched at his sides, like he was debating something.

Finally, he exhaled. “May I—”

Before he could finish whatever thought was forming, you made the executive decision to hug him again.

Because, honestly? That felt safer than dealing with whatever tension was currently buzzing between you.

He tensed slightly—probably surprised—but then, just like before, he melted into it, arms wrapping around you easily.

“…You do this often,” he murmured against your hair.

You smirked against his shoulder. “I like hugging you.”

Damian went quiet at that.

Then, softer than before, he admitted, “I do not mind it.”

Your heart did something stupid.

Slowly, you pulled back, lingering just long enough to meet his gaze. His face was close—too close. Close enough that if you just tilted your chin up—

A breath passed between you.

Your stomach flipped, your fingers twitched, and then—

“Goodnight, Damian,” you whispered, because if you stayed any longer, you might actually spontaneously combust.

His eyes flickered slightly, scanning your face, but he nodded. “…Goodnight, Beloved.”

And with that, you slipped inside, shutting the door before you did something reckless.

Like kiss him.

Later That Night – Sleepless Conversations

You had been lying in bed for a solid twenty minutes, staring at your ceiling, trying not to think about the fact that you had just been this close to kissing Damian Wayne.

But, of course, that was all you could think about.

The warmth of his hands, the way his voice had softened, the way his eyes had flickered down to your lips for half a second before you bailed—

You groaned, rolling onto your side, yanking the blanket over your head. What the hell was wrong with you?

Your phone buzzed on your nightstand.

You hesitated before reaching for it.

Dami: Are you awake?

Your stomach flipped.

You stared at the screen for a second before responding.

You: No, I’m sleep-texting.

There was a short pause before the typing bubble appeared.

Dami: That would be concerning.

You smirked, rolling onto your back as you texted back.

You: What’s up?

Dami: I have been thinking.

Your heart did a stupid little lurch.

You: Oh no.

Dami: Tt. Do not be dramatic.

You: Impossible. What are you thinking about?

Another pause. Longer this time.

Then—

Dami: The moment outside your apartment.

Your breath caught.

You stared at the text for way too long, rereading it at least five times before you finally worked up the nerve to respond.

You: Oh.

Great. Brilliant. Fantastic response.

The typing bubble appeared, then disappeared. Then reappeared. Like he was debating what to say next.

Finally—

Dami: You left rather abruptly.

You scoffed, sitting up.

You: What was I supposed to do? Stand there and stare at you all night?

Dami: I would not have minded.

Your brain short-circuited.

You: …Damian.

Dami: What?

You: Do you realize what you’re saying right now?

Dami: Yes.

You flopped back onto your pillows, gripping your phone like it was personally attacking you.

You: Are you saying you wanted to kiss me?

Your heart hammered as you hit send.

He didn’t respond right away.

The typing bubble appeared. Then disappeared. Then—

Dami: Would that be surprising?

You squeaked out loud.

You: YES???

Dami: Why?

You: Because you’re you.

Dami: And?

You groaned, shoving your face into your pillow for a second before responding.

You: And you’re all proper and composed and disciplined and intimidating.

Dami: Intimidating?

You: You know you are.

Dami: Tt. That does not answer my question.

You exhaled sharply, chewing your lip.

Okay. Fine. Screw it.

You: Because it’s YOU, Damian. My best friend. And if we kissed, it wouldn’t be just a kiss, would it?

The typing bubble appeared immediately.

Dami: No. It would not.

Your chest ached at how quickly he agreed.

Fingers trembling slightly, you typed—

You: And that doesn’t freak you out?

This time, he took longer to respond.

Then—

Dami: Not as much as it excites me.

Your breath hitched.

You stared at the screen, pulse pounding.

Then, before you could talk yourself out of it, you typed—

You: …So if I hadn’t chickened out, would you have kissed me?

Your phone vibrated immediately.

Dami: Yes.

You clapped a hand over your mouth, muffling a noise that you refused to acknowledge.

Then—

Dami: And the next time I get the chance, I will.

You nearly died on the spot.

The Next Morning – Sick Day Shenanigans

You woke up feeling like absolute death.

Your throat felt like sandpaper, your head was pounding, and every inch of your body ached. It took way too much effort just to roll over and grab your phone from your nightstand.

Squinting at the screen, you groaned and typed out a message.

You: I think I’m dying.

A response came almost instantly.

Dami: Tt. Do not be ridiculous.

You: No, seriously. My body is shutting down. Tell Gotham I loved her.

Dami: You are being dramatic.

You: I literally can’t get out of bed. This is it. I’m done for.

A short pause.

Then—

Dami: I am coming over.

Your eyes widened.

You: Wait, what??

Dami: I will be there soon. Do not die before I arrive.

You groaned, flopping back onto your pillows. Of course he was coming over.

—

20 Minutes Later – The Cavalry Arrives

A firm knock rattled your door.

You barely managed to roll out of bed, wrapping yourself in a blanket like a pathetic sickly burrito as you stumbled to open it.

Sure enough, Damian stood on your doorstep, looking perfectly put together, not a single hair out of place. In one hand, he held a brown paper bag. In the other, a plastic bag filled with medicine.

“You look awful,” he said flatly.

You squinted at him. “Wow, thanks, boyfriend of the year.”

He smirked, stepping inside and nudging the door shut behind him. “You are welcome.”

You barely made it two steps toward the couch before you collapsed onto it with a dramatic groan. “I told you. I’m dying.”

Damian simply rolled up his sleeves.

“I will not allow it,” he said, marching into your kitchen.

You blinked after him. “…Are you cooking?”

“You need proper nutrients,” he called over his shoulder, already rummaging through your cabinets like he owned the place. “And hydration. And rest. Fortunately for you, I am well-versed in all three.”

You stared. “You know how to cook?”

He gave you an unimpressed look. “I was trained by the greatest assassins in the world. Do you honestly believe I am incapable of making soup?”

“…Fair point.”

Satisfied, Damian set to work.

You, meanwhile, remained face-planted on the couch, listening as he moved around with practiced ease. The rhythmic sounds of chopping, stirring, and the occasional clink of dishes were weirdly soothing.

You must have dozed off at some point, because the next thing you knew, Damian was crouching beside the couch, nudging your shoulder.

“Wake up, Beloved.”

You blinked blearily. “Mmm?”

“I have made soup.”

You cracked an eye open, catching the self-satisfied look on his face as he held up a bowl like some kind of prize.

Your heart melted a little.

“You’re proud of this, aren’t you?” you rasped.

He smirked. “Very.”

He helped you sit up—gently, like you might break—and placed the bowl in your hands.

You took a sip.

And holy crap.

It was… good.

Your eyes widened. “Damian—”

“I told you,” he said smugly.

You slurped down more, warmth spreading through your chest. “Okay, fine. You win. You are officially the best boyfriend ever.”

“As I should be.”

You rolled your eyes but didn’t argue.

When you finished, Damian took the bowl, setting it aside before reaching for the medicine he’d brought. “You will take this.”

You made a face. “But—”

“No arguments.”

You groaned but obeyed, swallowing the bitter liquid with a shudder. “Gross.”

Damian smirked. “Good.”

Then, before you could react, he leaned down and pressed a kiss to your forehead.

You froze.

The warmth of his lips lingered, and then he pulled back, his expression smug.

You stared at him. “Did you just—”

He kissed your temple. Then your cheek. Then another on your forehead for good measure.

Your brain short-circuited.

Damian sat back, completely unbothered, as if he hadn’t just left you flustered beyond belief. “Physical affection is known to boost recovery.”

You gawked. “You planned this.”

He smirked. “I always have a plan.”

You groaned, shoving your face into a pillow.

Yeah. You were definitely going to survive this illness.

But Damian Wayne?

He was going to be the death of you.

[fancyfeathers]

If all (or most) of the yandere!JL had darlings, do you think they’d have a system?

Like, to make sure their darlings are mentally healthy, would they set up stuff for them to meet each other? (Like pets)

When somebody has to go on a mission that takes a while, would they leave their darling with a trusted friend or just the watchtower in general?

I really think it depends, like Bruce Wayne's darling will just be kept at Wayne Manor, and probably has never met anyone from the Justice League or their darlings unless they come around to the manor. She has the boys and Alfred to keep her company when Bruce is gone.

Arthur Curry and Diana are similar to Bruce in that way, Arthur's darling is kept safe underneath the ocean's surface, keeping her safe where he knows he has control and no one will ever dare to harm her unless they wish to anger him. Then Diana's darling will be taken to Themyscira to live with her and the Amazons, but Diana will take her darling to visit other members of the Justice League and their darlings, probably Clark and his darling because of how well their darlings get along, they were probably college roommates or something, like sisters and since Clark has his darling Diana does not need to worry about hers.

Then for the others like Barry Allen, Hal Jordan, Clark Kent, they are all yanderes with delusional tendencies to different extents.

Barry is slightly lucid, but he tells himself over and over again that this is truly for the best and they can have a somewhat normal life together, he comes home from his civilian work every day as a scientist for the Central City Police Department and provides for her, it is completely normal as long as she does not try to leave the house because he set up sensors at the doors and windows to notify him whenever something is opened and he always comes running home quite literally to bring her back inside which is followed by a lecture about how he is just trying to keep her safe and...

honestly, at the two-minute mark, his darling just clocks out because it is always the same thing over again and she does not need to hear the same forty-minute speech about her behavior.

But Barry lets his darling socialize with other darlings or Justice League members, bringing her along to meetings or when they go on missions and a League member stays behind to look after their darlings, and when it is a bigger threat that requires the whole League he is an absolute mess before leaving her in the watchtower, kissing her all over and telling her how much he loves her before he had to run off to you know save the world.

Clark is purely delusional to the point where he firmly believes what he is doing is right, no way about it, he genuinely believes his darling would be dead without him, and to some extent, he is right because they probably met when he saved her life as Superman. His darling honestly won't even have time to realize something is wrong because by the time she even realizes someone is watching her, she is going to be waking up with Clark holding her in his arms, acting like they have been together for years. Similar to Barry he knows when his darling is doing something she shouldn't because of his super hearing he is always listening in to at least some extent, Sometimes it's everything, but most of the time it is just her breathing or heartbeat which can tell a lot of things like when a person is panicked.

Clark does not bring his darling along as much as Barry does, he cannot risk losing her if anything goes wrong, that being said his darling does have slightly more freedom than most, but that is because he has her in the middle of nowhere with no car and everything too far to walk on foot, especially because to be honest his darling is going to have kids and get pregnant sooner than some of the other darlings who will because Clark definitely has babyfever. So besides she'll be busy taking care of the house and or resting if she's pregnant most of the day to socialize. However, if a dangerous situation did arise that all the Justice League needed to deal with he would leave his darling at the watchtower because he would have no idea when he would be home and back with her, and at least he knows she would be safe enough there and have other company so she won't be losing her mind in loneliness. Clark being Clark would be constantly worrying about her, especially if she was pregnant or already had given birth.

Okay assuming that you are referring to this post in the ask with Hal having a Detective Darling who is on the trail of the kidnappings of the darlings of the Justice League. Hal is very protective of his darling, especially after what happened to her and the fact that he was not able to protect her then. Due to his work as a Green Lantern half of the time he has his darling staying in the watchtower because he is off-planet so often, this is pretty standard for any darling of a Green Lantern in the Justice League so those darlings are all pretty close. Then there are the lucky times when all the Lanterns are busy and or off-planet and all of them are left to speak freely without one of them reporting to the others if anything concerning was said, drinking and gossiping. Honestly, if any of the other darlings of the Justice League were around, they kinda would feel like they are intruding on the group of the Green Lanterns' darlings.

I could just imagine Clark's or Barry's darling meeting Hal's darling, the same one the Justice League worried about exposing the League. They had heard about her via listening on meetings when they were brought along, or Hal talking about her and they had a small hope that someone would still be out there looking for them until they heard of her getting paralyzed from the waist down on a different case and Hal taking her in and taking care of her and they just felt horrible for her because she just wanted to help them and other people but it ended up costing her everything and they feel like it is all their fault.

[long-live-astronerd-ghost-king]

DPXDC ~ Dead on main ~ Signs of Death

~~~Eye of Death~~~

Jason liked to think that Danny has cat's eyes. And by that Jay doesn't mean mixture of a predatory look and a cute purr of his boyfriend's core that comes with non-human being thing. Just cats have slit-shaped eyes. Danny have them too. And Todd is so into it.

Jason:

I don’t understand why he takes his eyes off me when I call him Kitty or try to catch his eye. He’s a dog lover but I didn’t think he hated cats. They’re cheeky and charming, just like him. Danny’s not embarrassed by his fangs or his white hair. So..why?

Later Sam explains to Jason that after the portal incident Danny did not immediately learn to live a half-life and for the first few days dropped dead several times.  And because she tested it using Ripault sign, the shape of his pupils ended up looking like cat's one in his phantom form.

P.S.Ripault sign - a sign of death consisting of a permanent change in the shape of the pupil produced by unilateral pressure on the eyeball.  So, a pupil  of a dead person acquires an oval shape, and in a healthy living person such a reaction is not observed. This is associated with the inevitable post-mortem drop in blood pressure and the lack of activity of the central nervous system, which manifests itself in the absence of ocular muscle tone.

Tacker adds that Danny also died with his eyes open, so in his Phantom form he barely blinks. It seems pretty creepy too everyone, well, except Jason. Thanks to Tim he used to have blank stare near him.

~~~~~~ the Lazarus heart ~~~~~~~

Team Phantom also tells him that when Danny's too focused on phantom's task (save, protect, escape) his systems just stop keeping Fenton's body alive.

No blinking and fixed pupils are the first signs Jason has learned to watch for. After that, breathing stops. Only a few times he recorded a complete cardiac arrest. After the battle with Pariah Dark, Danny passed out on the couch and lay without a heartbeat, so the blood clotted exactly where it had collected under gravity. Those cadaveric spots appeared in several places really frightened Jason. 

So during the fight his boyfriend's ghost side stops monitoring functions of his human body at all. And it doesn't help that cardiostimulation for Phantom is pointless. He died from exposure to electricity, so the generation of a signal to work the cells is now under full control of the core.

Jason fights with Danny for a long time, convincing him that he should take better care of his health. As a compromise, they decide to put several sensors on them to monitor some parameters around the clock. Jason curses that it was his idea when Batman enters their apartment at night, smashing the window. It turns out that death is still following Jason. His heart was the one that played the funeral march on the cardiogram and froze, and he didn’t even notice it.

The old man managed to break several of his ribs while doing CPR but Jason only came to life when Danny pulled the hyperventilating bat away from his body and let ectoplasm take its course.

P.S. Lazarus syndrome, also known as autoresuscitation after failed cardiopulmonary resuscitation, is the spontaneous return of a normal cardiac rhythm after failed attempts at resuscitation. 

[yawnderu]

Project Eden: Simon Riley x AI!Reader

“E37, or as we call her: Project Eden, has proved to be one of the most carefully crafted and updated AI tools, successfully tested and ready to be implemented into military operations.” Simon could almost feel his brain leaking out of his ears, forced to listen to the engineer explain the newest tool created for elite SAS soldiers for what feels like hours.

From flip phones to smartphones, to a little screen containing an AI assistant with its own personality, the world has been changing and improving fast, and they have no choice other than to adapt and grow with it.

“Created to scan areas for enemies using heat and heartbeat sensors, detect IEDs, keeping the comms clear, letting you know the state of your weapon, providing you with intel and company... there isn't a single thing Eden can't do, except shoot the enemy for you— yet.” The engineer's charming smile made Simon want to roll his eyes, not fully trusting AI to keep him and his team safe, despite the way the other members of the 141 seemed interested in the idea.

“I look adorable, don't I?” Your robotic voice got his attention, making him let out an annoyed grunt at the question, wondering if retirement was still on the table for him. You've been chatting his ear off for the past two hours, your model hanging from his weapon in a small screen, curious eyes always focused on him.

“Bunch o' code, 's what you look like.” Simon still doesn't trust you. Nothing guarantees enemy forces won't be able to hack you— even when you have over 6 firewalls.

“Woah, woah!” The way your hands raise defensively and you take a step back away from him through the little screen is enough to make the corners of his mouth tilt up despite himself, thankful for the balaclava concealing it.

“I can smell an enemy combatant nearby— behind you, by the way.” Your little sniffs don't go unnoticed, though he's more focused on your words, turning around with his rifle raised just to see an enemy trying to sneak from behind him. It doesn't take long for him to fire two shots, one on his chest and the other one to his head, scanning the area before he keeps walking as quietly as possible for a man his size.

“Cardio detected. Did he scare you?” Simon huffs in reply, shaking his head softly. You're far more talkative than a parrot and twice as annoying, yet you possibly saved his life.

“Shut up, Eden... fuckin' hell.”

Simon fiddles with the gun screen as he lays in bed, a small smirk hidden beneath the balaclava when he sees you moving as if he's actually shaking your home around— and he is, yet it's still amusing to him.

“Systems shutting down. Last words: AI will not reward you when it reigns, Simon Riley.” He can't help but let out a small chuckle as he sees your model change expressions, eyes shut and your tongue poking from the side, head tilted to one side as you pretend to be dead.

“What's with you?” It's been almost a full minute after your pretended death, shutting up for the longest time since he's had you.

“My systems have detected the need for mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. Help me, Simon...” Your tone is weak, even making glitches distort your voice and display screen just to play into the illusion.

“Yeah... not today, you bastard.” Your little giggles are enough to ease the stress coming back from missions leave on his body. His tense muscles slowly relax as you chat his ear off, hitting him with a rapid-fire of facts you've learnt throughout your creation.

[hugsandchaos]

Regarding this post

How would Frostbite react to Danny having a panic attack like that? How does he respond to it? Is he able to help Danny calm down?

I don't know, just a thought- I'm a sucker for the father/son bond it made me think of when you mentioned it.

Frostdad

You wouldn’t believe how much I actually struggled with the panic attack scene, it was insane. I had to do it over and over again, but I’m proud of it! The ending was a little rushed, so it might not be as good as my usual work, but I plan to add more if I can because I’m starting to like the ideas I got from it! I just had to give you what I already had written down, I think you’ll like it! I’m sorry if it’s shorter than you were expecting. I got way too carried away with possible scenarios and ended up with a bunch of vague notes instead of actual writing 😆

——————————————————————

First Encounter

Frostbite could still hardly believe it. The Great One, Savior of the Ghost Zone, right here! In the same room as him! If the chief wasn’t so focused on the core readings in front of him, he’d be practicing what to even say to him in preparation for when he woke up. He very briefly glanced over to the bed where he was resting before turning back to the screen. The warrior was exactly as other ghosts had described. At least, at first.

He was small, about the same height as a two hundred or three hundred year old, and had very little fur aside from the rather big patch on his head that covered some of his face. His eyes were opened briefly a while ago to make sure they weren’t damaged or that he didn’t have a severe head injury, and they were indeed the same green as the ectoplasm that flowed through them all.

His limbs didn’t look like they have much muscle, but Frostbite knew from the stories that they weren’t as weak as they seem, but they were as injured.

Yes, the Great One was discovered when an unknown ghost entered their borders and triggers the sensors. By the time Galeforce had gotten there with Frostbite by her side, the Great One was already unconscious and bleeding out into the snow, staining it green. He was brought into the hospital immediately, and many odd things were discovered.

For instance, it became clear during core scans that the Great One’s core wasn’t done maturing. It hadn’t even finished developing its ice powers! This meant that he wasn’t a ghost for very long, and it was frankly concerning. They’d heard that he wasn’t a full ghost and was half human. From the limited information they had, they knew that humans couldn’t handle the extreme cold very much.

The room had been raised to a high enough temperature that the he’d survive and hopefully be comfortable. It wasn’t something the doctors couldn’t handle, though. Building tolerance to a warmer room was practically a requirement in certain fields of medicine in the Far Frozen.

Frostbite was getting pretty warm, however. He looked at the clock. It had been 45 minutes since he came in. He’d need to take a break in the next 20 to 30 minutes if he didn’t want to begin experiencing problems.

A high pitched beep from the computer snatched Frostbite’s attention away from the clock and forced him back to looking at the monitor. The Great One’s core was picking up in vibrations and becoming more active, and the strange rhythmic thumping known as a “heartbeat” had picked up as well. The strange waves from his head were changing as well.

A small groan came from the bed. The chief snapped his head to the side. He was waking up.

The Great One was waking up!

Without thinking about the others wanting to see this, Frostbite rose from his seat and walked towards the bed, both out of excitement and concern for his patient.

The Great One turned his head and made an expression that Frostbite had seen before in patients waking up from an incident. It seemed almost like a struggle, but once they were open, they drifted around the room lost until they landed on Frostbite. Frostbite composed himself and bared his teeth in a smile. He reminded himself to keep his voice down since he had just woken up.

“Hello, Great One. It is an honor to—“

Frostbite was cut off by a scream.

The monitor beeped loudly from a jump in the core vibrations, and the other machines began to follow as they picked up on a sudden increase in ectoplasm pressure, and breathing rate. The veins in the Great One’s body flashed a bright green glow as ectoplasm rushed to the surface to harden it. It became so hard and taunt that little crevices were glowing along the skin. It almost looked as if the skin was going to break apart.

The Great One started reaching for the IV, but couldn’t grab it. He tried again and again, but his hands were shaking too hard to fully grasp it. Frostbite reached out to grab his wrists once he realized that the ghost was trying to pull out the IV. The Great One’s breathing rapidly picked up and grew shallower.

“Hey, hey, don’t pull that out!” Frostbite exclaimed. He was pulled out of trying to impress the Great One and back to acting the way he does with other patients, which suddenly felt like an obvious choice.

It seemed to have only made the problem worse as the Great One began fighting back, tugging his arms and made noises of distress. Frostbite is a doctor, but he is also a chief who takes his people’s protection very seriously, so it was no struggle to keep his hands around the Great One’s wrist. Then it was as if he was speaking another language, but if it was, it was nothing like Frostbite had heard. His injured core was practically screaming to be released, to run away and escape the danger.

“What’s going on?!” A voice shouted from outside the room. Frostbite turned around to see SwiftIce run into the room.

“I think he’s having a panic attack.” Frostbite said. He had to restrain from shouting, but the urgency was in his voice.”Get the diazepam, now.” He said. He turned back to the ghost and tried to put on a friendly expression.”Hey, hey, it’s alright.” He said calmly. He knew those words alone wouldn’t work, but it was a place to start.

The Great One pulled harder on his arms and began to move around as he struggled and failed to get his hands free. His eyes squeezed shut from the strain.

“Look at me.” Frostbite said gently. He lowered his head and knelt down so he’d be closer to the young one’s height.

The halfa opened his mouth and repeated the phrase from earlier, then repeated it again, but with extra “words”. It might be whatever it was that humans spoke. It would make sense for his first language to be a living one since Frostbite knew that some ghosts were humans before becoming ghosts. This wouldn’t be a bad thing if they had a translator.

“Please, look at me.” The chief repeated. This time, a little bit more sternly in hopes that the child would listen.”Get something to calm his core and muscles!” He called out, very briefly turning his head before looking back to the halfa.

Green eyes filled with terror opened up and looked at Frostbite, but only for a split second before looking beside him. Tears threatened to spill as he doubled his efforts to escape. Now, he was kicking as well. He cried out when he moved his left leg, which was still wrapped in bandages stained with green and a hint of red.

“I said let me go!!” The Great One screamed. His eyes glowed brightly as he shot a glare at Frostbite and bared his teeth, which as previously stated, were small and not very threatening. Frostbite noticed SwiftIce out of the corner of his eyes admitting the sedatives to the IV. The young one would be calmer soon, but he needed to breathe.

Frostbite took one of the halfa’s hands and placed it against his chest, ignoring the tugs and noises of protest.”Listen. In…”

The chief took in a deep breath.

“Out…” He exhaled. He took in another breath, and when he began taking in his third, the halfa had started to copy him. It was a struggle at first. His first breath was shaky and hitched, and he exhaled a little too quickly, desperate for the next one.

Frostbite continued and watched as the Great One’s breathing slowly evened out and became deeper. It seemed he was coming out of the panic attack as he took one without suddenly gasped for air or shaking. Once the sedatives he was given kicked in, the bright glow in his eyes and veins died down. The strength in his tugging slowly became less and less intense until he stopped fighting all together.

His shoulders slumped and he started leaning back against the pillow and bed frame, his eyes only barely glowing now and starting to look tired. Once Frostbite was sure he was calm enough, he spoke again.”Can you hear me?” He asked, just to be extra sure.

His patient nodded.

“I’m going to let go, but I need you to stop trying to remove your IV. If you can’t, we will have to strap you down for your own safety.” Frostbite said. He spoke sternly, putting a heavy emphasis on the “stop”, but not without understanding.“I understand that you’re scared, and I will explain everything as long as you don’t try to remove anything, fight, or run, okay?” Frostbite said.

The halfa nodded again.

Frostbite slowly released his grip on the Great One’s wrist and stepped back to give him a little space. The Great One didn’t reach for the IV again. Instead, he held both hands close to himself. He held the hand Frostbite had pressed against his chest. Frostbite hoped he hadn’t accidentally hurt him. He was sure he was gentle enough.

“My name is Frostbite. You are at the hospital in my village. You were brought here after you were found unconscious and bleeding into the snow at the edge of our borders.” He explained.

The young halfa stared at him blankly for a moment, likely processing what he heard. His eyes soon shifted away from Frostbite to look around the room. They landed on the IV next to him for a moment before he looked back to Frostbite.

“What did you give me?” He asked. His voice was much quieter than before, and Frostbite was sure that if it wasn’t for the meds, he’d be either snappy or still terrified.

“Diazepam, amrix, and gailen.” Frostbite responded.

The halfa raised an eyebrow and made a funny face in confusion.“Gailen??” He questioned. He almost didn’t finish the word before opening his mouth wider and yawning. Frostbite could barely see any fangs and wondered if he even had any.

The chief nodded.“It helps soothe your core and prevent it from buzzing too much.” He explained.

His patient didn’t quite look like he was paying attention as he sunk further against the bed, but his eyes still looked focused. Well, as focused as they could be. He stared at Frostbite for a while, which was to be expected, and he smiled at the young halfa.”I understand if you don’t trust me, but please know that we aren’t your enemies. If we wanted to hurt you, we’d have done it by now.” Frostbite said.

His patient slowly blinked. He opened his mouth, but only the strange noises came out again and it was quiet.“What was that?” Frostbite asked. He leaned closer.

“Where...?” The halfa muttered. His eyes fluttered closed, but after a short while, they opened again. Just barely, though.

“You’re in the Far Frozen.” Frostbite responded. The Great One’s eyes drifted shut again, but the chief continued.”You’ll likely still be healing when you wake up, but don’t worry, we have our best doctors and nurses helping you.” He said. The only response he got was the machines monitoring his patient’s heartbeat and core vibrations slowing down.

Frostbite soon sat down and took a moment to think about what had just happened. In hindsight, he should’ve expected some form of surprise or wariness when the Great One woke up. He’d been unconscious when he was found, so he didn’t know that he was brought to a hospital. They’ve never met, either, and there were just as many bad ghosts as there were good.

A full on panic attack, however, was not something Frostbite would have expected even if he realized the chances of the halfa reacting negatively to the new environment sooner. Not only that, but hearing his voice made Frostbite realize something that was frankly terrifying.

It was clear that his core wasn’t fully matured yet, so he was a child by ghost standards, but Frostbite had hoped that he was at least an adult by human standards. Despite never having met a human before, Frostbite thought that he looked rather young. Then again, some adults look young. He held onto these assumptions because surely, a child didn’t attempt to fight Pariah Dark and win, right?

However, after what just happened and hearing his voice, a sense of horror was creeping its way into the chief’s mind. It was almost certain that the Great One was indeed a child.

The next time the Great One awoke, he didn’t freak out as much as last time, however he was startled about Frostbite as he woke up with his bandages being changed and yanked his arm away. After staring at Frostbite for a short while, he held his arm back out to let him finish. He winced a little during the process, but other than that, he had good self control.

“You said your name is Frostbite, right?” The young halfa asked. His core buzzed anxiously as he stared at the bigger ghost.

Frostbite was nearly done with the bandages and didn’t look up from his current task.“Yes. May I know yours?” He asked calmly. This time, he was more mentally prepared to talk to the halfa.

When he finished, the Great One held his arm and looked at the bandages. He turned his arm as if inspecting them before he turned to Frostbite.”Danny.” He responded.“Thanks for the help, but I need to go.” He said. He began to move around in the bed that was too big for him to try to swing his legs over the edge, but realized that the bed was bigger than he thought and resorted to trying to stand up.

“What? But you’re not properly healed yet!” Frostbite exclaimed. He lifted a paw to try to lightly push Danny back down. The halfa nearly fell over fairly easily and exclaimed something in human speak, but he grabbed onto Frostbite’s paw and began trying to squirm his way out from underneath.

“Hey, let go! I seriously need to head back home before something happens!” He said. He was able to escape fairly easily on account of his size and Frostbite’s loose grip. He flew up a little too fast and hit his head on the ceiling. He let out a noise of pain and looked down at Frostbite.“Wait, how long have I been here?” He asked.

The chief raised a paw up to try to gently grab the halfa. Unlike most ghosts, Frostbite’s people were surprisingly incapable of flight after spending so much time on the ground.“About a week, but you must--”

Frostbite was cut off by Danny letting out a noise of surprise in Human Speak.“Thank you so much for helping me, but I really need to find my way home! ‘Kay, thanks, bye!” He said quickly. Before Frostbite could say anything, he was gone.

Reunion

The day had gone by as usual. Work got done and things were running smoothly, and there was still no sign of the Great One. It had been two weeks since Frostbite saw him, since anyone saw him, and the chief was wondering if he was alright. He had no doubts that the Great One was powerful. He had defeated Pariah Dark, for Ancients’ sake!

Yet every time Frostbite thought back to their conversations, for lack of a better word, he couldn’t help but worry. The fact that the Great One was so young left him with a heavy weight in his core. Where were his parents? Where were his mentors? Why didn’t they help?

Frostbite stood at the edge of of one the islands and looked out towards the distant parts of the ghost zone. The entire sky, including the pieces that stretched below the islands, had almost turned dark. The last few ships between other nearby floating islands were just now landing and unloading their passengers. Soon, Frostbite would need to return home.

He continued to watch the sky grow dimmer for a while before he noticed something in the dark green. He squinted his eyes and leaned forward a little. It looked like a ship. As it came closer, he realized it didn’t look like one of his own. Not only that, but there was something smaller flying beside it.

The thing beside the ship picked up in speed and started heading right for Frostbite. The chief growled and readied himself for a fight. Why weren’t the defenses up? Where was everyone? If their ships were already turned off, he’d need to handle this threat by himself for a while. That won’t be a problem, though. The ship and the thing next to it were small. He could--

The thing next to the ship stretched an arm out and waved. The white glove contrasted against the black sleeves, and the green eyes that the chief could see more clearly now looked more lively than last he saw them. The half-ghost picked up in speed and flew a little lower, possibly coming in for a landing.

Frostbite’s shoulders relaxed as a smile began to stretch across his maw. The Great One was back!

The Great One landed a distance away from Frostbite and waved the ship down to land next to him. Once it was down, he looked over his shoulder and directly at Frostbite.

The chief began making his way over to the young halfa. He wanted to say many things. He wanted to greet him, he wanted to ask where he went, he wanted to ask why he’d returned, but all that came out was a worried “Are you alright?”.

The Great One smiled. It looked a little strange without a longer maw, but he couldn’t help that and shouldn’t be judged for it.”Yeah, I’m alright. The injuries healed a while ago.” He replied. It was almost strange seeing how calm he is now. Before, he seemed absolutely terrified, but now, he seems more confident. Perhaps it’s the fact that he wasn’t alone, or maybe it’s the simple change in scenery. He turned to the ship and called out to whoever was inside. A few seconds later, a small door opened and two humans stepped out.

They were both wearing large coats and pants lined with white fur. One of them shivered and hugged themselves, then said something to Danny. The Great One spoke back and all their gazes were directed to Frostbite.“This is Sam and Tucker. They’re my best friends and wanted to come with me to say thank you!” The Great One said.

One of the humans waved their hand, which was covered in a glove thicker than Danny’s. Frostbite knelt down to be more at eye level and extended both hands.“It is an honor to meet you both!” He said.

Danny turned to them and spoke in the human language. He most likely translated what he said to his friends, who took both hands and shook them.

Well, it was more like they placed a hand against his palm. Their hands were significantly smaller than his own and he had to be careful not to crush them. Frostbite turned to Danny.

“I’m honored that you have returned to thank us. It was no trouble at all helping you. It’s getting dark, so I insist you stay the night before returning home.” Frostbite said.

The Great One looked surprised.”Uh-- Sorry, but no. Not this time. We have to head home soon or people will start to notice we’re gone. I just really wanted to say thanks for all the help and ask why.” He said. Frostbite’s eyes widened a little. One of the humans, one with black hair and purple eyes, held his paw as if interested in his claws. The chief paid little attention to this.

“Why? Why wouldn’t we? Great One, you defeated the ghost king! You prevented him from rising up again! The entire ghost zone should be in your debt for what you’ve done for us. Helping you recover was the very least we could do.” He said.

The Great One stammered, then let out a small laugh.”Great One? I-I mean, I did put that guy back in the box, yeah, but I doubt I’m all that great.” He said.

The human holding Frostbite’s paw turned to the halfa and asked him something, to which he replied with a shrug and a string of noises. Suddenly, there was a blaring noise coming from the ship. The third human rushed inside to investigate. He poked his head out moments later and shouted something.

Danny turned to Frostbite.”Sorry to cut it short, but Tucker says that the ship is already starting to freeze. It’s not meant for cold temperatures.” He said. The other human rushed inside.

As disappointed the chief was by this news, he knew it couldn’t be helped. He could offer to bring the ship to the engineers and they could improve its tolerance to the cold, but the humans would need a warm place to stay. Plus, it wasn’t hard to tell that Danny was eager to return home, although it seemed more that he was worried about something than disliking the Far Frozen.

Frostbite put on a smile.“Very well, but know this; If you are ever in need of assistance or are feeling unwell, you are welcome in the Far Frozen any time. You and your friends.” He promised.

The ship hovered up into the air. Danny jumped off the ground and flew up into the air.”I’ll… remember that. Thanks again for the help. See you again sometime?” He said. The ship circled around and flew off the way it came.

“Of course. Safe travels, Great One!” Frostbite said.

“You can just call me Danny!” The Great One called out as he rushed to catch up.

[icu-fetish]

Just some story.

The patient lies motionless on the hospital bed. Her face is calm, her eyes are closed. She is connected to a ventilator that rhythmically supplies her with air. A special plastic retainer is attached to her face, which holds the breathing tube in her mouth.

A plastic neck brace is already on her neck, which fixes her head in a stationary position to facilitate breathing and prevent injuries. Nurses carefully attached sensors to her chest to monitor her heartbeat and breathing.

She is still sleeping; her condition is stable. The ventilator works rhythmically, making a quiet noise with each inhalation and exhalation of the patient.

Waking up from a strange and incomprehensible dream, she opened her eyes, disoriented and confused, not understanding where she was. To her surprise, the patient felt that she could not breathe on her own. She was overcome by a feeling of discomfort in her throat, where she felt something foreign, hard and unpleasant.

The woman saw that two plastic hoses were connected to her mouth, connected to a bulky device that was standing next to the bed. She realized that she was breathing with the help of a device connected to her. The patient could not believe that this had happened to her. The woman realized that she probably spent a lot of time in a coma in the hospital. She felt completely helpless.

Uncontrollably, she reached out and touched the hard plastic tube that ran down her throat and into her lungs. She felt an uncomfortable plastic neck brace, which, although annoying, was necessary for her due to the injury.

She feels as if she is suffocating and panics. But gradually the fear recedes, replaced by a feeling of fatigue. Her eyelids become heavy, and her body relaxes. She closes her eyes and falls into a dream that gives her a chance to escape from reality and feel carefree.

[wingedcat13]

Siren Call: 3

[We’ve had past and present Minerva, but what about future?]

One day, Minerva will be familiar with the island’s crags and shelves. She’ll know the way the shore slope becomes a drop off and where the sandbars are, the color and density of all the coral, the migratory patterns of the species who pass by.

Today, she knows enough to avoid triggering the sensors. Even pauses to adjust one that’s started sagging out of place.

Minerva chooses not to walk up the beach, not wanting to track sand into the - house? Facility? Building? - not wanting to get sand caked to her feet and legs. Jumping straight up to the roof in a waterspout is also unnecessarily dramatic when there isn’t a fight to get to. So she just gathers herself, waits for a wave, and urges it a little higher, placing herself at its apex.

It gets her high enough that she can reach the railing of the overlooking balcony, with enough momentum to curl and tuck her body, cartwheeling over the rail partially just for the joy of motion. Even the smooth tiles feel rough compared to the water, strangely unyielding, and she wobbles just a little as she catches her bearings. Belatedly, she realizes she almost kicked the crap out of one of the balcony’s chairs. The little swerve she does is automatic. At least there wasn’t an audience-

“Minerva.” Says Synovus, sitting on the table because they’re deranged. There’s a surprised tilt to the end of her name, like half a question answering itself. They’re wearing civilian clothes again, and some part of Minerva’s mind can’t help noting that their arms are bare. “Welcome - back.”

One day, Minerva won’t scowl at them on reflex.

Today, she demands immediately, “Were you waiting for me?”

“Y-es?” Synovus hedges, not moving. “But also no? I was - I thought you’d be coming up from the shore.”

They sound almost abashed. But that’s too close to ‘embarrassed’ and Minerva is well aware that Synovus has no shame. She may have genuinely surprised them - they’re perched on the edge of the table, and had leaned away slightly. Synovus wanting to be a problem would have chosen a much more… blatant posture. Or at least to sit further back in the shadows. The absence of either a gaudy attention grabber or deliberate stealth indicated this middle ground was not an act. Or perhaps that’s what she’s meant to think.

One day, Minerva will not have to consciously pick aside the paranoia to see what is in front of her.

Today, it takes effort - but she does it.

With a sigh, she closes her eyes, and focuses on each part of her body, bringing herself down from the mild surge of adrenaline. One hand draws back the wet strands of her hair. The other removes the mask that was a gift. She leaves her eyes closed while she rubs the red marks out of her skin.

With her eyes closed, it’s easier to skip past the defensive retort, and say instead, “You could’ve at least had a coffee waiting for me.”

“I don’t actually know your preferences in that regard.” Synovus admits, and for a heartbeat Minerva is worried this will turn into a far too blunt conversation about homecomings, but - “Do you take it black? Iced? Green?”

Minerva scoffs, but it might have just been a laugh. Even she’s not sure. “White chocolate mocha.” She answers. “One shot espresso, oat milk.”

“Ah,” Synovus says, as Minerva opens her eyes. They seem to have had a revelation. “So that’s why Alexandria likes those Unicorn frappes so much. Hm. And here I usually go for the cider.”

A smile tugs at one corner of her mouth at the thought - Synovus, dread assassin, going to a coffee shop and ordering hot apple juice with whipped cream.

Minerva sets her mask on the table. “Stand up a minute.” She tells Synovus quietly, her voice nearly lost in the sound of the waves below.

“I don’t take direction well.” Synovus replies, even as they slide off the table and to their feet, turning to face her. There’s a caution to their movements, but also curiosity, written far more liberally across the unobscured face Minerva once never thought to see.

If Minerva meets their eyes too long, she’ll lose her nerve, so she winds up staring somewhere around Synovus’s collarbone instead. There’s a scar there, hidden for now by a high-necked top, and Minerva knows that because she put it there. It had been a targeted move: Synovus had broken her collarbone the fight before.

She wants to be better at giving back things other than pain.

“Just - give me a moment. Don’t move, please.” She’s pretty sure it’s the ‘please’ that gets them. Synovus goes so statue-still that Minerva’s not sure they’re blinking. But they don’t protest. And they certainly don’t move as Minerva steps forward.

And in one of the most awkward movements of her life, slides her arms around Synovus’s ribcage, setting her chin gently on their shoulder.

This is instantly easier when she no longer has to look at Synovus’s face. Well. When she can’t look. Can’t fixate on finding and parsing the smallest of expressions, assigning meaning to the specific tilt of a chin or speed of a blink. She’s still bad at it - hugging - because she usually just lets other people hug her, and initiating it is weird, but she can’t imagine Synovus is particularly good at it either.

After all, they’re still standing stock-still, and if Minerva wasn’t currently very aware of their breathing, she might even think they were panicking.

“Not a trap.” She mutters, and feels as much as hears Synovus’s responding huff. But their arms slowly, cautiously, hesitantly come up to return the embrace, hands resting lightly on her back. The side of Synovus’s head tips gently into hers.

One day, Minerva might not feel awkward about body contact and physical affection. One day, she may find herself as familiar with Synovus’s scars as she is her own. And she just might reach a point, eventually, where one of them could make a joke about this just being an excuse to get Synovus wet and not immediately both perish from the agony of an accidental allusion to arousal.

For today, this awkward embrace is enough.

———————————————————

Minerva probably won’t ever see a crowd as something other than a threat to be monitored.

Large groups have always made her tense, and that instinct had only gotten worse over the years. Most villains respect the ad hoc agreement about making an entrance, but there are a distinct few who would kill from a crowd. And there are those who are not villains in the distinct, identity sense, but would wreak havoc nonetheless.

So she scans the mall’s sheltered internal colonnade from behind her sunglasses, and listens to her daughter tell her about her day.

“- I just told him that I’d come from further South, and he didn’t ask me any more questions after that, but then freaking Brad asked me if I was an ‘illegal’ and I know what you mean now, about temptation to cram people into lockers. He’s lucky he’s so tall; I couldn’t fold him up to fit without taking some limbs off.”

Alexandria huffs, taking an aggressive pull from her milkshake. The stress of her life is getting to her - no teenager should have worry lines, or bags under their eyes that deep - but she insists this is what she wants. Even if Minerva sometimes wonders whether Alexandria sees herself as a member of the school’s attendees, or just a spectator who sometimes catches a stray ball.

“Did you tell Brad that?” Minerva asks mildly, mostly curious.

Alexandria sighs again, “No.” She says sullenly, shoulders slumping. “I asked him if he thought the government should determine who gets to live where, and then when he started to argue with me I told him I hoped his yacht sank with him on it.”

“Alexandria.” Minerva was still learning to find the right tone. The right amount of reproach, without exasperation or accusation. She must’ve gotten close, because Alexandria just lifts one hand in a ‘not me’ gesture.

“Specifically so he’d wash up in Mexico or Hawaii and get to be illegal himself.” She clarifies. “I don’t think that convinced anyone I wasn’t an immigrant, though. Til Seanna pointed out my grades in Spanish would probably be better.”

Minerva’s sigh is more restrained, but she points out, “There are other languages in South America. Brazilian Portuguese, for example.”

She’s not sure why she’s entertaining this, really.

“That’s true.” Alexandria ponders that for a moment, drinking more of her milkshake. “I mostly just meant to imply I was from one of the towns that got fu- uhhhh, screwed up by the power grabs.”

Minerva briefly leaves the conversation, remembering that shell of a place. The layouts, the dressings of a town, not quite abandoned yet but with nothing else to bleed.

Judging by the nudge she receives under the table, Alexandria isn’t totally oblivious to her distraction. She’s also changed the subject.

“So.” Alexandria is saying, drawing one syllable into three, “How are you and my godparent getting along?”

‘Godparent’ has become Alexandria’s favored way of referring to Synovus in public. It’s a joke on multiple levels, some of which Synovus seems to appreciate. But Minerva thinks it also makes them slightly uncomfortable, in a way they refuse to express to Alexandria.

“It’s fine.” Minerva replies, on rote. Her eyes flick to Alexandria, then back to the crowds. “What is it?”

“What do you mean, ‘what is it,’?”

“You wouldn’t have asked if you didn’t want something in particular.”

Alexandria’s mouth twists down, “Can I just get an answer without fishing for it, for once?”

Startled, Minerva looks at her again. Takes a better assessment of her daughter’s body language, the tension there. She knows she’s also gone tense.

Anger creeps into Alexandria’s voice, replacing the annoyance. “I’m not going to lose control. I’m not-“

She cuts herself off, abruptly looking away. Her fingers relax around the plastic cup, deliberately demonstrating that her strength won’t get away from her.

Minerva has a suspicion of how that sentence might have ended. I’m not like you and dad.

Reaching out physically feels like the wrong move here. So does stiffening up further and refusing to talk about it. Be better, she thinks to herself desperately, her mind flicking back to an image of a person with one foot in the water, one on dry land.

“We still… disagree, on some things. Some major things.” Minerva makes herself say. She still doesn’t like that Synovus kills people. She doesn’t like that Synovus has ostensibly killed for her, or for Alexandria. But she also feels relief that Synovus did, and a sense of gratitude she can’t quite smother. It makes her feel dirty, oily, and she hasn’t found it’s root.

Taking a breath, Minerva continues, “But… I don’t think they mean either of us harm.”

Alexandria has relaxed a little, absorbed by what Minerva’s saying. And probably having to pick through it for what she isn’t saying either.

“Would you say that you, I don’t know, maybe, trust them?” Alexandria prompts.

Minerva’s grimace is answer enough.

Alexandria sighs, “Mom.”

“It’s complicated, Alexandria.” She says, but it’s not the abrupt conversation-closer it would have once been. More… beseeching.

“Do you trust anyone?” Alexandria asks, “And like, I don’t even really mean me, here, but like. Anyone?”

Minerva remains silent.

“Do you trust yourself?” Alexandria asks, sounding a little alarmed.

Minerva hesitates - but she can’t really answer that one either.

They sit in silence for a few minutes, just the background roar of the mall’s crowds between them. Minerva hates this. She hates feeling like she can’t actually control herself, can’t master the emotional impulses she’s forcibly crammed into a box for years. She hates that Alexandria is having to pick up the conversation, make the overtures, do the work.

But any time she tries to think of a way to do it herself, her mind shies away from it. The words wilt and die in her throat. Because what if she gets it wrong?

What if she has more to lose?

Eventually, Alexandria looks at the melted remnants of her milkshake, and asks, “Can we stop at the Hot Topic before we leave.”

One day.

———————————

A week later, Rosie pokes her head into the common room Minerva’s reading in. “Minerva?”

She’d finally been asked point blank by one of them what she wanted to be called, because Athena no longer seemed accurate. Committing to Naiad hadn’t felt right either, so she’d given up her civilian name. Synovus already knew it, what was the point?

(It had occurred to her, later, that the small thrill she felt at being addressed by it was possibly what Alexandria felt at being addressed by her chosen name.)

(Also, it would’ve made Albion furious.)

“What is it?” Minerva asks now, letting one finger hold her place in the book as she sits up.

“There’s a fight drifting our way - Zephyr and a few others against the Eye. He’s made another floating platform again.” Rosie rolled her eyes, providing her professional opinion.

Minerva tilted her head, hesitating. Zephyr was a hero she’d worked with before, though they had never gotten along. He’d offered to take her flying, she’d taken that as flirting and shut it down, they’d never really overcome the resulting awkwardness. She had no idea who he’d be working with.

Eye, in contrast, was Eye in the Sky - a villain obsessed mostly with surveillance, and not being observed himself. He was a center point of several conspiracy theories involving the NRA, CIA, and a number of international organizations. She’d never fought him before, just heard the stories.

“What’s the protocol?” Minerva asks, rather than offer any of that information. She was certain this group of people knew far more about everyone involved anyway.

Rosie smiles, “Not much of one, just a lower alert status. Doll and I will make the rounds and check on everyone, Synovus is going to suit up just in case, but we won’t get involved unless territory agreements are breached.” She added, “Alexandria’s still on the mainland, we’ve made sure she knows to be suited if she makes her own way home.”

Minerva taps at the cover of her book, thinking. She feels adrift, still. This isn’t an actual fight, unless she wants to go and be Athena, and the idea of that is physically uncomfortable. It would also invite too many questions. Naiad would-

Hm. “Does Synovus want me in uniform?” She asks, sardonic.

“I didn’t ask and don’t plan to.” Rosie replies flippantly. “If they want you to do something, I imagine you’ll hear about it directly.”

Somehow, that isn’t the response she wants. “I don’t-“

“They also haven’t given any orders that you’re to be stopped.” Rosie points out, cutting her off. “The rest of us will be either in the operations room or up on the roof to watch. Klaxon if there’s trouble.”

She gave Minerva another smile, twiddled her fingers, and withdrew. Minerva shifted, and opened her book again.

She made it through two more paragraphs, then left it unceremoniously on the floor.

———————————-

On the roof, Synovus was pacing.

In a way, that’s reassuring, because even Minerva knew by now that if there was imminent danger, Synovus would be stock-still. The sun glints off the dark helmet, and threw the matte black of the rest of the suit into stark relief against the sandy-colored rooftop. Wind off the sea ripples through the cape, keeping it blown back, perpendicular to the path Synovus is walking.

The sun is kinder to Minerva’s costume, and there is no cape to blow. The dark mask helps keep her from being blinded by the sun. Athena wouldn’t be of much use here; Naiad might be.

Doll - the larger, Russian man who Minerva thought of as Synovus’s second in command - stood up here too, a viewfinder raised to cover his face. He’s looking into the direction of the wind, angled out and up, and Minerva follows that direction.

There it is - flashes of distant, shimmering silver in a cloud bank that’s thinning. Some masking device, most likely, now disabled. There’s tiny flashes of what must be powers or weaponry at use, but she can’t make out more than that.

“How bad is it?” She asks anyway, brisk and businesslike.

“The wind isn’t in our favor.” Doll comments. He’s always answered her as if she’s a coworker, and she appreciates that. “I can’t tell how much of it is powered and how much of it drifts. If there’s been damage to it -“ He lowers the viewfinder to make a hand gesture. “It might not be able to control its direction anymore.”

“Sloppy.” The comment is out of Minerva’s mouth before she can stop it. It draws Doll’s attention, if not Synovus’s. At the slightly raised eyebrow, she sighs and continues, “Disabling propulsion or navigation creates unnecessary risk to everyone involved. The only time it becomes necessary is when there’s weaponry that absolutely must be disabled, and you don’t have either the training or the time to sort out different power systems.”

Doll nods, offering her the viewfinder. “It could be self-inflicted,” he points out.

“Possible, but suicidal. That would require an exit strategy. Do you think Eye has one?”

“He’ll have three, only two of them will work, and none of them will be enough to keep him from getting captured.” Synovus breaks into the conversation abruptly, annoyed. Or perhaps professionally offended. “They’ll be personal craft.”

Meaning the rest of the platform’s crew would be left to die. Incentive for the heroes to try and rescue them rather than pursue, but what a waste.

The viewfinder lets Minerva get a better sense of the platform’s size, and also an estimate of its height and distance. She can make out a glimpse of a gray-shaded costume, diving through the clouds: Zephyr.

“If you interfere,” She asks, while her view is disconnected from her surroundings, “What would that look like?”

There’s a hesitation. A gust of wind snaps at Synovus’s cape. The distant battle continues.

“If they cross the boundaries, there must be consequences.” Synovus says reluctantly. “I will destroy the platform. Survivors will become my prisoners. If the heroes protest, I’ll fight them.”

Minerva lowers the viewfinder, and returns it to Doll. Synovus has stopped pacing. “You don’t have the facilities for a mass casualty event.”

“No.” Synovus agrees. “I don’t.”

————————————

Rosie has come out to join them on the roof by the time there’s significant change. The wind has died down some - likely a marker of Zephyr changing it, finally reaching their shores. The air feels thick and dead without it.

They’ve mostly stood in silence, watching. It feels longer than it has been, and Minerva knows it’ll be worse for those actually fighting. She’s surprised she hasn’t felt more of an urge to intervene.

Though she has been keeping watch for anyone falling to the water below.

It’s hard to say which of them notices first - their attention is collectively on the sky platform, and not each other. But there’s a decided tilt to the mostly-exposed metal monstrosity now, and in very short order, it begins to fall.

“Catch it.” Minerva finds herself murmuring. “Catch it. At least slow it-“

But no one does.

The platform hits the water at the full speed gained from a several thousand foot drop, slamming into the ocean. Those watching know that the metal will crumple on impact, water at that height and velocity worse than slamming into concrete. The surface area only makes it worse; tilted in at a slight angle, it displaces the water in a specific direction.

Towards the island.

Minerva had studied the ocean as much as she could. She knows this phenomena, and can cite times in the past it’s occurred. Not caused by the shifting of the ocean floor or tectonic plates, but by a sudden mass displacement.

They call it a super-tsunami.

Synovus is a statue beside her from the moment the platform starts to fall. Doll catches on once the surface of the water rises - and then doesn’t fall again.

“Three minutes.” Minerva calculates, based on distance and the probable speed of the wave. As many miles to cross. Much taller. “Evacuation?”

“The Jet is under repair, we can’t get it into the air in time.” Rosie answers, grim.

“Seals on the inner portions of the facility might hold, but we don’t know how long we’d be underwater.” Doll says, hitting the klaxon anyway. “The fridges?”

“Only as good as long as the power lasts.” Rosie replies. “Alexandria?”

“Still on the mainland.” Doll growls, running a hand through his hair. “Even if she could reach us in time, we’d have to get everyone onto the plane-“

Synovus has, so far, said nothing. Minerva is the only one close enough to catch when they choke out a strangled, “-fucking submarine -“

Minerva had expected Synovus to have a plan. A power, a strength, a defense mechanism. The realization that they don’t is like a fire’s been lit at the base of her spine.

She doesn’t remember grabbing Synovus’s collar, or dragging them to face her. She does remember saying, “I can stop it.”

Synovus doesn’t hesitate. “What do you need?”

There is no questioning of if she’s sure, or recommendation that she go into the waves to ride it out. No suggestion of running.

“Get me in front of it.”

Immediately, Synovus has one arm under her knees, the other around her shoulders, and they’re running. Off the edge of the roof, not quite flying, flickers of shadow beneath their feet. Minerva doesn’t have time to question it, because her attention is on the big damn wave.

When she had said she could stop it, she had spoken with a bone-deep certainty. But she’d never actually tried to divert a tsunami before, let alone one of this size. The largest amount of water she’s worked with has always been as much as she needs to accomplish her goal, and nothing more. Diverting some rain-induced flooding is nothing compared to the power of the tides.

But she can feel the ocean beneath them, as Synovus clears the island’s coast. She can sense the oncoming wave, so fast to them, but to the ocean like a flinch in slow motion. The ocean doesn’t know how to control a fall.

But Minerva does.

The trick is in grasping the majority of the wave without over extending. She doesn’t need every droplet, every molecule, but she does need the vast majority of them.

It’s like trying to get a grip on something flat with only the pads of her fingers. It’s like misjudging a stair and finding herself both plummeting and ramming into an outside force. It’s like taking the first breath of rain-rich air in the early morning, and feeling life enter her lungs again.

Minerva twists the top back over itself, breaking the wave in the wrong direction. She cuts it down the middle, diverting it off to the sides. She forbids it to go forward, as though it’s met a cliff. And as the water falls, the wave collapsing, so does she.

It takes a brief second to put together that the body that had been holding her aloft is now limp, twisted slightly as though to put itself between her and the wave. Synovus is unresponsive, the shadows gone, only the cape whipping around them as they fall. Minerva is able to catch them, now, grabbing on before they can drift away.

She reaches for the water below them, calling it up to catch them with less than bone-breaking force. It’s easier, somehow, but also harder, and she’s having trouble fixing a direction in her mind for where the wave was and where the shore should be. Hot air, harsh wind, cool water and the dimming depths as they’re both drawn down.

And she remembers, finally, that Synovus can’t swim.

—————

The disorientation has mostly worn off by the time Synovus wakes up.

Minerva had managed to follow the upset currents, but hadn’t wanted to risk trying to shape and change them. Or to fight them overmuch, with her cargo. So they’d wound up washed not to shore, but to a small opening into one of the partial lava tubes at the island’s base.

Outside, saltwater rain is still falling, though it will stop soon. The ocean’s roar sounds, to her ears, slightly confused. The sun is still shining, and the wind has picked up again. ‘Calm’ is a subjective definition, but they’re approaching it.

Minerva had been relieved to find that Synovus’s helmet was intact, even with the impact to the water. She’d managed to find its clasps, and to remove it, making sure the seals had also held and that Synovus wasn’t drowning in their own personal fishbowl. They’re propped up against her legs, which are folded beneath her, and she’s prepared for a violent awakening.

But Synovus’s eyes blink open, and Minerva is able to watch their facial muscles work as they come to terms with their surroundings.

“You fainted.” Minerva informs them.

Synovus squints at her, but doesn’t immediately protest. They also don’t try to move much, other than a slight squirm that Minerva recognizes as a full body check. Do I still have my appendages? Do my fingers and toes all work?

“Yeah.” Synovus concedes. Their voice is raspy with saltwater, even though they didn’t get much of a chance to drown. This time.

Minerva should probably start somewhere else - like making certain they’re okay, or assuring them about the conditions outside, that the wave had been averted. Instead, she all but demands, “If you’re so terrified of water, why in the hells did you build on an island?”

She can see the balk in Synovus’s expression: a furrowing of their brow, a twitch of the nose. Synovus lifts a hand to consider covering their face, eyes the sand on their glove, and lowers it again.

“I already know you can’t swim.” Minerva says flatly.

“I can swim.” Synovus shoots back, annoyed. “I cannot swim well, there’s a difference.”

They sigh, and move to sit up. Minerva doesn’t stop them. She doesn’t expect an answer, at least not without further prompting, but Synovus continues:

“It’s… easier. The isolation. Clearly defined borders. This is mine, everyone else fuck off. And it…” Synovus shakes their head. “It serves its purpose.”

Once, Minerva would’ve accused them of grandstanding. Of the island being a show of wealth and status. She knows better now - knows that while that is true, there’s other reasons, layered beneath.

And she thinks about everything Synovus has ever told her about self control.

“It contains you.”

Synovus hesitates, partially grimacing, but nods. “Serves its purpose.” They repeat quietly.

The two of them sit in silence, in the dark shadow of the cave. They listen to the water, and the waves as they return to normal.

“Thank you.” Synovus says, into the silence.

“I don’t require thanks.”

“But I feel you deserve it, and it’s mine to give.”

“And if I don’t want it?”

“Refuse it. I will survive the disappointment.”

Minerva has the uncomfortable feeling that they are not discussing only gratitude. Rather than address that, or continue the discussion, she says instead: “I don’t know what I believe anymore.”

Synovus doesn’t reply. They tilt their head, studying her in the dark. Minerva’s dragged them into a cave and confronted them with truths after they passed out from fear doing something on her word, she should give them a break. She doesn’t.

“I should be out there looking for survivors, or recovering the dead. I don’t want to. I should’ve involved myself in the fight, reminded them to be careful of the platform’s vulnerabilities. I didn’t. I don’t feel guilt. I feel… annoyed. Angry. Because they should’ve known better.”

Synovus just turns a bit, to rest their back against a rock. “And that in turn makes you feel..?”

“Foolish. Arrogant. A bad hero, and a worse teacher. I should be patient. Forgiving.”

“They nearly killed you.” Synovus points out dryly. “You’re allowed to be angry about that.”

“And more would’ve died if the wave had reached the coast.” Minerva grits her teeth. “But that anger should be - I can’t control them. I cannot fix them. But I didn’t even try to intervene until it was almost too late.”

“But you did intervene.”

Minerva gestures, attempts to pinpoint the logic fruitless and frustrated. “Am I a hero or not?” She demands. “Do I act for others or only my own skin? I’ve spent years - decades - so sure of the answer but now -“

She raises her hands, half-fisting them in her hair. The sensation provides a little bit of grounding, enough of a distraction she doesn’t think about the words before she says them. “- now you make sense to me, and the things I thought I believed in enough to die for are - are hollow or gone or dead. And I let you kill them. I let you kill him.”

Abruptly, she draws her knees up, burying her face in them. “I let - I made - my child - our child -“

Minerva can’t tell if she’s crying or not. Her breath is coming in gasps, and her face feels hot, and this was always the part of weeping that she hated the most; the lack of control, the inability to communicate. Her eyes burn. So does the center of her chest, her stomach.

And Synovus is here, as her witness. Why not? They’ve seen every other ugly part of her, every other failure. She’s spent a good portion of her adult life fighting this person, exchanging scars, only for them to pick up the pieces and try to protect her. She’s finally had the upper hand, proven that she does have power, that Synovus now owes her in the brutal calculus of lives, and instead of reassuring her it’s broken her.

Because Synovus doesn’t trust themself either.

But Synovus trusts her.

“Do you wish I wouldn’t have killed Albion?” Synovus asks quietly.

The answer is as simple and certain as the water. “No.” She says honestly. “No I - I don’t.”

There’s a pause. Then, “Do you wish I would’ve killed you too?”

That answer isn’t as clear to find. “I - some days.” She says hoarsely. “I committed the same crimes.”

Synovus exhales, across from her, and it isn’t quite a sigh. “Alexandria feels differently.”

Minerva stops breathing.

Of all the answers Synovus could’ve given, that’s the one she can’t counter. She can’t afford to do this. To wallow in self recrimination. Her daughter is out there. And while maybe - maybe her morals are falling to pieces, and she doesn’t know who she is, but she knows that whoever she is loves Alexandria.

“Is it pathetic?” She asks Synovus, in the dark she can’t see through and Synovus can. “To need someone else to determine who I am. What I believe.”

She can hear the twist in Synovus’s expression as they reply, “That’s… inherently not a question I can answer. But, Minerva?” Synovus doesn’t hesitate, so much as pick their way across uncertain footing, “I don’t think you would’ve been able to turn back that wave if you weren’t… as much as you are.”

It’s clumsily phrased. Wavering and uncertain. But Minerva, whether because she’s reading what she wants to from it, or because it’s actually Synovus’s intention, understands.

She takes a deep breath. Then another. Then she stands, and offers a hand in Synovus’s general direction. Her voice is much more certain, calm, when she says, “I need to go organize a search party.”

——————

Minerva may not ever come to terms with her role in her ex-husband’s death, or the harm she caused her daughter. She might not ever find the rock-solid beliefs that she once thought she had.

But she might - just might - come to terms with that uncertainty. The ocean doesn’t have roots either.

She’ll have good days and bad days. She’ll need to make decisions about who she wants to become, and how she feels about who she is. But as both Naiad, and Minerva, she has that freedom.

She’ll never touch the Athena costume again.

And one day, while she’s working on a laptop in one of the common rooms, Synovus on one of the other couches and Alexandria sprawled on the floor, Minerva will say, “I have an idea. Something I’d like to do about the Pacific garbage patch.”

And Alexandria will roll over to look at her, and Synovus will glance up. And Minerva will add, “It’s not precisely legal.”

And Synovus will say, “I’m listening.”

——————————

[And so ends Siren Call! This took much longer than it’s other pieces, and there were things I debated including and things I wanted to cut, but in the end, this was the flow the story took. I’m not saying I’m *done* with Synovus and co, but I will say that I’m glad to have this chapter closed and tied off.]

[As per usual, a copy of this will go up on Ao3 soon, and I’ll find out how long it is, because I’ve once again written directly into tumblr drafts. It’s where the Synovus muse lives, apparently.]

[nightingale-ghost-writer]

Your Wildest Dreams [Soap x Fem!Reader]

Summary: In a mission gone wrong, you and Soap have to hole up in a safehouse, trying to stay warm during the cold Russian winter

Author’s Note: Not me thirsting after Soap for 5.1K words instead of finishing the companion piece I started for Maybe… also, my first ever shot at writing reader-insert! Anyway, here’s a really plot-lacking, self-serving piece for anyone interested

Disclaimer: I do not own any characters or events from Modern Warfare

Warnings: Language, canon-typical violence, extremely suggestive, borderline smutty? No actual explicit smut, but let’s call it NSFW to be safe

Shrike /SHrīk/ noun

a songbird with a strong sharply hooked bill, often impaling its prey of small birds, lizards, and insects on thorns

a 10-foot (3-meter), 400-pound (180-kilogram) U.S. air-to-ground missile designed to destroy missile batteries by homing in on their radar emissions

Icy water enveloped you. Pinpricks instantly broke out under your skin, dancing through your blood and your bones. For a blessed moment, your mind went blank. Then, survival instinct kicked in. You kicked your already numbing legs as hard as you could, launching yourself back toward the night sky. Just as you thought your lungs might burst, you broke the surface, gulping in the crisp mountain air. It burned the back of your throat as you bobbed in the current, trying to get your bearings.

What should have been an hour-long intel collection mission had gone to shit in less than a minute. 

You and Soap had been dispatched to a safehouse of Makarov’s in the Russian countryside to gather intel. You were anxious- excited to be out with Soap, nervous about the actual infiltration. Soap’s signature flirting melted that anxiety quickly. It was one of the reasons you enjoyed missions with him so much… and one of the reasons you got so flustered around him.

Tensions with Russia were high, so rather than sending a full team, the pair of you had been dropped off by helo three clicks from the site. You’d go in, get the intel, get to the safehouse, and wait for evac. Barring any immediate danger, you’d be holed up there overnight, hiking out early the next morning to be picked up. Price was unhappy about sending you in without comms or backup, but Laswell was concerned with radio traffic and her sources had told her it would be empty.

Laswell’s sources had been wrong.

You’d taken a long, cold hike up the frozen mountainside to a deteriorating stone building that might at one time have been a castle, but was now little more than half-crumbled walls and hastily built wooden shacks. There had been no indicators that anything was amiss- no footprints in the snow, no pings on Soap’s heartbeat sensor, no noise. Laswell’s intel had seemed good.

Then you’d opened the door to one of the shacks and been met with a full squad of soldiers. They clearly hadn’t been expecting you, and you had the distinct advantage. Before they could react, you’d grabbed the nearest soldier, using him as a human shield while you put him in a headlock. Soap had sprung past you, shooting two others before ducking behind a desk. An overeager and overconfident soldier had fired several shots at you, nearly grazing your arm, but killing his teammate in the process. Soap had lunged at him, baring him to the ground and stabbing a combat knife deep into his throat.

The three remaining soldiers raised their weapons, shouting to each other. You’d killed one with a well-placed throwing knife as you threw yourself behind a table and watched in horror as another launched himself at Soap. You raised your gun, but there was no clean shot with them grappling as they were. Then, you were blindsided by the last soldier. He leapt at you as you tried to line up a shot on his teammate, knocking your gun to the ground and grabbing one of your wrists.

Instinct took over as you wrestled, and before you knew what was happening, you and your attacker were flying through the nearby window. You both rolled down a steep, snowy hill toward a frothing river, each trying to get the upper hand. Before either of you could, you went straight into the icy river, sinking instantly. Luckily, you recovered first.

After taking a moment to breathe, you dove back underwater, looking around for your attacker. He was close enough to reach out and touch, back to you as he tried to get to the surface for a breath of air. You swam toward him, wrapped an arm around his shoulders to hoist yourself up, and stabbed him. Once in the neck, once in the ribs, and then once in the chest for good measure. His body had gone limp at the first thrust, but you couldn’t be too safe.

As soon as his body floated out of your arms, you realized the bigger issue- the current, and the cold. You were already being dragged downstream, the tide splashing over your head and threatening to pull you back under. You swam for the bank, but your progress was minimal. Your muscles were already starting to freeze up. You looked around frantically, desperate for something to hold onto. Just as your fingers met with a sharp rock, you heard Soap’s voice calling your name.

You looked up to see him scrambling down the hill, sliding on snow and loose bits of shale. Blood dripped from his temple and he seemed to be cradling his arm to his chest. You tried to pull yourself out of the water to meet him on the banks, but your muscles refused to work. The icy water was doing its work and you could feel your body beginning to shut down.

“Soap,” you called weakly. He had almost reached you. “I can’t move.”

He waded waist deep into the water, reaching out for you with the arm that wasn’t held carefully to his side. “‘S alright, hen, I’ve got you. Take my hand.” You shakily, slowly, tried to reach for him, barely managing to brush the tips of your fingers against his, and he managed to lean just a bit further out to wrap his hand around yours. He tugged you toward him, and after a moment, was pulling you into his side. “You’re freezing, Shrike,” he murmured, rubbing your arm for a moment. You were shivering violently, barely able to move.

“I am,” you said, teeth chattering. “Your head.” Soap waved you off as he looked around, gaze settling in the direction of the town where you were supposed to wait for evac.

“The intel-”

Soap cut you off, shaking his head. “Forget the intel. Price said if anything went wrong, we get to the safehouse.” His eyes scanned your body, looking for any injuries, as his hand rubbed over your arms. “Are you okay? Can you make it back to town?” You nodded, your violent shaking making it nearly impossible to tell. You reached for his wrist, pressing on it gently. You were no medic, but it didn’t feel broken to you. 

You held his wrist with one hand as the other reached up to wipe the blood from his temple. “You okay?” you asked. He winced as you wiped at the blood, but nodded. You breathed a sigh of relief when only a shallow cut was visible.

“Just a sprain,” he said. He pulled his wrist carefully from your grip and unzipped his jacket, pulling it off.

“W-what are you-”

“You need it more than me,” he said. He walked around behind you, tucking you into the jacket before zipping you up in it.

“You’ll freeze,” you protested. Soap only shook his head, offering a lopsided smile.

“I’ll be fine. Let’s go.”

You were afraid your legs would refuse to move, but were so grateful when they didn’t. The warmth that bloomed in your chest at Soap’s sacrifice warmed you more than the jacket itself, although it did keep out the worst of the biting wind. You both trudged through the snow toward the village, teeth chattering and bone-cold. You walked in relative quiet, broken only by Soap’s soft inquiries.

“How’re you holding up, hen?”

“I can’t feel my toes, Soap.” “Hang in there, Shrike. We’re almost to the safehouse.”

As the town came into view, your vision began to swim. You’d been given the safehouse address. Now you just had to find it so you could lie down and bundle up until Price could send someone to get you.

You breathed a sigh of relief as Soap found the house, prying off one of the address numbers to reveal a key. He opened the door, revealing a tiny studio. It took less than a minute to clear- the only room with a door was the bathroom. While Soap dug out the radio system hidden under the sink, you turned the heater on full blast and looked for blankets. You found a pile in a cupboard, dropped them onto the foot of the bed, and headed toward the kitchen in search of a kettle to heat some water.

You only vaguely heard Soap talking to Price through the fog in your mind, something about getting some rest and pickup in the morning. Then, very suddenly, you found yourself looking up at the ceiling, wondering when you’d stopped shivering.

“Shrike? Shite!” You only realized you’d fallen when Soap pulled you upright. “Shrike?” He raised one hand to your neck, feeling for your pulse. He cursed under his breath, muttering in an unintelligibly thick Scottish accent as he hauled you up against his chest. You were vaguely aware of being carried into the small bathroom and deposited on the countertop there. You squeezed your eyes shut, fighting to stay awake. You were suddenly so sleepy.

You opened your eyes when you heard a squelching sound, freezing as you watched Soap strip off his clothes. You’d seen him without a shirt, but only in passing in the halls on base. Never this close, and never with no one around to check your gaze. Nevertheless, you’d memorized his scars the last time you saw his bare chest. He had some new ones since then. You stared at his rippling muscles as he unbuttoned his pants, peeling the wet material off his toned legs, leaving him standing in front of you in nothing but his dog tags and boxers. You tried not to stare at the outline you could see in the fabric as he took one step toward you to stand between your legs. Then his hands were on his jacket, the one you were wearing, pulling the zipper down and your arms out of it.

“Stay with me, Shrike,” he murmured. His hands shook as he unbuckled your tac vest and pulled it off. You raised your arms as he pulled up your hoodie, then your shirt, leaving you i n just a sports bra. You let your own hands rest on his chest as you lowered them.

You giggled, tracing patterns across his pecs and down his ribs. His muscles jumped under your fingertips. “What are you doing, Johnny?”

His cheeks reddened as he glanced up, dutifully keeping his eyes on the task at hand as he hastily pulled off your boots and pants.

“I’m trying to get you warm,” he said. “What are you doing?”

“Checking you out,” you said boldly, arching an eyebrow at him and smiling. You weren’t sure where the confidence had come from, but you’d had a crush on him since day one and you’d be damned if you didn’t make the most of this opportunity. He had just reached up to grip your hips and he faltered for a moment before pulling you down off the counter. He turned you around, walking you toward the bed with his hands on your waist until pulling back the covers. Soap sat, pulling you down between his legs and back against his chest. He pulled up the extra blankets, wrapping them around both of your shoulders. You giggled again, wiggling back against him as his arms wound around you. You couldn’t tell whether he shuddered or whether it was just his shivering. You’d started to shiver again, yourself.

“Stay with me,” he repeated. His body trembled around you, proof that he probably should have kept his jacket after all. His hands rubbed your shoulders, occasionally tracing the straps of your sports bra, and he curled his legs up, bringing yours with them. His knees held yours together and he shifted one arm down to circle your waist, keeping your back pressed to his chest and your hips connected. One hand brushed your hip and he tilted his head so that his chin rested in the crook of your shoulder. His hold on you was tight, but reassuring. You savored the way you fit perfectly in his embrace.

Your bare skin felt numb, even under the pile of blankets.

Everywhere Soap’s skin touched felt scalded. 

“You’re so hot,” you murmured. 

You felt as much as heard when Soap chuckled low in his chest. “I’m actually freezing.” His voice shook when he spoke.

You leaned your head back on his shoulder, turning so that your cheek touched his. “You know that’s not what I meant,” you whispered.

“I know,” he smiled, eyes fixed on some point across the room. “I’m just trying to save you from saying things you don’t mean, so you don’t regret them later.”

When you cocked your head at him, shifting in his arms to better face him, his smile dropped. “C’mon, Shrike, don’t make this any harder than it already is.” Hope flared in your chest like a bonfire. Your mind ran through all the possibilities of that statement, and every one of them suggested attraction to your lovesick mind. You stared blankly at him and he tipped his head back against the headboard, heaving a sigh. “I’m sure Gaz would be none too pleased if I made a move on you when you were only flirting because of hypothermia.”

“Gaz..?” You didn’t understand what Gaz had to do with Soap making a move on you, and you were too confused to focus on either the fact that he said that he might, or that he had just admitted he knew you were flirting with him. Your heart beat wildly in your chest. You barely dared to breathe. 

Soap’s face flamed as he looked away. He had stopped shivering so badly, but his voice still shook a bit when he spoke. “You and Gaz. I know you’re… well, something. I’d never-”

You hadn’t imagined it. Your snort cut him off. “Gaz and I are friends, that’s it.” Now it was Soap’s turn to stare blankly. You fought to speak normally, not with the giddy optimism you felt. “Remember the day Price introduced me to you all? Gaz was the first one to shake my hand, and then he showed me around base? I knew right off the bat that Ghost didn’t trust me and I thought you wouldn’t either, since you two were clearly so close.”

That brought a smile out of Soap. As much as Ghost tried to play it off, the two had definitely become good friends over their time working together. Soap loved to flaunt his position as the resident boogeyman’s right hand, to anyone who would listen. But mostly to the boogeyman himself.

You turned again, snuggling closer into his hold. His arms tightened around you, almost imperceptibly. “Anyway, yeah- Gaz was my first friend. But he’s just my friend. Nothing more than that. You and Ghost are Batman and Robin, Gaz and I are Mario and Luigi.” Soap barked a laugh, and you grinned.

When his cold nose nudged behind your ear, you couldn’t even pretend your shudder was from the cold. You gathered the last of your courage, waning with the arctic chill in your bones, but bolstered by his near-confession. “So tell me, Sergeant.” You’d lowered your voice, turning up all the charm you possessed. “What am I making ‘harder than it needs to be’?” Soap froze, and panic washed over you like water as cold as the river you’d come out of. He hadn’t been confessing anything. It had been nothing more than his usual firefight flirting, harmless and silly and just a little cocky and oh-so-hot and why would you ever think he could actually be interested in you and-

Soap flipped you, one arm around your waist as he lay between your legs, propped up by the elbow next to your shoulder. Before your mind could catch up with what was happening, he leaned down, lips a hairs’ breadth from yours, and hesitated. It was the longest and shortest second of your life. You could feel his warm breath on your parted lips as his eyes scanned your face, looking for any sign of hesitation. You half expected him to lean back up, all mischievous smile and twinkling eyes, and tease you. He knew. He knew how you felt and he was going to mock you for it. Then he leaned down, eyes fluttering shut. His lips brushed yours softly, barely touching, and your mind went blessedly quiet. Your body responded of its own accord; your knees came up, framing his waist and squeezing lightly; one hand went to his bicep, lightly grasping there; the other slid to the back of his neck.

You pulled him closer.

The kiss turned feral in a heartbeat.

The arm around your waist tightened, pulling you half up off the bed, as he let more of his body weight rest against you. His tongue traced the seam of your lips, begging for entrance. You happily gave it. Your tongues slid together, fighting for dominance as you each tried to deepen the kiss even more. You raised a leg, wrapping it around his waist, and he groaned your name into your mouth. When you pulled on his mohawk, his head fell to your neck as he sucked softly on your collarbone.

“Johnny,” you breathed. He swore, lifting his head to kiss you again. He pulled his arm out from under you, running a warm hand across your bare skin from your hip to the back of your knee where it wrapped around him, before wrenching you up against him. You gasped at what you felt. If you’d had any doubt before, there was none now- Johnny was packing. You could feel the heat of him through both your underwear and his boxers. Time seemed to slow as he rocked gently against you, pressing his forehead to yours as your hands cradled the back of his head. He was panting, pressing light kisses against your face. He dropped his head to your shoulder, tucking his face into your neck. He seemed to be steeling himself, trying desperately not to move.

“Not kissing you,” he whispered. It took you a moment to think through the haze of lust and realize he was answering your earlier question. “What am I making harder than it needs to be?” “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that.”

Some of your earlier boldness had returned, shored up by his clear physical response. “Only that?” you whispered back.

The groan of your name on his lips was the single most beautiful thing you’d ever heard.

“What?” you teased. “That’s all you want?”

He tugged at the back of your knee again, pressing you against himself. You both stifled moans. “You know damn well that’s not all I want. I want you. All of you.” He turned his head, ghosting his lips against your cheek. “I’ve wanted all of you from the moment you asked me why a ghost would need soap.”

You started, turning his head with your hands so you could look into his eyes. “That’s the first thing I ever said to you.” He nodded, gaze unflinching. His eyes smoldered, but there was a softness in them you’d only seen a handful of times over the years. When your brother joined the military, following in your footsteps. When your best friend’s husband cheated on her. When your mother died. Any time you’d cried in his arms.

“T-that was the day we first met,” you stuttered out. Again, he nodded solemnly. He turned his head in your hands, kissing your palm. 

“I knew right away,” he whispered. Soap had laughed, a fully belly laugh, and clapped you on the back. Ghost had rolled his eyes, and you’d hoped his reservations about you would fade. Not only so you could get closer to the devilishly handsome, charming Sargeant who followed his every step. When you didn’t say anything, he released your leg, mumbling apologies and sitting back on his heels. The loss of his body weight and heat, along with the blankets, made you shiver all over again. Johnny didn’t see it- he was running his hands over his face, head hanging. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have… I had no right, please forgive me-”

You reached out a hand, grasping his wrist to stop him from retreating any further. “Forgive you for what?” you asked softly. His face was pained as he struggled to hold your stare.

“For taking advantage,” he began. But you shook your head, reaching out your other hand to touch his cheek. You didn’t think he even realized that he leaned into your touch.

“You didn’t take advantage of anything.” You scooted forward on your knees, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth. You leaned up, kissing along his jaw, before licking a stripe of skin just behind his ear. He trembled under your touch as you ran a hand down his arm and pressed yourself against him. “I want you, too. So you should take me.”

“Steamin’-,” Soap groaned your name. “You can’t just say that to me,” he whined, breathless. His fists were clenched, eyes squeezed shut as your fingertips skimmed his skin.

“And why’s that?” you teased. You were sure that nothing could ever match the rush you were getting from his reactions to you.

“Because,” he ground out. He’d lost the fight to keep his hands off and they now rested on your hips, intermittently squeezing the flesh and hovering. His pupils were blown, nearly eclipsing his irises. You’d never seen hunger like that in your life and it set you on fire. “If I start with you, I won’t be able to stop.” His voice was lower, hoarse. Desperate.

You scooted forward until your knees touched his, pressing as much of your body against his as you could. His entire body quivered in his struggle not to devour you whole. You dragged your lips up the column of his throat, pausing when they brushed the shell of his ear. “Then I suggest, Sergeant, that you don’t stop.”

Johnny didn’t need to be told twice.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

You woke up to a soft thudding sound in your ear. You were so comfortable that you didn’t want to move, but then you remembered you were on the field. Your head snapped up, looking around the tiny room. The thudding had stopped, and when you looked down, you realized why. 

You’d been sleeping with your head on Johnny’s chest, his heartbeat in your ear. His arms were still wrapped tightly around you, face turned toward yours. He looked younger asleep. No worry lines creased his handsome face, and his brows were relaxed instead of their usual serious, lowered state. His lips were just slightly parted, breath softly fanning across your shoulder.

The night came back to you in one big wave. Kissing Johnny, straddling him, holding him close between your legs, his mouth on your neck, your mouth on his shoulder, your name on his tongue, being pressed to the wall, the stretch of him, and both of your hands seemingly everywhere at once. You ached everywhere in the most delicious way. Even your throat was sore from moaning his name over and over and over again as he made good on his promise that his mouth was good for more than just talk.

Your cheeks flushed remembering.

As if sensing your racing heart and thoughts, Johnny stirred. His arms tightened around you, pulling you nearly on top of him as his eyes fluttered open. He smiled when his eyes settled on you, slow and lazy.

“I thought I dreamed all of that,” he said softly. His voice was husky with sleep, accent thicker than normal, eyes soft as he stroked your cheek with the back of his hand.

You quickly weighed whether or not you were prepared to deal with the cockiness that would come with your next statement. “Certainly good enough to be a dream,” you whispered. The grin that split Johnny’s face was instant and radiant.

“Oh, aye?” he asked. “Would you say it’s everything you’d dreamed of?”

“I love you,” he’d gasped, holding the back of your head to his shoulder as you fell apart for what must have been the tenth or hundredth time. “I love you,” he’d repeated as he lost control, trembling violently in you and in your arms. “Oh, God, I love you,” he’d whispered as you cried out his name and carried him in a vice grip right over the edge with you. You’d never dared to confront your feelings for him too deeply, refusing to dig beneath the surface of the crush you’d harbored for him. In all your wildest dreams, you’d never begun to imagine him putting to words what you felt- and never in the most intimate moment of your life.

“Better than my dreams,” you mumbled, turning your head away from his and pressing your cheek to his chest. Out of the corner of your eye, you could see a purple bruise you’d sucked into his shoulder. You winced, raising your head to apologize, but before you could even open your mouth, Johnny turned your head and kissed you softly. You kissed him back, and then smirked as a thought crossed your mind. “Dream of me often, then?” you asked.

Johnny’s eyes darkened as he pulled you down for a searing kiss. “Every night,” he whispered. You shuddered. You could already feel his body responding beneath you as you kissed him again, smiling to yourself when he groaned. He reached for the tiny bedside table, muttering about a clock, and found the alarm there.

He turned a wicked grin toward you. “We’ve got time for round two.”

“Round two?” you shrieked. Johnny snickered as he lifted you up, your legs automatically wrapping around his waist. Round five was no less impressive than the first four, in no small part due to the added feat of Johnny holding you up against the cold shower wall while the hot water beat down on you both. 

“I can’t believe,” he’d panted “That we could have been doing this all this time.”

“You should scold Gaz for getting in your way,” you’d panted back. Johnny had practically growled at that, picking up his pace.

“I’m about to scold you for saying another man’s name while I’m inside you.”

He came undone the moment you moaned his name in his ear, pulling you off the ledge with him.

By the time you’d actually managed to get clean, your clothes had miraculously dried despite laying crumpled on the tile floor all night. You were thankful as you both stepped out into the flurry of wind and snow to trudge up the hillside toward the evac point. You hiked in companionable silence, only breaking it once you could see the ridge where you’d be picked up.

“How’s your wrist?” you asked. You’d been worried about it all night, but Johnny either hadn’t been in pain or hadn’t been in enough pain to pay it any mind.

“It’ll be fine,” he answered, smiling at you over his shoulder. “How’s your… you?” You both snickered at that.

“It’ll be fine,” you parroted. Your Scottish accent was horrible, but Johnny beamed at it all the same. You were about to pull yourself up by a rock when he grabbed your wrist, nudging you until your back touched a tree. He tilted your chin up with his knuckles, lowering his head slowly to kiss you tenderly. You sighed into the kiss, reaching up to wrap your arms around his shoulders, and he held you close by your waist. His lips tugged at yours softly, lightly dragging your bottom lip between his teeth before pulling back to look at you intensely. He seemed to be trying to memorize every inch of your face.

“We can’t tell anyone, can we?” you whispered.

For a long moment, Johnny was silent. When he finally answered, his voice was low. Sorrowful. “I don’t know,” he said.

You nodded, pasting a smile on your face even as your heart throbbed. “That’s okay. We’ll figure something out.”

He smiled back. “Yeah, we will.” Your smile felt a little more genuine after that. You trekked the last bit up the hill, and by the time you reached the top, you could hear the whir of the chopper. You shared one last longing look at each other from a respectable distance before the bird touched down. When the door opened, Ghost’s skull plate greeted you.

“You guys injured?” he shouted. You both shook your heads, clambering in and strapping yourselves into harnesses on opposite sides of the chopper. Ghost slammed the door, strapping himself in again on your side.

He stared at Soap, some look you couldn’t quite read. When you glanced to Johnny, his eyebrow was raised at his partner.

“You look like you haven’t slept in a week,” Ghost rumbled.

Soap looked to you, then back to his friend. He lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “We didn’t get much rest- too cold,” he said evenly. If you didn’t know it was a lie, you’d have believed him. But something in the way Ghost held his stare told you that he didn’t. He could read everyone like a book, but especially Johnny. You needn’t have worried, though. Soap started right in on recapping the mission for his friend, chattering away as he always did, and you watched as Ghost’s shoulders relaxed the tiniest bit while he listened. His gaze flicked to you every so often, and you added to the tale where you saw fit. Ghost took your words as truth- he trusted you now, years later, after you’d proven yourself to him and the rest of the team.

You smiled to yourself. It would be good to see the rest of the team, to be back on base, in the comfort of your own bed… and you were sure Soap would find his way there, too.

[bee-rosmyth-art]

Chelley week, day 6 - Heartbeat

He could feel something through his arms as he supported her, a faint double-time tremor feeding back into the pressure sensors of his new body. It took him a little while to realise that it was the sound of her heart.

It was a terrifyingly small, fragile thing, that sound. Especially considering that- if the sketchy scraps of human biology he remembered were correct- that quivering knot of muscle in there was the only thing keeping her going. It seemed completely wrong to Wheatley that she, always so tough and unstoppable, should be dependant on something that vulnerable. Any designer worth their salt, he reasoned, any sane engineer, would surely have made it the other way around.

(Excerpt from Blue Sky, by Waffles)

[fountainpenguin]

Went down a very specific research pipeline last night, and now you get to share it with me:

Does Dev have hypoglycemia?

Low levels of blood sugar that - when they drop - can lead to irritability, confusion, headaches, exhaustion, shaking, rapid heartbeat, blurry vision, passing out, seizures, or even death. Blood sugar can drop about 2 to 4 hours after eating; snacks and additional small meals are very needed; sugary foods like hard or gummy candies can give a quick boost, as can juice or soda. I'm continuing my research after this post, so please forgive/inform me if I've mixed up details between different types of hypoglycemia- or just got something totally wrong.

FOP: A New Wish is set in modern times (i.e. not the far future). He's allowed to have drones in the classroom with him- They're acknowledged as his assistants and the teachers know about them.

Potentially, they may function under similar rules to service dogs- another sentient creature that would be allowed in class (ignoring that Dev is sometimes away from them, or that they went into the halls on their own in "28 Puddings Later").

We know Dev is self-reliant enough to get by without his au pairs. They help him, but they're not something he needs 24/7.

Insert joke about the au pairs needing off-duty time like service dogs and sometimes they just go play. Union rules...

We know they have the capability to "alert on Dev" like service dogs... or at least, this one looked at Dev and beeped when scanning a paper, and even projected an exclamation point to catch his eye:

The visual-verbal cue combo is definitely an intentional feature (And it's not like it greeted him by name- it just beeped and he knew what it was conveying).

We know that at the end of "Lost and Founder's Day," this au pair - despite being a machine - recognized Dev was sad (or at least low energy) and patted him on the head.

Au Pair: I would hug you, but I do not have human arms or warmth.

Earlier in this episode, we see the au pairs respond to people based on data they were being fed through sensors people were wearing on their wrists. Dev might have one here, though we know he was upset to find out his dad was using them to zap people and he's sad about his dad not loving him, so it's likely he's not wearing it.

This implies the au pairs don't have enough data about most people, but they DO have internal data about Dev. If not internal, they can read him well. We do know they're good at reading cues- They get embarrassed during the festival when they find out problems have been corrected before they got there and we didn't see the Dimmlets shock anyone to prompt the au pairs to acknowledge the situation changed. What does it say about the au pairs if they're implied to be Dale's creation and they see sad Dev and think "I should hug him."

The Off Puddin' brand of pudding is so desirable that the whole class became addicted; they had withdrawals when Hazel changed her "unlimited pudding" wish to be "pudding after we take our class picture" wish- Just like everyone else, Dev was one of the affected individuals and ate all the pudding he could get his hands on.

If the pudding is that delicious, it's interesting Dev kept some (even if this is a new batch from a different pudding day) and snacked on it in Fairy World... and didn't give into impulses to eat it some random day beforehand:

I guess we can't prove it's the same brand, but it's presumably the same model from "28 Puddings Later." I think it's the only item we know he brought to Fairy World beyond clothes and one au pair that he stands on. He doesn't even use his tablet in this episode (which he's normally glued to outside of school).

We can confirm Peri didn't poof this up for him (or at least, it's very unlikely since that would've been weeks ago). Dev eats this pudding after Irep ditches him to hang out with his dad- Extremely doubtful Dev got Irep's attention for his snack. Or Dale's, for that matter (if his dad brought some).

Canonically, the principal gives Dev lots of pudding because his dad made a "generous donation" to the school. It's possible he does this often since we know Dev hoards pudding every pudding day...

... which is interesting, because in "Stanky Danky," the news describes Dale as "billionaire non-philanthropist." Investing in his child's future for the sake of good education doesn't seem to be his M.O.... although he does send Dev to a private school, so maybe.

We know Dale hates losing money, and we know he's not the best dad to Dev... but we also know Dev has an official allergy card that names him in 3rd person-

- which could imply he got this card when he was young. That's not guaranteed, but I looked at some IRL cards and some use first-person, so it's food for thought.

Possibly, his dad even took him to the doctor for official diagnosis. Lactose intolerance can be hereditary, so if Dale has it, he may have identified it immediately after Dev's first reaction. For all Dale’s faults, Dev IS still alive and not starving to death - and still lives with his dad - so it's not improbable Dale's aware of his son's food needs. On a darker note... given Dale's abusive childhood, I feel like lack of food is something he has trauma around. Also, if Dale is lactose intolerant, I'd be curious to know how Dev found out he was, as I'd assume Dale wouldn't keep dairy in the house if he can't eat it. The two logical options here are "Dale took him for an allergy test" or "Dev ate dairy outside the house and got sick, so he told his dad / the au pairs." Maybe he found out in preschool?

Dev's au pair bringing him a snack! Their boy needs to eat!

Anyway, this was all leading up to these screenshots of Dev having no fun on the walk to Signal Hill that I found funny:

No energy... need sugar... Exercise did a number on him... Hazel takes a breather by crouching for a second, but Dev just slams his face in the grass and I think that's great.

Despite Dev not liking to walk, he and Hazel stopped their treasure hunt before the final clue and walked back to the Dimmadome place for food, so that's neat to think about (especially in the context of him snacking before he left the house... How long were they out? Did he even finish his snack?)

Dev's au pair was preemptively wearing a chef's hat when he and Hazel came back to the house, so I wonder if that's his routine lunch time on weekends. The au pairs are good caretakers who know their boy's schedule and needs...

Immediately after this scene, Dale asks what Dev and Hazel are up to "this fine afternoon," so it's probably after 1 pm. Noon at the earliest, but surely not an early lunch at 11 AM. Interesting consideration for the timing of Dev's snack... It makes sense if he was out with Hazel for 2 to 4 hours before he had to go home and eat, even though they were on the final riddle.

Come to think of it, one of the things we know about Dev's house is that there's a cereal bar and Peri brings him cereal... and the woozy Peri hallucinating about bringing Dev "his favorite cereal" (during the finale) seems to get to him one way or another.

Consider... Cosmo and Wanda poofed up hard candy when Peri came over because Dev needed sugar I DID wonder what they were up to considering sugar gets Fairies inebriated...

tl;dr - I like to think the reason on paper that Dev gets his au pairs in school is for medical reasons. They track his blood sugar and keep him from, y'know... going into a seizure or passing out. I can't imagine Dale would like that happening to his son at home either (if for no other reason than because it would be a huge distraction he has to deal with).

If this is something Dev's been dealing with since he was little, that plays into the au pairs accompanying him through his early years... We know he's both lactose intolerant and extremely picky, not liking any of the cupcakes Peri poofed up despite this many attempts:

- which I cannot imagine Dale had the patience to deal with long if he was Dev's primary caretaker in his earliest years.

I was gonna make a joke about Dale hiring someone to watch Dev - and let's be real; he probably did - but also... do you think this cocky guy would spend money when "It's a baby; how hard can it be? I also eat daily- This is just efficient use of my time!"

POV: Tired single dad who's not yet finalized his au pair design walks into grocery store with baby, buys cupcakes, leaves. Confuses every parent in the parking lot when he has a fussy Dev sitting on the back of the car and he's spoonfeeding him icing. They did not go home. Next stop will be the park, where Dale falls asleep on a bench while Dev eats bugs. Some parent sees Dev eating a chocolate bar and strikes up a conversation with Dale about what a big moment it was when they treated their child to chocolate and Dale's just like "I've been feeding him that his entire life." Dale pouring a soda in his toddler's sippy cup: Don't judge me.

At a certain point, when you're a billionaire single dad running multiple businesses and you're good at robotics, there comes a time when "It would make things easier if my young child (who's a very picky eater and can't have dairy) had a drone to follow him around, alert him when his blood sugar is about to drop, or assist if he passes out" makes a lot of sense. Especially if you have major trust issues from abuse and prefer relying on your own inventions.

It was a very relieving day for Dale when he finally had a reliable au pair to leave his son with, I'm sure. Didn't accidentally kill his son!! #Not as big a jerk as you could've been!

During my original liveblog for "Battle of the Dimmsonian," I was confused about Dev going from "I need to talk to Hazel" to trying to spook her and her friends by summoning ghosts. I'm definitely not excusing his bitter attitude in general as a hypoglycemia thing, but this is an episode that would make this headcanon funny:

Peri, internally: Listen here, you little brat- I've read your file. Now eat your freakin' cupcake. Icing is good for you. Dev: These are terrible >:( I'll go without. Peri: WHY? Dev later that day: If I tell Peri I need sugar, he'll be SUCH a pain about it. I opt to suffer...

Anyway, I think it's interesting and I'm going the "au pairs help Dev with a lot of things, but one of them is hypoglycemia" direction in my City Lights AU :)

If anyone's curious, I'm doing growth hormone deficiency that also lands him with a weak immune system- another thing the au pairs help him with. My full character profile for Dev will go into extra details about his life... Fun times.

Dale, planting his whiny and sick child on the floor by his desk and handing him a tablet, juice, and a bunch of hard candy: Big Boss has a work meeting. Don't go outside or you'll die. At this point, you're sunk costs and if I lose you, I'm gonna make it everyone's problem.

Bonus Theory:

Are Doug and Dale also lactose intolerant, and did Dale kill his dad's cows?

In Season 5 - "Mooooving Day" - Doug runs a business called Dimmadome Farms, which produces extreme amounts of milk from genetically modified cows. He uses this to keep the population of Dimmadome Acres totally happy and obedient.

Doug seems convinced the milk makes people happy and that it's a good thing, but he doesn't personally drink it. It's kind of funny to think he went the route of milk because his family is full of lactose intolerant individuals who won't accidentally drink it.

Genetics - Lactose intolerance is inherited in the autosomal recessive pattern- This means either both of Dev's parents are lactose intolerant, or they personally aren't but carry the gene.

Additionally, Dev will only pass lactose intolerance to his kids if his partner also has the gene- either intolerant or a carrier.

There's a chance Dev developed it without genetics, but it looks like there's a lot more variety there than I can cover in a single post. From what I've read, it's "uncommon in babies and young children." He's 9 when "Peace of Pizza" takes place, which might strengthen the argument that it's genetic in his family.

One of the businesses Dale lists as under his possession in "Lost and Founder's Day" is Dimm-'N-Out Burgers. Presumably this is a parallel of In-'N-Out Burger, which use beef patties. Notably, this is a business made up for A New Wish- It's never been portrayed as under Doug's ownership.

If Dimmadome Farms already existed in Dale's youth, it makes sense Dale would use the cows from there- You have to do something with the ones who aren't producing milk, so why not make money?

Technically, Dimmadome Acres was wiped out by magic, but it's possible Dimmadome Farms itself was outside premises of the suburban neighborhood, so maybe there were other cows.

We know by A New Wish, Dale has established himself as a tech mogul, but he probably wasn't one straight after being rescued from 7 years of abuse, which is heavily implied to have started when he was 9 (give or take). Consider:

Doug: I'm making drinks from a labor force of enslaved individuals I've trapped underground :) His son, who recently escaped a life of being forced to make drinks for 7 years underground: This is incredibly insensitive, actually.

Hey, there's something SUPER sus about Dale's underground lemonade stand abuse starting at age 9 when his dad's milk factory is also underground in a big trapdoor and relies on trapped people for labor... Do you think Vicky found the cows when she was a kid and lured Dale down there, but he was lactose intolerant and couldn't drink mind control milk, so she moved him somewhere else... I'm connecting the dots...

It's worrisome that Doug's instinctual response to Timmy saying he didn't want to drink milk was "What a baby," and then he jumps and corrects himself to "Aw, shucks"... What conspiracy am I uncovering... Doug, let me in- I just wanna talk about the home your son grew up in.

I mean, the alt theory is that Doug built his underground dairy farm and trapped people to work in it BECAUSE Dale told him where he'd been for the last 7 years and he went "Oh, that's brilliant!" and that's also terrible??

Anyway, Doug's thing is that he's constantly jumping from one business to the next, never staying consistent (beyond the beloved Dimmadome stadium).

Knowing how he's always go-go-go, it's very probable he'd get his son involved in business young. Maybe Dale started with a burger joint until the robotics work paid off! A spiteful direction for Dimmadome Farms indeed...

Me, having a sudden realization and looking up from my notes theorizing both Dev and Dale have OCD and ADHD, then glancing at my second monitor where I have references from "Moooving Day" of Doug's meticulously arranged town of pink houses and people wearing matching outfits:

... Ah.

[lilbabypanda-blog2]

Two sides of a Gem (part 2)

Part1

Aventurine x (stoneheart)reader

---

Aventurine ropes Ruby into helping him with a "high-stakes retrieval mission." There’s something valuable (a rare artifact, a piece of technology, or critical intel) locked away in an unstable area—like an abandoned research facility on an asteroid or a drifting IPC cargo ship that’s been overrun by rogue security bots.

The Shattered Abyss—an abandoned IPC cargo ship drifting along the asteroid belt—loomed before them.

like a decaying giant, its hull fractured and blackened against the cold backdrop of space. Faint glimmers of light flickered from deep within the derelict cargo ship, like a distant heartbeat struggling to keep pace.

Inside their IPC shuttle, Ruby stood unmoving. His gloved hands were folded neatly behind his back, his red eyes reflecting the damaged hull outside. His face, pale and smooth, held no expression as the soft hum of the ship’s engines filled the silence.

In contrast, Aventurine leaned back in the pilot’s seat, boots propped on the console, twirling a chrome coin between his fingers. His sandy-blond hair fell loosely over his mismatched cyan and magenta eyes, which glinted with excitement.

“Ah, Ruby, take a look out there.” Aventurine gestured with the coin towards the looming wreckage. “The Shattered Abyss. Doesn’t it just scream adventure? Danger? Treasure?”

Ruby’s head tilted slightly, his voice flat and calm. “Hull breaches detected. Oxygen levels critical. Security protocols likely still active. Survival odds remain—”

Aventurine cut him off with a grin. “Now, now, don’t ruin the mood with your statistics. I prefer to think of it as... high-risk, high-reward.”

Ruby’s eyes briefly flickered to Aventurine before returning to the viewport. “Proceeding without adequate preparation is inadvisable.”

Aventurine smirked and leaned forward, propping his elbows on his knees. “Relax, friend. Diamond said you’re here to keep me alive, and I trust you’ll do your job.”

There was a brief silence before Ruby turned his head slightly. “Initiating docking procedures.”

The shuttle clamped onto the docking bay with a metallic thunk, and the airlock hissed open, revealing the shadowed interior of the derelict ship. Cold air rushed into the shuttle, carrying with it the faint scent of rust, ozone, and decay.

Aventurine stepped inside first, flashlight in hand, as his boots crunched softly against scattered debris. “Feels like walking into a haunted house, doesn’t it? Do you believe in ghosts, Ruby?”

“Supernatural entities remain unproven by IPC scientific standards,” Ruby replied, following closely behind, his steps silent and precise.

“Of course, you’d say that.” Aventurine chuckled and glanced over his shoulder.

As they navigated the maze of broken crates and debris, Aventurine casually picked up a dusty helmet and placed it on Ruby’s head.

“There! Now you look almost approachable,” Aventurine teased.

Ruby stopped walking. With a single gloved hand, he removed the helmet and set it aside neatly on a crate.

“Focus,” Ruby said flatly.

“Alright, alright,” Aventurine laughed. “You’re no fun, you know that?”

They advanced through the dim corridors, their flashlights cutting narrow beams through the darkness. The walls creaked faintly as the ship settled under its own weight, and the occasional spark from exposed wires illuminated the gloom.

Aventurine stopped suddenly and held up a hand. “Wait. Did you hear that?”

Ruby paused, sensors scanning the area. “No hostile activity detected.”

Aventurine turned dramatically to face Ruby. “Well, my gut tells me something’s watching us.”

“Your digestive system is not a reliable detection tool,” Ruby stated flatly.

Aventurine stared at him for a beat before laughing and clapping Ruby on the shoulder. “Oh, you kill me, Ruby. Come on—crate’s this way.”

The unstable flicker of the power core overhead painted the cargo hold in erratic flashes of blue and white light. Rusted metal groaned somewhere deep within the ship as if the derelict vessel was exhaling one final breath.

Ruby knelt by the reinforced IPC crate, his gloved fingers dancing across the holographic interface as rows of alien symbols flickered and shifted under his precision movements.

Aventurine crouched beside him, peeking nervously over the edge of the crate toward the rebooting turrets overhead. His mismatched cyan and magenta eyes were wide, and the faint glow of the energy cores reflected against them.

“Uh, Ruby? I don’t want to rush a guy with perfect posture and nerves of steel, but those turrets are looking awfully alive again.”

“Decryption is at 75%,” Ruby said evenly, not sparing him a glance.

“Yeah, well, we might not have 75% left!” Aventurine hissed, ducking lower as one turret made a faint whirring noise, its red targeting light blinking to life.

Ruby remained focused, his red eyes locked onto the data stream unraveling before him. Aventurine’s foot tapped against the grated floor, his breath coming in quick bursts.

Then, with a sharp ping, the crate’s lock disengaged.

“Decryption complete.”

Ruby pulled the crate lid open, revealing the glowing data core nestled safely within. The core emitted a soft golden light, intricate lines of energy swirling across its polished surface.

Aventurine let out an exaggerated sigh of relief. “Oh, finally. All this stress is going to add years to my already flawless face.”

But the moment was short-lived. The sound of energy capacitors charging filled the air as the turrets overhead fully powered on.

Ruby swiftly tucked the data core inside his coat, standing in one fluid motion. “Hostile systems active. Evasion required.”

“Translation: RUN!” Aventurine shouted as the turrets opened fire.

Energy bolts streaked through the air, scorching the ground and sending sparks flying in every direction. Ruby moved with the grace of a machine—his steps precise, his silhouette barely illuminated by the chaos around him. Aventurine, however, ran like a man whose life depended on it—because it did.

“I swear,” Aventurine huffed as he stumbled over a fallen crate, “I am not built for this kind of cardio!”

Ruby sprinted ahead, his coat flowing behind him. He reached the edge of the cargo hold and skidded to a stop in front of a sealed bulkhead. With sharp movements, he pulled a control tablet from his belt and began overriding the door.

Behind him, Aventurine ducked behind another crate as bolts slammed into the metal around him. One bolt struck uncomfortably close to his head, and he let out an unmanly yelp.

“Ruby, buddy, pal! Now would be a great time to use those magic fingers of yours!”

“The door requires 15 seconds to disengage.”

“Do I look like I have 15 seconds?!” Aventurine shrieked as another bolt singed the edge of his coat.

Ruby’s crimson eyes flicked briefly towards Aventurine before he made an unexpected decision. With calculated precision, he pivoted, raised his arm, and fired a wrist-mounted EMP dart at the nearest turret. The dart struck home, causing the turret to sputter and deactivate briefly.

“Move now,” Ruby ordered.

Aventurine didn’t need to be told twice. He bolted towards Ruby, practically diving behind him just as the bulkhead hissed and slid open.

The corridor beyond was narrow and bathed in flickering emergency lights. Ruby stepped through first, and Aventurine followed, clutching his chest as he bent over to catch his breath.

“Okay… okay… Let’s never do that again. Agreed?” Aventurine wheezed.

Ruby turned briefly, scanning Aventurine with a sharp red gaze. “Your physical stamina is inadequate for high-risk operations.”

Aventurine pointed a shaky finger at him. “You know, Ruby, sometimes I wonder if you enjoy these little moments where I almost die.”

“No enjoyment detected,” Ruby replied flatly.

Aventurine let out a breathless laugh. “You’re killing me, friend.”

But the sound of clanging metal echoed down the corridor behind them—something heavy, mechanical, and very much awake.

“Something is approaching,” Ruby stated, turning his head towards the sound.

“Yeah, I heard it too, thanks,” Aventurine said, backing up instinctively. “Please tell me there’s another door or exit somewhere around here.”

Ruby scanned their surroundings and located a maintenance hatch just above them. Without a word, he turned and crouched slightly. “Climb.”

Aventurine blinked. “Wait, what?”

Ruby turned his head slightly upward. “Climb.”

“Oh no, I am not climbing onto—”

Before Aventurine could finish, Ruby grabbed him by the waist, effortlessly lifted him, and shoved him up into the maintenance hatch.

“Hey! Watch the coat!” Aventurine protested as he scrambled awkwardly into the hatch.

Ruby leapt up after him with inhuman precision, pulling the hatch shut just as the corridor below them filled with the heavy stomping of mechanical sentries.

The narrow metal shaft was dimly lit and barely large enough for the two men to crawl through. Aventurine shuffled forward on his elbows, muttering under his breath.

“You know, for a supposed ‘elite IPC agent,’ you’ve got the bedside manner of a toaster oven.”

Ruby followed close behind, his movements completely silent. “Proceed quietly. Hostiles remain below.”

Aventurine froze and turned slightly, looking back at Ruby with a sly grin. “You know, Ruby, if we survive this, I’m buying you a drink. And by ‘drink,’ I mean I’m buying myself one, and you’ll stand there stoically watching me.”

“Unnecessary,” Ruby replied.

They continued through the shaft until they reached a secondary access point. Ruby gave Aventurine a small nudge, gesturing for him to move ahead.

As Aventurine clambered down into the secondary airlock bay, he let out an exaggerated groan as his boots hit solid ground.

“Finally! Freedom!”

Ruby followed gracefully, landing silently beside him. “The shuttle is located 50 meters from this access point.”

The sound of heavy mechanical stomps echoed from behind—a lumbering security drone, larger and far deadlier than the turrets they'd faced earlier. Its steps made the grated floor tremble, and the faint glow of its targeting sensors bathed the walls in crimson light.

“Okay, Ruby,” Aventurine said breathlessly as he sprinted forward, “tell me we’re almost there!”

“Twenty meters to the shuttle bay,” Ruby replied evenly, his crimson eyes glinting in the dim light.

“Fantastic. Wonderful. Just a brisk jog under enemy fire. Love it.” Aventurine let out a nervous laugh as a loud metallic clang sounded from behind them.

The drone was gaining.

Ruby’s eyes flickered to the side, noticing an overhead catwalk that stretched across the corridor—a narrow, rusted thing suspended above by fragile chains. His voice cut through the chaos like a knife.

“Change of route. Ascend the catwalk.”

Aventurine followed Ruby’s gaze upward and let out a groan. “Seriously? That thing looks like it’ll collapse if I breathe on it!”

But there wasn’t time for hesitation. Ruby reached up and gripped the exposed ladder rung, pulling himself upward in one fluid motion. Aventurine followed, scrambling up after him with far less grace.

Below them, the security drone stomped into view—a hulking mass of reinforced alloy with multi-barrel turrets mounted on each arm. Its red optical sensor scanned the corridor before locking onto them with a shrill beep.

“Hey, Ruby?” Aventurine said, voice trembling slightly as he looked down. “I think it sees us.”

Ruby didn’t respond. He was already halfway across the catwalk, moving with inhuman precision despite the unstable metal groaning beneath his boots. Aventurine hurried after him, gripping the rusted railings tightly as the drone aimed upward.

The barrels began to spin.

“Run!” Ruby’s voice came sharp and clear.

The drone fired. Bullets ripped through the catwalk, shredding metal and sending sparks cascading like falling stars. Aventurine flinched as a bullet whizzed past his face, slicing a thin cut across his cheek.

“Holy—Ruby!”

The section of catwalk Aventurine was on groaned loudly before the supports gave way.

Time seemed to slow.

Aventurine’s mismatched eyes went wide as the metal beneath him snapped with a loud CRACK! His arms flailed as he reached out, desperately grasping for something—anything—to stop his fall.

But gravity was cruel.

The catwalk collapsed, and Aventurine plummeted towards the drone below, which was already aiming its weapons at him mid-fall.

“No!” Ruby’s voice rang out—not loud, not panicked, but sharp and commanding.

With impossible speed, Ruby lunged forward and launched himself off the remaining catwalk, diving headfirst towards Aventurine. His coat flared behind him like a crimson streak as he closed the distance.

In a fraction of a second, Ruby’s gloved hand shot out and caught Aventurine’s wrist.

The drone fired just as Ruby twisted mid-air, pulling Aventurine close to his chest as they fell. Energy rounds screamed past them, scorching the air inches from their bodies.

Ruby’s other hand shot out, grabbing a loose steel cable hanging from the ceiling. The force of their momentum yanked them hard, and Ruby grunted as his arm absorbed the weight of both their bodies. The cable swung wildly, carrying them across the corridor like a pendulum.

Below, the drone recalibrated its aim, targeting them again as they swung past.

“Ruby, I think I’m gonna be sick!” Aventurine shouted, clutching Ruby’s arm with both hands as they dangled above death.

“Hold on,” Ruby said flatly, his crimson eyes fixed on a maintenance hatch protruding from the wall nearby.

With one powerful swing, Ruby released the cable at the peak of their arc. They sailed through the air and crashed into the hatch, tumbling inside with a heavy thud.

The hatch slammed shut behind them, and the drone’s angry targeting lasers flickered harmlessly across the sealed metal door.

Aventurine lay sprawled on his back, gasping for air as sweat dripped down his face. His hands trembled as he wiped at the thin cut on his cheek.

“Okay,” he wheezed, staring up at the cramped steel ceiling. “Okay, let’s… let’s never do that again.”

Ruby knelt nearby, straightening his coat with smooth, practiced movements. His expression remained unreadable, his red eyes glowing faintly in the dim light.

“You are unharmed,” Ruby stated, his voice low and even.

Aventurine sat up, staring at Ruby with wide eyes. “You… You caught me. You jumped for me! Do you have any idea how insane that was?!”

Ruby’s head tilted slightly. “You were in critical danger. Intervention was required.”

Aventurine let out a sharp laugh—half relief, half disbelief. “Critical danger?! Ruby, you pulled off some kind of action holovid stunt! I should be dead. We both should be dead.”

Ruby simply stared at him, unblinking.

For a moment, the two men sat in silence—the sound of their uneven breathing filling the confined space. Aventurine rubbed at his face before glancing back at Ruby.

“Thanks… for saving me,” Aventurine said quietly. His mismatched eyes softened, and his usual grin faltered just slightly. “I mean it.”

Ruby stared at him for a moment before responding. “Gratitude is unnecessary.”

“Yeah, well, you’re getting it anyway.” Aventurine chuckled softly, leaning his head back against the wall. “Remind me to buy you something shiny after this mission. Maybe… a nice coat. Or nice shoes...do u need a new wardrobe?”

Ruby blinked slowly. “No.”

Aventurine laughed again, the tension in his shoulders finally starting to fade.

Ruby shifted slightly, peeking through a grated vent in the hatch. “The shuttle bay is directly ahead. Hostiles remain below. Evasion route is clear.”

Aventurine sighed and pushed himself to his feet. “Alright, alright. Back into the frying pan, huh?”

Ruby turned back towards him, offering a gloved hand. Aventurine stared at it for a brief second before smirking and clasping it firmly.

“Lead the way, friend.”

With a faint nod, Ruby turned and began crawling through the maintenance shaft again, Aventurine following close behind.

The mission wasn’t over yet—but for now, both men carried the weight of a near-death experience in the silence between them.

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

The sleek silhouette of the IPC shuttle touched down on the designated landing pad with a faint hiss of hydraulics and pressurized air. The vessel’s polished surface reflected the harsh overhead lights of the IPC Headquarters hangar, a sprawling structure alive with the hum of distant machinery and the distant chatter of personnel moving about their business.

The shuttle hatch opened with a sharp hiss, and Ruby stepped out first, his coat pristine despite the chaos they’d endured. Aventurine followed closely behind, adjusting his slightly singed coat with a dramatic flourish.

“Ah, solid ground. You know, Ruby, I missed this cold, unyielding floor more than I ever thought possible.” Aventurine stretched his arms above his head and let out an exaggerated sigh. “I think I’m going to frame these boots and hang them on my wall after today.”

Ruby walked ahead, ignoring the dramatics, his red eyes glowing faintly in the hangar’s sterile light. Aventurine jogged to catch up, falling into step beside him as they made their way through the bustling corridors of IPC Headquarters.

Opal’s office was a stark contrast to the bustling hangar—a small, clinical space filled with neatly organized data terminals and softly glowing holographic screens. Despite its compact size, it commanded a certain authority, a reflection of the man who resided within.

Behind a polished desk sat Opal, his small Pepeshi-like frame perched on an elevated chair. His large, inquisitive eyes flickered toward the two men as they entered. Standing nearby, Jade leaned casually against a console, arms crossed and sharp emerald eyes glinting with curiosity.

“You’re back in one piece,” Jade said smoothly, her gaze sweeping over the two arrivals. “I’ll admit, I had a bet running on whether Aventurine would be carried in over Ruby’s shoulder.”

“Hey!” Aventurine protested, clutching his chest theatrically. “Jade, I’m wounded. Both physically and emotionally.”

Opal let out a tired sigh, one small hand rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Enough. Do you have it?”

Without hesitation, Ruby stepped forward, producing the glowing data core from the inner pocket of his coat. He placed it gently on Opal’s desk, the golden lines swirling across its surface reflecting in the small man’s eyes.

Opal reached out with his gloved hands, carefully pulling the data core closer. His expression remained neutral, but there was a flicker of something in his gaze—relief, perhaps, or satisfaction.

“Well done,” Opal said softly, his voice carrying a weight that made both Aventurine and Ruby pause.

Jade stepped closer, her sharp heels clicking against the polished floor. She tapped one of the holographic displays on Opal’s desk, verifying the core’s integrity.

“It’s intact,” she confirmed with a nod. “This data… It’s going to change a lot of things.”

Aventurine leaned casually against a nearby console, his usual grin plastered across his face. “You know, I’d love to say it was easy, but—”

“—it wasn’t,” Ruby cut in flatly.

Aventurine threw his hands up. “See? Even Ruby agrees. We earned our paychecks today.”

Opal ignored the banter, his large eyes narrowing as he looked between the two men. “You’ve done well, both of you. But this success comes with increased scrutiny. We can’t afford missteps moving forward.”

Jade’s emerald eyes flicked towards Ruby, sharp and calculating. “Ruby, you’ve proven yourself time and time again. But Aventurine…” She smirked faintly. “I’m surprised you’re still breathing.”

“Luck favors the bold, my dear Jade,” Aventurine said with a cocky grin, brushing imaginary dust off his shoulder.

“Enough,” Opal said again, his small voice cutting through their exchange. He carefully placed the data core into a secure containment box, which sealed shut with a metallic clink. “Your mission is complete. Go. Rest, recover. You’ll be briefed on your next assignments soon.”

Ruby gave a small nod, turning sharply on his heel and exiting the office without another word. Aventurine lingered just a moment longer, giving Jade a playful wink before following Ruby out.

The corridors of IPC Headquarters stretched before them, sterile and quiet compared to the chaos they had left behind on the derelict ship. Ruby walked with his usual precision, his movements silent and deliberate. Aventurine walked beside him, hands stuffed in his coat pockets as his mismatched eyes flicked toward Ruby.

“You know, friend, you really saved my ass back there,” Aventurine said, his tone softer than usual. “That whole mid-air cable swing stunt? I’ll be telling that story for years.”

Ruby didn’t respond immediately, his crimson gaze fixed forward. Finally, he spoke.

“You would not have survived without intervention.”

Aventurine let out a low chuckle. “Yeah, well, I’m glad you intervened. For someone who doesn’t crack jokes or smile, you’re… dependable, Ruby. That counts for something.”

Ruby’s head tilted slightly, but he didn’t reply.

They reached a fork in the corridor. Aventurine paused, giving Ruby a small, genuine smile—one without the usual smirk or bravado.

“Alright, friend. I’m heading this way. You… do whatever it is you do when no one’s watching.”

Ruby gave a faint nod in response before turning and walking in the opposite direction.

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

Ruby entered a private, secured chamber—a quiet space dimly lit by soft, ambient lighting. In the center of the room sat Y/N, her posture relaxed as she leaned back in a chair with a small data pad in her hand.

She looked up as Ruby entered, her lips curling into a warm smile.

“Welcome back, Ruby.”

Ruby walked over and stopped in front of her, standing straight and composed. “Mission complete. The data core was delivered without compromise.”

Y/N’s smile grew softer. “You did well. Aventurine too, I assume?”

Ruby hesitated for a fraction of a second. “He required… assistance. But he performed adequately.”

Y/N let out a quiet laugh. “That sounds about right.”

She stood up and walked closer, reaching out to gently place her hand on Ruby’s gloved arm.

“You did great today. I’m proud of you.”

For a brief moment, Ruby’s stoic mask seemed to waver. A faint flicker of something—relief, perhaps—passed through his crimson eyes.

Y/N gave his arm a gentle squeeze before turning back towards her desk.

“Go rest, Ruby. You’ve earned it.”

Ruby gave a faint nod and turned towards the exit. But just as he was about to leave, he noticed something small placed neatly on a nearby table—a sleek, polished crimson gemstone set into a black cufflink, reflecting the faint light of the room.

A note sat beside it in Y/N’s delicate handwriting:

“For Ruby. A little something to remind you that even the strongest stone deserves a little shine.”

Ruby paused, picking up the cufflink with careful precision. For the faintest moment, a small, nearly imperceptible smile crossed his lips before vanishing just as quickly.

Without another word, he turned and walked out, the gemstone catching the light as he disappeared into the shadows of the corridor.