#I thought about giving him a scruffy beard to make him look more disheveled but I couldn’t get it to look right

[wolfgangevenstar]

For a drawing request: maybe ck era pic of Johnny trying to be romantic and cooking something for Daniel (and probably failing but it's the thought that counts and Daniel's still enamored lol)?

Okay love this suggestion! I could only muster up a quick doodle but let me tell you I had the urge to write a full blown fic about this lmao

Hope you like it :)

[xxlittle0birdxx]

Every Story Has a Beginning

Read on AO3

'Erp!' The training droid's lightsaber slipped past Obi-wan's defenses and tapped the back of his calf. The jolt of energy temporarily seized his muscles in the grip of a painful cramp, and he fell to his knees. He waved a hand at the droid, shutting it down, then collapsed onto his back, panting for air, and lay gazing up at the dojo’s high ceiling, criss-crossed with several rafters. Karking stupid mistake, he moaned to himself. It was the sort of error a youngling would make. He’d allowed his concentration to slip for a tiny fraction of a second. He swiped his face with an already-sodden sleeve and sighed, acknowledging the source of his lapse of concentration.

Anakin.

Obi-wan sat up and rested his forearms on his bent knees, letting his hands dangle between them. What had the Council been thinking to let him take Anakin as an apprentice? True, he’d done his share of baby-tending in the crèche, but infants weren’t nine year old Padawans. And Obi-wan had little experience with being solely responsible for the well-being of a child.

And Anakin wasn't a mere child.

It had nothing to do with any of the Chosen One prophecies. Anakin's life experience made him far more jaded than his age would suggest. He was, what Rael would call, street-smart. The years of toiling for that Toydarian on Tatooine made him more proficient that most adult Jedi with machinery, and he was forever neglecting his studies to tinker with something. The few times he’d casually offered his perspective as a child slave in one of his classes resulted in shocked, horrified silence, so heavy with disapproval, that it took Obi-wan days to reassure Anakin that no, he had done nothing wrong, and the disapproval wasn’t aimed at him. The concept of play was an alien concept to Anakin. For all their supposed solemnity, Padawans played hard in their leisure time, with their chosen pursuits ranging from dejarik to the rather odd game from Chandrila that involved a stick and a ball, with a great deal of running, throwing, and catching. For a child who'd spent most of his days working, idleness of any sort was anathema. He struggled to find the stillness within him to meditate. He struggled in his classes. Not with the material. He soaked up everything like a sponge, analyzed it, and applied it to the next lesson before it even started. He chafed against the expected behavior of the more typical Padawans. 'He's fidgety!' one of the instructors had sniffed to Obi-wan, like it was a disease. His flight instructors, though… One of them had already quietly informed Obi-wan — with no small sense of awe — that Anakin had already passed the qualifications to fly starfighters and small shuttles, and was well on his way to the larger vessels. The flight simulators were one of the few places where Anakin felt truly comfortable. That, and the dojo.

Obi-wan shivered as the sweat on his body evaporated, but he didn't move.

He felt he was always chastising the boy. Eat your vegetables. Fold your tunics, don't just wad them up in the drawer. Have you finished your homework? You must calm your thoughts. For Ashla's sake, Anakin, where the hell are your socks? Slow down; no one's going to take your food away. Anakin, you must go back to your classroom.

Obi-wan was completely over his head, and he didn't dare ask for help. It would have just reinforced Yoda's doubts about Anakin’s suitability as a Padawan and Obi-wan’s as a master. Obi-wan had initially thought the Council would let Anakin ease into the Order with the rest of the younglings, but they’d plopped Anakin the Apprentice into his unprepared and gobsmacked lap. He heaved a pitiful sigh. 'Be mindful of the past and future, Obi-wan, but not at the expense of the present,' he reminded himself, imitating Qui-gon's burr.

'That wasn't half-bad.' Obi-wan's head swung up. Rael Averross leaned against the doorframe. He still looked as scruffy and rumpled as he did when Obi-wan first met him on Pijal nearly seven years ago. Perhaps his robes were slightly less shabby. 'Time honored tradition to mock your master's voice,' Rael laughed. He took in the glowing holocron, the training droid, and Obi-wan's disheveled form, then pointed to the holocron. 'Form III?'

'I… Yes.'

‘Suits you.’

‘I suppose.’ He picked up his fallen lightsaber. Three months ago, he would have argued that he could master Ataru. Even two months ago, he would have still said as much, and used its aggressive style to defeat the Sith on Naboo. And then he started replaying the final moments of the duel at odd moments, thinking of all the ways it could have gone so horribly wrong, had the Sith used a good defense. But now… He'd started to wonder if the best offense was indeed a tightly-woven defense.

Real merely grunted and walked into the dojo. ‘You know what time it is?’

Obi-wan waved a hand at the holocron to close it, then sent the droid back to its charging dock. 'I honestly don't know.'

‘After twenty-three hundred.’

Obi-wan’s stomach chose that moment to rumble loudly in the otherwise quiet room.

‘Sounds like you missed dinner, too,’ Rael observed.

‘I’ve got some ration bars stashed somewhere.’ Obi-wan pushed himself to his feet and ran his hand through his shaggy, sweat-soaked hair with a grimace. 'After I've had a shower.' Preferably a long one with water as scalding as he could stand it.

‘Might want to find your Padawan first. It's why I came looking for you.’

Obi-wan’s shoulders slumped. Not again...

‘He wasn’t at dinner with the rest of the Padawans,’ Rael continued. ‘Thought he might be eatin’ with you, but he never made it back before curfew.’

Obi-wan bit back a curse. It wasn't the first time Anakin had disappeared between his last class of the day and the Padawans' dinner. The first few times, Obi-wan had found him in one of the rooftop gardens or in a hidden corner of the Temple, his round cheeks wet with tears, feeling the press of resentment and antipathy from the other Padawans, their disdain for his lack of knowledge about the finer points of the Jedi or the Force. Or he'd crossed paths with Mace Windu, who seemed to have a special glower reserved just for Anakin. There were thousands of nooks and crannies where he could hide. And Anakin was very good at making himself small when he didn’t want to be found. He hooked his lightsaber to his belt and glanced at Rael. 'Does it get easier?'

'What? Havin' an apprentice?'

'Taking care of a child,' Obi-wan retorted, letting the weariness creep into his voice.

'Honestly?' Rael scratched his scraggly beard with both hands. 'No.' He sighed. 'Be a damn sight easier if they came with instruction manuals.' He squinted at Obi-wan. 'The Code doesn't help, either. No attachments, it says, like we don't get attached to them or them to us.'

Obi-wan closed his eyes, and massaged his temples. 'Brilliant,' he muttered. He let his hands fall to his sides, and breathed deeply, letting his consciousness fly through the Temple on the swift wings of the Force. Anakin wasn't in the gardens, or in one of the pools. He was endlessly fascinated by so much green, even limited as it was to the gardens, and with the sight of all that water contained in one place, just so the Jedi could swim. He wasn't in the kitchens sneaking food, nor was he in the flight simulators or the Padawans' dojo. Obi-wan didn't bother with the archive. Anakin disliked Jocasta Nu on sight. Where are you, Anakin? He despaired that the boy had left the Temple and was somewhere in Coruscant, boasting about his podracing or piloting skills in some flea-bitten hive of scum and villainy that didn't care that a nine year old boy's life was in danger. Something flickered in the corner of Obi-wan's mind, and he took a sharp turn toward it.

There.

Anakin was in his quarters. Just as Rael had suspected.

Obi-wan blinked. Then broke into a dead run. Something was terribly wrong.

The thick carpeting that lined the corridors muffled his footfalls as he pelted through them, panic making his heart pound in his chest. Why were his quarters so far from the dojo? He smacked the control panel of the door to his quarters with the Force and skidded to a stop just inside.

Anakin lay on one of the meditation platforms, bundled into the duvet that he'd apparently dragged from Obi-wan's bed. Despite the warmth of the duvet, and Anakin's tinkering with the climate controls to make the room as warm as possible, the boy shivered. Obi-wan laid a hand over Anakin's forehead. Kriff me… Anakin burned with fever. He scooped the sleeping child into his arms. Anakin mewled a weak protest, but wrapped his arms around Obi-wan's neck. Obi-wan balanced Anakin’s bottom on his crossed forearms. 'I'm going to take you to the infirmary,' he murmured. 'You'll feel better soon.'

Anakin's head lolled on his shoulder. 'You stink,' he rasped.

'My apologies.' Obi-wan rolled his eyes. If Anakin could comment on his current lack of personal hygiene, he must not be terribly ill. Then Anakin spoke again.

'Hurts,' Anakin complained.

Obi-wan peered at him. One thing Anakin never complained about so far was physical discomfort. 'What does?'

'Head. Throat. And I'm cold…' He burrowed into Obi-wan's chest, who grew more alarmed. He was most definitely not cold to the touch. Obi-wan could feel the heat radiating from him and walked faster.

The infirmary was just ahead. Obi-wan's strides lengthened, and he burst into the dimly lit space. The medical droid rolled up to them, and scanned Anakin before Obi-wan could so much as speak. The droid returned to a workstation, and retrieved a small bottle that it shoved into one of Obi-wan's hands. 'Give him these. Two pills every six hours until the fever breaks.'

'When will that be?'

The droid didn't shrug, but the pattern of blinking lights suggested one. 'As long as it takes. Could be as few as two or three days. Could be six.'

'What's the matter with him?'

'Nerf-pox.' The droid turned away. 'Nothing to do but ride it out.'

Obi-wan felt outraged on behalf of his apprentice. Surely there was more to be done then ride it out. 'Are you joking?'

'It's not in my programming to make japes about illnesses,' the droid retorted sharply. 'Pills every six hours to help with the fever. Put him to bed, and let him rest. Keep him hydrated.'

Obi-wan refrained from sticking his tongue out at the droid, even though he dearly wanted to, then left the infirmary. He stopped and let the relief course through him. Nerf-pox was a common childhood illness. He took a few steps toward the Padawans' dormitories, but stopped and pivoted toward the Knights' barracks, returning to his quarters at a much slower pace than he'd left them. The Padawans' sleeping cells were barely large enough for one person. He couldn't imagine trying to care for a sick child in one. His own quarters were quite modest, but he did have his own 'fresher and a minuscule kitchen area.

Rael waited on one of the meditation platforms. He stood when Obi-wan entered, and lifted a bundle of clothing. 'Nerf-pox?' At Obi-wan's nod, he sighed. 'Figures. Most of 'em have it when they're in the crèche, where he should be.' He motioned to Obi-wan to follow him, and went into the small bedroom and laid out a set of small pajamas. 'Musta had chores in the crèche this week. It's runnin' through the three year olds…'

Obi-wan set Anakin on the edge of the bed and began to peel off the layers of his clothing. The boy was barely conscious, limbs heavy and limp. 'How did you of all people end up in the crèche?'

Rael sighed and handed him the pajama top. 'Fanry. To make up for what I didn't do with her.' Obi-wan glanced up at him with an upraised eyebrow. 'See her as a person. I only ever saw what I wanted to see. I kriffed it up on Pijal.' He shrugged and passed the pajama bottoms to Obi-wan. 'So when I came back… I asked the Council if I could work with the crèche masters.'

Obi-wan tucked Anakin into the bed and stood. 'And now you're one of the resident advisors for the Padawans.'

Rael snorted, gathering Anakin's clothing and folding it. 'Not sure how well I advise, but I do look out for the Padawans whose masters have to leave 'em behind.' He cuffed Obi-wan on the back of the head with a muttered, 'See ya 'round.'

'Rael?' Obi-wan's head ducked. 'Thank you.'

''M not the best one to ask, but if ya need help with your Padawan… Y'know where to find me.' He left with a wave.

Obi-wan found the small bottle of pills and scanned the label. 'May be administered sublingually,' he read aloud. He glanced at Anakin, sprawled on his back. 'There's a relief. I won't have to try and wake you.' He shook two tiny pills into his palm, then poked them into Anakin's mouth, belatedly thinking he should have washed his hands first. Too late to bother now. He grabbed a clean set of clothes and headed for the 'fresher, trading his much-desired hot water shower for a sonic one. He intended to spend the night in the single armchair in the other room, but a scratchy whisper halted his steps.

'Don't go.'

He turned. Anakin was awake, his blue eyes glassy and bloodshot with fever, silently pleading for Obi-wan to stay. Obi-wan hesitated. The others would insist he must be firm with Anakin, teach him true Jedi detachment. But he couldn't say no. Just as he couldn't say no when he woke up in the middle of the night, and nearly tripped over Anakin, sleeping on the floor next to his bed. 'All right.' Obi-wan slid onto the bed, bracing his back against the wall. He lifted Anakin's head and pillowed it on his thigh, just above his knees. He wasn't going to sleep anyway. He could meditate in here just as well as the other room.

Anakin sighed and coughed, his breath rattling in his lungs. 'I miss my mom,' he murmured.

'I know.'

Anakin turned on his side and curled into a ball. 'Why is it bad to miss my mom?'

Obi-wan felt this was a serious philosophical question from Anakin, and not a querulous complaint. He was silent for several minutes, trying to think of an answer, and not just quote dogma at him. 'I'm not certain I'm the best person to ask,' he finally said. Anakin's only reply was a soft snore, for which Obi-wan was grateful. He was still grieving Qui-gon's death. It had left a gaping hole in Obi-wan's life. Rael was right. For all the Code's admonishments against attachments, masters and apprentices did form emotional attachments to one another. How could he not, when he'd spent the past twelve years following in the formidable footsteps of Qui-gon Jinn? Two months on, and the memory of Force leaving Qui-gon's body still made his hands twitch. He leaned his head against the wall and slowly exhaled. Satine Kryze likewise occupied a corner of his heart and soul, even more than seven years after he'd left her on Mandalore. Leaving had been the correct decision — and a mutual one — but he often wondered if they'd been in the right to close the door their friendship as well. He could do with her counsel right now. He called his datapad to his hand and entered the codes for his personal data archive, then pressed his thumb to the indicted location to read his thumbprint. Then an iris scan. One can never be too careful, he mused, tapping on the message from Satine for what was probably the hundredth time. She hadn't sent it directly to him, but to the Council. Master Plo Koon then passed it along to him.

Please offer my deepest condolences to Obi-wan. Nu kyr'adyc, shin taab'echaaj'la.

'Not gone, merely marching far away,' Obi-wan muttered. For a Mandalorian saying, it hewed rather close to the Jedi way of viewing death. He glanced down at Anakin to assure himself he was still asleep, then switched to the HoloNet, and searched for a tidbit about Satine. It was never a regular habit of his. Just when he needed to feel good about something he'd done. Truth be told, he seemed to look her up nearly every night lately. He felt like he was failing Anakin, and by extension, Qui-gon. Seeing Satine flourish made him feel as though he had done one thing right with his life so far. A holovid appeared of her touring a new hospital on Kalevala. Mandalore seemed to be thriving under her leadership.

Time unspooled around him, while the miniature image of Satine moved through the sun-drenched room, over and over.

Anakin stirred and squinted at the blue-tinged hologram over his head. 'Who's that?' His breath whistled through his clogged sinuses.

'Duchess Satine Kryze of Mandalore,' Obi-wan told him. 'An old friend.'

Anakin watched her for a few moments, the blue light from the holo making his pale face even more pallid. 'She's pretty.'

‘She is,’ Obi-wan agreed, although he felt he was terribly biased. He switched off the datapad.

Anakin yawned and blinked a few times, eyelids growing heavy. 'Not as pretty as Padmé,' he sighed before falling asleep once more.

The corner of Obi-wan's mouth tipped up with a rueful grin. Anakin was rather taken with the young queen of Naboo. The Naboo penchant for pomp, and the queen's correspondingly elaborate wardrobe did little to dispel the notion that they were in some sort of fairy tale. Obi-wan had little doubt that Anakin dreamed of defending Padmé Amidala against Star Dragons, the bold and fearless Jedi Knight wielding his trusty lightsaber.

Hours passed before Anakin stirred again in the peculiar light before dawn that leeched the color from the room. 'They think we're gonna fail,' Anakin remarked, pushing the duvet away. 'Hot,' he mumbled.

With a few gestures, Obi-wan brought a cool, damp cloth to his waiting hand, and draped it over Anakin's forehead. 'Oh?'

'Mmm-hmmmm.' Anakin gazed up at him. ''M too old to be a youngling an' too young to be a Padawan. An' you're too young an'…' His brows drew together as he groped for the word. 'Inexperienced.'

Obi-wan wiped Anakin's cheeks with the cloth. 'Who told you that?'

'No one. But they all think it. All the other Padawans… Master Windu…'

Obi-wan smiled grimly. Why am I not surprised? He ran his hand over Anakin's hair. 'Well, I suppose we'll have to succeed beyond everyone's wildest dreams.' Anakin started to shiver again, and Obi-wan tucked the duvet around his skinny shoulders, struck anew by how small and frail he felt. You will be a Jedi, even if it kills me, he thought.

[cassnottiel]

maybe a s5 au where instead of deke being all grown up he's more around the age of a teenager? and everyone is super exasperated with him as per usual in s5 but the team takes on a more parental-ish role and when fitzsimmons find out he's their grandson its less skimmed over and more like them taking an active role in being there for him

The first thing May felt was the piercing pain in her leg.  Wherever she was now, she was in no condition to fight.  But she wan't going to tell the man with the glowing helmet that.  

He was good, she would give him that, but she was winning.  Until he shoved his belt buckle into her stomach, and she lost all weight.  He twisted the front of it, and she flew back and hit a wall.  

The man sighed heavily, leaning against a table not far from her.  May watched as the man raised both his arms and took off his helmet, his hair was disheveled and he had a scruffy beard, and he was glaring at her.

"I hate wasting the charge on that thing," he pointed to his belt buckle, and started walking forward.  "Honestly, I wasn't trying to hurt you, but you had a lead pipe at the ready, and I can't r-"

May kicked him in the face.

He reeled back, and his glare was back when he looked up.  He shoved a cloth in her mouth, pulled her right arm forward, and stabbed her wrist.  He inserted a circular plastic thing into her wrist.

"What the hell is this thing?"  May yelled at him when he took the belt buckle back.  "And who the hell are you?"

The man sighed and rolled up his own right sleeve, showing a matching black device as the one he just put in her.  "It's a metric.  Everyone needs one, here.  Now, where are the others?  Because I was paid to give them to all your friends."

May didn't trust this man, who introduced himself as Deke, but she had no choice, he would take her to the rest of the team.  Walking beside him to the holding level of what he called the Lighthouse, he looked way younger than she initially thought he was.  The angry expression and the beard added a few years.  She stopped worrying about his age when they met up with the rest of the team, having bigger things to worry about.  Deke had stabbed her, but he also helped get her friends out of a holding cell.

She would tolerate him.

Daisy had blown past Deke, ignoring his pleading for her to make a better plan, to play the long game, as he put it.  He looked really young when he wasn't yelling at them.  But she wan't about to let Simmons suffer under the Kree, she would get her friend back.

Daisy, dropped down from her whole in the ceiling, looking at the much nicer hallways than the rest of the Lighthouse, and started walking in one direction.  As she turned a corner, and invisible wall blocked her way, and a white vapor hissed out of the wall and into her air ways.

She watched as a Kree with a fancy coat and white makeup sauntered over to the glass, a familiar man following close behind.  

"I told you she'd find her way down here."  Deke Shaw looked straight into Daisys eyes.  "And demonstrating her powers, no less."

He called her a weapon of mass destruction, but his eyes were pleading.  It made him look younger than her.  He had begged her not to do this, maybe he thought he was saving lives by ratting her out, Daisy didn't care.

Daisy coughed, glaring at Deke with all the fire she had in her.  "I'll kill you," she promised, "I swear."

He really did look like a kid.

- - -

Coulson watched how Dekes face completely changed when he heard the recording of the man from the surface, taking almost ten years away.  He recognized that voice.  He wouldn't tell Coulson who it was, but he was willing to help them, when he couldn't get far enough away from the S.H.I.E.L.D team when they first got there.

Deke helped Coulson and May get down to level 35, a big help.

"People don't get pregnant anymore."  Deke told them when they were all looking over the baby.

"What do they do -- sterilize the whole population?"  Coulson asked as May walked around more.

"We think they do it through the food," Deke glanced down at the baby, "so they can decide who has children."

"How long?"  Deke didn't seemed phased, but Coulson was horrified.  This was a full dystopian vibe.

"They've always tried to control it," Deke turned and started walking throughout the room, "I was one of the last ones born the old-fashioned way.  Until Kasias decided that it was easiest to just-"

"Create the children themselves."  Coulson finished.  "How long ago was that?"

Deke shrugged.  "About sev-"

"Phil!" May looked up from a computer screen and stormed over.  "I found something."

"What is it?"  Coulson asked.  May looked angry.

"Him."  May glared at Deke, then she swung her fist.

Deke held his nose, which started to bleed.  "Okay, ow!"

"May?"  Coulson followed May, then saw what made her so angry.

Deke Shaw sold Daisy to Kasius.  

"Okay, well, this is probably the part where I should explain."  Deke glanced at the screen, where Daisys face was pictured.  

"No."  Coulson shook his head.  "This is the part where May breaks your face."

But May did not break his face, he started to explain.  Then, two Kree entered, and Deke tried to talk them down, but Coulson hit one of them with a chair.

"Oh!"  Deke took a few steps back.  "Okay, we're fighting."

Yes, they were fighting.  And they were losing, until Deke decided to help and hit one of the Kree over the head with an oxygen tank.  The Kree took out a small knife and stabbed Deke.

Coulson wanted to leave him, but the Kree had Jemma, Daisy, and May.  And Deke wanted to help them, that counted for something.  So he patched the man up.

"Okay."  Coulson backed away.  "The bleeding's stopped.  How's it feel?"

Deke breathed heavily.  "It's fine."  He was obviously not fine.

"Good.  In that case--"  Coulson punched Deke, who groaned.

"I really need you people to stop doing that."  He stood up and limped to the other side of his room.

Coulson grabbed his arm and spun him around.  "Where's Daisy?"

Deke looked like a scared kid.  "Look, I had to do that.  People have died, and Kasius wouldn't have hesitated to kill hundreds more, and Daisy didn't even seem to care at all!"  His eyes were earnest and shining.  "So, trust me -- it's safer with her out of the mix."

"I don't trust you!"  Coulson shot back.  Those reasons did seem valid, but Daisy was like his daughter.

"Well I did what needed to be done."  Deke was so convinced of this, like a stubborn teenager.

"Oh, please!"  Coulson rolled his eyes.  "That wasn't the first time you went for a payday."  Deke turned away, and Coulson prodded his chest.  "You weren't out to save lives, you made a profit.  So don't pretend your motives are pure!"

"There's so much that you don't even know that-" Deke turned to storm away, but Coulson yanked his arm again, making him wince.

"And now you're doing it again, aren't you?"  Coulsons words were venomous.  "You don't want to help those people on the surface.  You want to turn them over to Kasius for-"

"You don't know me, man!"  Something in Deke broke, his eyes were shining with something else.  "I was nine -- okay? -- when my mother got dragged away and murdered.  Kasius got rid of all the elders, all the smart people, and she was one of them."  He was close to tears, he looked so young.  "And after she was gone, my dad took up the cause.  He carried the torch for her.  And as I got older, I begged him not to.  I said that they were gonna get him, too," his voice cracked, "and I was right.  He got sent to the roaches, just like the rest of them, when I was twelve."

Coulson watched Deke carefully.

"That's why it was pretty strange to hear his voice, after five years."

That one sentence sent Coulsons mind reeling.  "That was your father?"  Then another realization.  "You're seventeen?!"

Deke looked like a scared kid because he was a scared kid, acted like a stubborn teenager because he was one.  No wonder he looked so young, he's just a kid.  A kid who just wants to see his father again.  

Deke fumbled with his things and pulled out a shiny coin. He held out the coin to Coulson.  "Take it.  It's what Kasius gave me for Daisy."  His eyes shone with tears.  "I don't care about it anymore, I just want to help you.  I want to see my dad again."

Coulson thought for a minute, just staring at the kid in front of him.  He shook his head and started walking towards the door.  "No, stay out of this.  You're safer if you stay out of this."  

Dekes eyes widened and he ran forward, but the door slammed in his face.  He slammed his fist against the metal, yelling to be let out.

"What's the plan with Deke?"  Yo-Yo asked as Mack welded Dekes door shut.

"I just grounded him."  Coulson looked back at the door.  "I punched a seventeen year old kid in the face."

- - -

Daisy turned away from Fitz and Simmons, and watched a pair of glowing blue eyes appear out of the darkness.  She grabs him by his shoulders and slammed him against the large tank in front of her.

"Good thing I'm wearing a helmet."

Daisy ripped the helmet off of Dekes head and threw it aside.  "Are you here to pick up the bounty?"

"No!  I'm here to save your ass."  Deke tried to step forward, but she pushed him back again.

"I should kill you right now!"

"Who the hell is this guy?"  Fitz looked between the two of them.

"He works for Kasius."  Daisy kept her hand on his shoulder.

"I don't work for-" Deke stopped himself and addressed Fitz and Simmons.  "I mean, sometimes I do, technically.  But right now, I'm team S.H.E.I.L.D, alright?"  He gave Daisy a fake salute.

"It's convenient, you showing up right now."

"Convenient?"  Deke scoffed.  "No, it's mindblowing that I managed to escape my room after Coulson grounded me and welded my door shut."

"That's supposed to make me feel better?"  Daisy shoved him again.  "Coulson locking you in your room like some teenager?"

"Well," Deke glanced down at the scientists, "some teenager knows how to get you guys out of here."  He picked up his helmet.  "Come on."

Daisy and Jemma helped Fitz stand up.

"How old is he?"  Jemma whispered to Daisy, who shook her head.

"Seventeen," Deke called back from ahead of them, "now, hurry up!"

- - -

"Alright, are you ready to take this thing out?"  Coulson asked Deke when the whole team made it to the Trawler.  Everyone else looked to Deke, who looked at everyone else.

"Me?"  Deke pointed to himself.  "I'm not a pilot."

"What?"  Daisy clenched her fist against the concrete wall.  "You don't know how to fly this thing?"  He's just a kid, you can't quake him.

Deke scoffed with a small smile, the first time his expression fit his age.  "I never said I did."  He jogged up the stairs and climbed the ladder, leaving the rest in the hallway.

Coulson sighed.  "I kind of feel bad about punching him."

"At least you didn't threaten to kill him."  Daisy said and grabbed one of the ladder rungs.  "And I still might punch him."

"He's a child."  Fitz pushed himself off the wall to follow Daisy.

"A child who sold me to Kasius."  Daisy started climbing the ladder with a sarcastic smile.  Deke was sitting in the cockpit, fiddling with the radio.  He didn't look up when Daisy sat heavily in the copilots seat.

"If you want to kill me, can you wait until after we get down to the surface?"  Deke turned a knob on the radio, smiling at the static sound.

"Why?"  Daisy propped her feet up on the control console in front of her.  "You want to breathe real air before you go?"

Deke laughed quietly.  "That would be a good bonus, but that's not the reason."  He finally looked at her.  "My dad's down there."

Daisy didn't say anything to that, just studied Deke.  His eyes looked remarkably like Fitzs, all blue and emotional.  His beard had grown since she had last seen him, making him look well into his twenties, but if he made the right facial expression, like the melancholy one he wore at that moment, he really did look like the teenager he was.  

"What?"  He shifted uncomfortably, winced slightly, and brought one of his hands to rest against his abdomen, around the same spot Fitz had been stabbed.

"Nothing," Daisy shook her head and told herself to stop with the Fitz comparisons, "it's just, you're really young."  

He groaned loudly as Coulson and Fitzsimmons entered the cockpit.  "I liked it better when you all thought I was thirty and hated me."  He closed the cabinet to the radio and stalked out.

Fitz sighed heavily as Simmons helped him into a chair.  "What if we put him in time-out?"  He asked.  "D'you think he'd go?"

"We have to survive this, first."  Coulson turned the key and the Trawler rumbled to life.  "So strap yourself in."

They did survive, but the ship crashed.  Deke threw them all clothes and goggles to cover themselves with, and pointed out to the howling winds when asked why.  "It's brutal out there, with the storms and the roaches.  It's why we thought nobody could survive."  He told them as he pulled on a pair of gloves.

So the five exited the Trawler and walked to the Zypher, thankfully it wasn't far.  May was there to greet them.

"Holy hell," Deke, Fitz, and Simmons all looked up to the small balcony above the cargo hold, where a smiling man stood, "is that Deke Shaw?"  The man started descending the staircase to get to him.  "I thought I was looking at your old man twenty years ago!"

"Oh, my God, Voss!"  Fitz and Simmons watched as Deke hugged Voss, and they could finally see how young he was.  For just a moment, his jaded side melted away and he just looked glad.

"May told me you implanted her metric?"  Voss asked, and Deke nodded proudly.  Voss laughed, "Alya would be so proud of you, you're just like her."

Jemma and Fitz decided to let the two have their moment and look around the Zypher.

"Why'd you bring Deke?"  May asked them while Jemma stitched up Daisys cut.

"We couldn't find a babysitter on such short notice."  Fitz said, which made Daisy laugh.

"What?"  May looked between all of them, confused.

"He's seventeen," Jemma clarified, "just a kid."

May blinked a few times in surprise.  "A seventeen year old has enough medical knowledge to stab through my wrist an not kill me?"

Daisy huffed a laugh and pressed the bandage against her arm, "that seventeen year old kid rebuilt the Framework out of scraps."

Fitzs eyes went wide and his head whipped around to look through a doorway at Deke, fiddling with one of the claws they use to keep the Zypher grounded.  "How did he do that?"

Daisy shrugged and stood up.  "It doesn't seem dangerous, I've seen it."  She took a few steps toward the door, "it's not even realistic.  People pay to see one building with fake beer."  And then she left the room.

Jemma sighed and started packing up her medical supplies.  "He's a genius."  She glanced up at the others in the room.  "Maybe a little annoying, but a genius."

After Voss' people attacked, and Robin was dead, Coulson looked around at his team.  Someone was missing.  

"Where's Deke?"  Coulson met Daisys eyes.  Something like panic flashed across her face, and she twisted Voss' arm a little farther behind his back

Voss hissed in pain.  "Relax, he's fine."  He yelled through his pain.  "He figured us out first, he's in the back."  Daisy started walking him out, and Voss laughed bitterly.  "That kid's too smart, it'll get him killed, the same way it killed his mom."

After locking Voss away with the rest of his people, Daisy started looking for Deke.  She turned a corner and saw him sitting on a desk.  She picked up her pace when she saw the blood matting his hair and dripping down his ear and neck.  He looked up when he heard the keys to the padlock jingle in her hand.

"I thought you'd be dead."  Daisy pulled the door open.

Deke didn't stand up, he just looked back down at the floor.  "Yeah," he looked so small at that moment, "I guess Voss didn't want any more of my family's blood on his hands."

"You're dad . . ." Daisy closed her eyes.  This kid would never see his father again.  He's an orphan.  "Deke, I'm s-- I'm so sorry."

Deke finally stood up, which looked like it took too much effort.  "I just hope Robin can help you find your answers."  His eyes, which were always so expressive, looked red and empty.  The tracks down his face told her that he'd been crying.  Daisy put her hand on his shoulder and squeezed it lightly.

"That doesn't look so good."  Daisy gently turned his head to look at his head wound.  "Let's go get you checked out."  

As the two started walking, Daisy was thinking.  She couldn't stay mad at Deke.  He was a scared kid doing what he thought was right, and she can't blame anyone for doing that.

In the short amount of time they had known Deke, the S.H.I.E.L.D team had grown somewhat fond of him.  They would never admit it, but they liked the kid.  So, when Enoch says he has twelve minutes before the Kree capture him, and Deke volunteers to secure the time machine, Daisy says she'll come with.

"I'll come, it'll be better if we take the plane together."  She walks to his side.

"Yeah, no duh."  Deke blocks her path.  "But none of the time travelers can go because you all need to be at the rendezvous when it's turned on, so do the math."

The three adults all understand what he's trying to say, and they don't like it.

"Deke, it's a suicide mission, you can't."  May says.

"You're just a kid," Coulson steps forward, "and you still have your whole life-"

Deke shook his head with a scoff.  "No, nobody who grows up in this place is a kid."  He tells them, taking a few more steps backward.  "Tess has died, Flint's building your magic time travel rock.  You guys gave me a gun and let me decide what to do with Voss.  None of us are kids."  He sighed and glanced behind him.  "And besides-- what are you going to do?  Lock me in my room?"

He turned around and started walking back to the Zypher.

"Be careful!"  Daisy yelled after him.

"You're a pain in my ass!"  Deke shouted back.

- - -

Somehow, through some means, Deke made it to 2018 with the rest of the team.  As soon as Daisy saw his mugshot pop up on the giant screen, relief flooded her veins.  He didn't die with Enoch.  She jumped into action.

The fresh air is heaven to her.  The first time she's breathed it in in weeks and it's amazing.  

"That's my little brother."  Daisy says to the cops in the small town of Rivers End, the ones who arrested the kid they brought back from the future.

Deke stood up, smiling when he saw her through the holding cell.  That was the first time Daisy had seen a real smile on him.

"Are you okay?"  Daisy asked as soon as they were out on the street.  "How are you here?"

"I'm great!"  Deke was still smiling and he was practically skipping beside her.  "I was powering up the time machine, and right before it exploded, the rock kind of melted, and then I ended up here."

"So the first thing you do is commit a crime?"  Daisy raised an eyebrow and indicated an alleyway to walk down.

"In my defense," Deke held the door to the Lighthouse tunnel for Daisy to walk through, "I didn't know you payed for things with paper money in 2018."

"I'm not talking about that."  Daisy shook her head.  "You're only seventeen.  You have to be twenty-one to legally drink alcohol in the United States."  She glanced back and saw his surprise.  "You're lucky the beard makes you look my age or they would have charged you with underage drinking."

Deke didn't say anything to that, except: "Wow . . . "

Daisy hummed in agreement.  "Hey, speaking of your beard," she pointed to a door that lead to the control room, "are you going to shave it?"

Deke gave her a weird look and stopped just before entering the room.  "Why?"

Daisy shrugged and sat down on the spinning chair.  "I don't know.  So you can look your age, maybe?"

The next time things were relatively calm, Deke walked into the control, but didn't say anything for a while.

"What is it?"  Fitz asked, not looking away from his screen.  Deke opened his mouth, closed it, then ran a hand down his face, through his beard that had grown scruffier, if possible.  "Deke?"

"Can you teach me how to shave?"  The kid blurted out.

Fitz stopped what he was doing and turned around.  "What?"

"Never mind."  Deke said quickly, his face going slightly red.  "It's stupid, forget about it."

"It's not stupid."  Fitz stood up and reassured, which stopped Deke in his tracks.  "I'm just surprised, is all.  Nobody taught you in the future?"

"No," Deke shook his head, "it's usually a dad thing, right?"

Fitz winced.  "I'm sorry.  Just give me a minute to finish up and then I'll be free."

"So it's that simple?"  Deke was sitting in front of a mirror, a can of shaving cream and a razor in front of him.

"Basically."  Fitz nodded.  "Just be careful around your neck, it's easy to cut yourself while shaving."

"Thank you," Deke smiled nervously, "this is probably really weird."

Fitz shook his head.  "No, I get it."  He watched the teenager carefully drag the razor down his jaw.  "My dad wasn't around to teach me how to shave, either."

"I'm sorry."  Deke stopped and glanced back.  "Who taught you, then?"

Fitz laughed and leaned against the wall behind him, "My mum did."

"Wait-- girls shave?"  Deke furrowed his brow.  

"Yeah," Fitz laughed again at his surprise, "some of them do."  At the confused look, he clarified.  "Their legs."

"Oh-- ow!"  Deke dropped the razor and leaned closer to the mirror, watching a bead of blood run down his jaw.  Fitz sprung forward and grabbed a wash cloth.

"How bad is it?"  Fitz asked, trying to get a look.

"Not very."  Deke took the cloth and pressed it to his face.  "Faces bleed a lot for minor things, right?"

Fitz nodded.  "Yeah.  You're almost done, do you want to finish?"  He handed over a small adhesive bandage.

Deke covered the cut with the Band-Aid and picked up the razor again.  "I'm guessing this gets easier the more you do it?"

"Yes, it does."  Fitz wiped his hands on a towel then handed it to Deke when he finished shaving.  He clapped his hand on his shoulder.  "Congratulations, you're a man now."  He joked.

Deke rolled his eyes with a smile.  He looked at himself in a mirror, he finally saw what the others did when they called him kid.

- - -

"NO!"

Jemma froze mid-step in the empty hallway.  That was Deke.  There was a crash, and Jemma took off running.  She halted at a doorway to a storage room just in time to watch Deke stab a Kree soldier.  She ran to him as the Kree crumbled to dust.

"Are you okay?"  Jemma put her hand on his shoulder and guided him to sit on the floor.  He fell heavily, staring at a spot just behind her.  "What was it?"

"My . . . my mom."  Dekes voice was hoarse.  "I knew she wasn't real, but I couldn't . . ." he dropped his knife.  "Then the Kreeper just--" he coughed and looked away.

Jemma rubbed his arm comfortingly and sat down across from him on the floor.  "I'm sorry, Deke.  You shouldn't have had to see that."

Deke sniffed and braced his hands on the ground to get up, but stopped and looked at his bicep.  "They're not real, how did it hit me?"

Jemma jumped into action, helping him up and having him take off his jacket.  She ushered him to medical and inspected the deep gash on his arm.  She took out a needle and spool of thread and started stitching the cut closed.  

"I really thought I was done getting choked up about things," Deke said absently while the scientist worked, "I guess I was wrong."

"Well," Jemma didn't look away from her task, "your life has changed very drastically in a very short amount of time.  I wouldn't be surprised if you have mixed emotions."

Deke sighed in frustration and ran his right hand through his hair, showing off the bloody bandage that has been wrapped around his wrist since he took out the metric.  "But everything in the past is so much better."  He stared at the wall in front of him.  "I just-- I don't know what's going on with me."

"You'll figure it out."  Jemma smiled encouragingly as she wrapped his stitched arm with a bandage and then went to change the one on his wrist.  "The steps you take don't have to be big, they just have to take you in the right direction."  The words she had said so many times to so many people rolled off her tongue so easily, but Deke sat frozen on the cot, his eyes wide.  "Are you okay?"

Deke suddenly stood.  "I'm good now, thanks," he took a step toward the door, "I should probably go get my ja--"

"I'll get it."  Jemma gently pushed him back down on the cot.  "Just sit there and rest.  You don't need to risk hurting yourself more."

Jemma felt his eyes on her back as she walked out, but paid it no mind.  She entered the storage room she had found him in, the only evidence they were there being the leather jacket on the floor next to an open box.  She picked up the jacket, smoothed it over her arm, and turned to leave.  But something on the floor glinted and caught her eye.  It was the knife Deke had used to stab the Kree and cut open the tape on the open box.  Jemma bent down to pick it up, and she recognized it.  The number 17 was carved into the side of the multi tool, just the same as Fitz did.  This belongs to Fitz.

"Deke?"  Jemma walked back into the med bay and stopped in front of him, taken off track before she even started.  "I just noticed, I'm sorry, but you shaved?"

He felt his jaw and nodded, looking nervous.  "Fitz taught me."

"Speaking of Fitz--" Jemma set the jacket down and held out the multi took, "why do you have Fitzs knife?"

Deke stopped looking nervous and a confused expression took over.  "What?"  He picked up the knife and examined it.  "No, this is mine.  My grandfather gave this to me when I was a kid.  See-- it's got a little seventeen on it."  He pointed to the number.

That made Jemma even more confused.  "This is . . . this is Fitzs, I swear . . ."

Dekes eyes widened again.  "Oh, my God."  He muttered.

Jemma looked up at him again.  "What is it?"

"This is going to sound really crazy," Deke warned, "but . . . when I was a kid, my mom would always tell me that thing you said earlier.  You know, the steps you take don't have to be big . . ."

"They just have to take you in the right direction."  Jemma finished for him.  He nodded wildly and pointed at her.

"Right!  She said she learned it from her mom, who also taught her a bunch of basic medical procedures, which she taught me-"

"You put Mays metric in without the device everyone else used."  Jemma caught on to his thought process.  "And your grandfather gave you Fitzs multi tool . . ."

Deke smiled nervously, "I think, I think I'm . . ."

"You're our grandson."  Jemma finished for him, and he nodded.   She stared at him, really looked at him for a while.  Freshly shaved, he looked so much like Fitz when they had first joined the team in the field.  She jumped up suddenly and ran to the other side of the room, pulling three test tubes out of a cabinet.  She placed it in Dekes hand.  "Spit in there, I'm going to get Fitz."

She had run out before he could answer.

"Fitz!"  Jemma burst into Control and grabbed her husbands hand.  "Come with me, it's important."

"Jemma, what--?"  Fitz tried, but was cut off as he was dragged away.

"Not now, just follow."  Jemma held one of the test tubes out to him.  "Do you have your multi tool?"

"Yeah, why?"  Fitz held the glass tube in his hand and picked up his pace when he realized they were on their way to the med bay.

Deke was sitting gingerly on one of the cots, holding an empty test tube of his own.

"Deke, I told you to spit in it."  Jemma said, then turned to Fitz.  "You, too.  Spit."

"Why do we have to spit into a--?"

"I'm doing a DNA test."  Jemma answered quickly, hauling out an old microscope from a cabinet and setting it on a lab counter.  "So spit in the tube."

Fitz turned to Deke, a questioning look on his face that was answered with a single sentence.

"I think I'm your grandson."  

Fitz turned away, utterly baffled.  But he complied and spit into his vile, then gave it over to Simmons.

"This might take a while," she told the boys, "the technology is old."

Fitz turned to look at Deke.  "How are we your grandparents?"  He couldn't really comprehend the concept, but he had to try.

"My mom is your daughter, I think."  Deke flushed nervously, then dug around in his pocket, pulling out an old metal knife.  "My grandfather gave this to me when I was younger."  

Fitz furrowed his brow in confusion and dug around his own pockets.  He felt the multi tool Jemma asked about, and he took it out.  It was exactly like the one Deke was holding, just newer.  They both even had the same number scratched into the side.

Minutes passed, with Jemma staring down at the three DNA comparisons the whole time while Fitz asked Deke questions.  

"It's true."  Jemma said suddenly, quietly, but it made both men go silent.  She looked at the two of them from the other side of the room.  "Deke Shaw is our grandson."

The three of them all sat in silence for minutes.  Then, Jemma stood up and walked over to them and hugged them both.

"Should we tell the others?"  Fitz looked to Deke for the answer.

"Why are you asking me?"  Deke tried for a joke.  "You're the adults, here."

- - -

"Woah," Daisy smiled when Deke walked into the room with the rest of the team, what had become the makeshift dining area, "guys, doesn't he look like Fitz when he got out the academy!"  Everyone chuckled at that.  

"Fitz used to shave?"  Elena asked with a smile, fiddling with her new prosthetic.

"Fitz taught me how to shave."  Deke grinned and sat down to serve himself some food.

Coulson hummed and pointed to the small Band-Aid on the teenagers jaw.  "Fitz is rusty, he'd probably do worse the next time he tries."

Even May smiled at that remark.  The team fell into small chatter in small groups.

"Now that I think about it," Mack said when there was a lull in conversation, "Deke's a lot a like Fitz."

The team all made noncommittal noised of agreement, while Deke smiled nervously.  

"You look exactly like Fitz, but with straight hair."  Elena pointed to his hair while, unnoticed by everyone, Fitz and Simmons stopped in one of the entrances to the room.

"The weird little inventions."  Coulson pointed out.  "Fitzsimmons invented the ICERs we use all the time."

Daisy snapped her fingers and pointed to the ceiling.  "You both stand in that weird way!"  She smiled excitedly and stood up, trying to imitate the pose, making everyone laugh again.

Deke looked helplessly at Fitzsimmons with a shrug and a shake of his head.  

"I think we should save him."  Simmons turned to her husband and whispered.

Fitz smiled back at her.  "I think we should wait a little bit, see what he does."

Jemma playfully smacked his arm and walked forward, into the room.  "Stop harassing him."

"He's Fitz with Simmons' hair!"  Daisy pointed between the three.  "I figured it out."

"Deke, you're their son."  Elena joked.

Deke looked to Jemma and Fitz, who glanced at each other before shrugging and nodding.

"Grandson, actually."  The whole team laughed it off, thinking it was part of the joke.  But, upon seeing the serious expressions on their faces, they stopped.

"Wait, seriously?"  May looked between the three of them.  "We brought your grandson back from the future?"

"All of you, line up next to each other."  Mack said.

"I did a DNA test," Jemma told them, "it's true."

"No way."  Coulson smiled wide.  "You two skipped regular children and started with the grandchild!"

"Was this a coincidence or did you know the whole time?"  Elena asked at the same time.

"It was a complete coincidence, we just did the test-- wait-!"  Fitz tried to explain, but couldn't get much further, for Daisy pulled him and his wife into a tight embrace.  

When she let go, she ran to the other side of the room, to Deke, and gave him a hug of his own.  "You're actually family, now!"  She let go and held him at arms length.  "That actually makes so much sense, you being related to them."

"It does?"  Deke shifted awkwardly.

"You and Fitz are both so . . ." she looked at Fitz with a joking expression.  ". . . special."

That was what broke everyone.  The eight of them all laughed, though some more than others.  Piper and Davis stuck their heads into the room.

"What's happening?"  Piper asked.  Coulson explained with one single sentence.

"The kid we adopted is actually Fitzsimmons' grandson from the future."

[shhh-no-ones-home]

soul food javier pena x reader

+++++++++

javi winds up sick so you go to his house and help him out

Song: Ophelia by the lumineers

tag list: @cynic-spirit

+++++++++

I looked at my watch before knocking on his door again. He had asked me to bring the new files to him and I was growing rather impatient. He hadn't been in to work in over a week, and that was very unlike him. For a moment it hit me that he might be in trouble but as I tucked the manilla folder under my arm and went to reach for the door handle it opened. There stood javi, disheveled and looking grumpy as ever. I looked over him as he realized it was me and opened the door a little wider.

"Jesus javier, you look like shit."

I said with a short laugh, looking over his tired face as he rolled his eyes and let me in.

"I appreciate the sentiment."

He said half annoyed. If I weren't mistaken it sounded as it he were trying to hide a stuffy nose. If that werent enough to tell me he was sick the scruffy attempt at a beard and tissues littering his living room sure did. The place was a mess. I looked to him as he fell into the couch, pinching the bridge of his nose and closing his eyes.

"So I guess when they said you called in sick they really meant it."

I said, walking to the kitchen table and setting the file down. I looked over the three that were already there. none of them had been opened or even thought about, the small layer of dust was evident.

"I'm fine, I can still work."

He grumbled before sneezing twice and making me wince at the sound.

"How long have you been awake?"

I asked, walking back to the couch and seeing the fourth file open and splayed out on the coffee table.

"I don't know, I've looked through this damn thing eight times but I can't focus on it."

He said, sitting forward and pushing a few things around. I nodded, standing over him.

"Javi what time is it?"

I asked and he looked at me with drawn brows. When he went to look at his watch I covered it with my hand.

"Javier what time do you think it is?"

I said sternly and he sighed.

"Five?"

He guessed and I closed my eyes, shaking my head. I stood up straight before grabbing his arm and helping him stand.

"What are you doing?"

He asked and I pushed him forward.

"It is almost nine o'clock. You are going to bed."

"No, I can't, I'm not done."

He protested, trying to push back but it didn't work.

"You are for today."

I said, making it to his bedroom. It was as much of a mess as the living room. He just sighed.

"Take a quick shower, hot, to loosen that."

I instructed, wagging my finger in a circle over his nose.

"I'll get your bed ready and you can sleep when you're done."

He sent me a look before giving in, realizing I wasn't gonna budge on this one. When he was finally gone into the bathroom I went back out to the kitchen to get his trashcan. I made quick work of the mess, pushing all the used tissues into the bin. When I was done I looked over his bed and saw how messy it looked still. Then I remembered he kept his extra sheets in his bottom dresser drawer, prompting me to get them and change them. It looked much better after and I'm sure it would feel better too. When he came out of the bathroom he froze, the stream pouring out into the room as he stared at me.

"Get in."

I pointed, grimacing as he coughed harshly.

"You didn't have to do that."

He said in a gravely voice and I shook my head, pulling the blanket over him after he crawled in.

"Do you have cough medicine?"

I asked and he shrugged. I just rolled my eyes and went into the bathroom. Luckily he had some and a small tub of Vicks. I grabbed both and went back out to meet him, though he was in the middle of blowing his nose again, the comforter having fell to his waist. I set the two down on his nightstand and offered the trash can before sitting beside him on the bed. First I poured the meds and made him take it. Then I moved to push his shirt up and he gave me a weird look.

"Stop looking at me like that, it will help. God it's like you've never been sick before."

I said annoyed as I rubbed it into his chest. He started to look sleepy as I worked my fingers against his tense muscles.

"I don't even know why I have the stuff, someone packed it when I moved I guess."

He confessed in a quiet voice and I shok my head.

"Well it's good you have it. Now get some rest."

I said, pulling his shirt back into place gently and setting a little rub under his nose. He was too tired to care at this point though.

"Thanks."

He mumbled as I set the tub on the nightstand and stood up.

"I'll stay tonight in case you need anything but I've gotta get back to the office tomorrow."

I said and he barely nodded before his eyes fluttered shut, his mouth slightly open and his chest moving up and down quickly. I felt bad for him as I grabbed the trash bin and moved to the door. He really needed help with this, I could tell. When I made it back out into the living room I looked around and got to work. Lord knows he didn't need this shit still everywhere while he's trying to get better. It had already been a week and there had to have been at least a full box of used tissues on couch and floor. Guess it would take a bit.

°°°°°°°°°

When I was done with everything I finally fell into the couch with a sigh. It was already midnight and I needed to get to sleep too if I was gonna be to work even remotely on time tomorrow. I sat up to get the blanket off the back of the couch when I heard his door click open. I closed my eyes for a second before turning slowly to see him walking into the room like a zombie. He had a tissue in his one hand and coughed into the other.

"I can't sleep."

He said gruffly and I stood, walking to him and ushering him to the couch.

"Okay javi, how about you sit and I'll go get you something to drink. I'm sure your dehydrated. And how about hungry? Have you eaten?"

I asked and he shook his head, poking his hand out of the top of the blanket to hold it to him as I tucked him into it. I nodded.

"Okay, I'll be right back."

I paced quickly to the kitchen, filling him a glass with water before searching through his cabinets. I grabbed the sleeve of crackers and the box of bone broth off the shelf. Then I looked around for a small pot and got the broth started heating.

"Here."

I said, walking back out to the living room and giving him the water and crackers, moving the blanket so he could start on them.

"I'm making soup, is your throat rough?"

I asked and he nodded.

"Okay. Sip that."

I said, pointing to the glass before walking back to the kitchen. I looked through the fridge first, getting out a carrot, celery, and thyme. I was a little surprised he even had this stuff, going back to the cabinet and getting out the box of rice id seen before. I was quick to prep it all and get it in the broth as it began to boil, waiting patiently for the veggies to soften. As I stood there he shuffled his way in, blanket hanging off his shoulders like a cape as he took small bites of the cracker pressed between his fingers. I couldn't help laughing a little at him and his glazed over eyes, staring at the stove.

"I think that's the first thing I've smelt all week."

He said, looking into the pot. I smiled a little as I stirred it, taking the spoon out and poking the celery. I was glad to see it soft now.

"Well hopefully you can taste it too."

I said a little strained as I reached for two bowls off his top shelf. When I was back to flat feet I poured the soup out into the bowls and ushered him back to the couch. He was quick to try it, a strained hum coming from him as he went in for another spoon full. I felt a little better about that before trying it myself. It actually wasn't that bad. Before I knew it he was getting up and getting more, making me laugh a little as he asked if I wanted more too or if he could finish it. when it was gone he was sat back into the couvh, blanket draped over both of us as he rested his sweaty head on my shoulder. I brushed his hair out of his face lightly as he bobbed his head back and forth, eyes heavy.

"Javier-"

I started, feeling him stir under the blanket to get more comfortable.

"Do you want me to stay tomorrow?"

I asked and there was a long pause. For a minute I thought he'd fallen asleep.

"Yeah."

He finally said softly, a little defeated. I nodded as he readjusted his head against my chest.

"Okay. But you've gotta promise me you'll at least try to sleep some and not work all day."

I said and he nodded slowly. I leaned to the side to see if he was even coherent but the answer was no. He looked like he was trying to stay awake in case I would say anything else. I just breathed deeply, watching his head rise and fall as I did so.

"Goodnight javi."

I said softly before hearing his snoring, his arms making their way around my waist. I was a little amused at first, hugging him to me, but I'd be lying if I said it wasn't more comfortable. Before I knew it I was out too, wrapped up in a very sick and needy javier pena.

[loveforpreserumsteve]

Not Without You (Canon Divergence Stucky Fix-It-Fic)

Eight:

So, there was a change of plans. At first, Steve was sure that the compound was the best place. Where they could call some of the others who were off-planet and come up with a plan. Only, when Scott started theorizing about a possible time machine did Steve understand where they really needed to go.

Even if Steve did feel bad about bothering him at home.

With a blue Iron Man helmet in one hand and Morgan in the other, Tony paused on his way to the cabin when he spotted the van. A curious look was on his face before Steve opened the door. Really, Tony should've realized who it was considering he parked next to Natasha's black Audi, and only a select few knew where thee Tony Stark and Pepper Potts settled down.

"Uncle Steve!" Morgan cheerfully greeted, wiggling out from Tony's grasp as she raced over to him.

"Hey, Bug," Steve smiled, effortlessly lifting the little girl into his arms. Hugging her close as he looked past her to her father and asked, "Nat update you?"

"Yeah," Tony confirmed, displeased as he crossed his arms and briefly glanced down at the ground. Returning his attention when he heard the Langs climbing out of the van, he admitted, "When she told me who you were with, I thought you'd finally lost it."

As Morgan pet Steve's scruffy beard, Steve took her hand in his and playfully blew a raspberry to her palm before he conceded, "I thought I lost it too. This is Scott and his daughter, Cassie."

Kindly, Tony grinned and waved for the trio to follow him up the porch steps, "C'mon. Maguna and I were just about to have some lunch." Teasingly, he looked back at his daughter and joked, "A handful of crickets on a bed of lettuce."

On Steve's hip, Morgan exaggerated a look of disgust by scrunching her tiny face, and giggled when Steve mimicked her as he affectionately touched his forehead to hers. All the while, Cassie mocked, "Rich people eat the weirdest things."

Glancing over at her, Steve grinned and winked. Having grown fond of the teen within the last two and a half days, Steve even decided to drape his arm around her shoulders. Giving her a familial squeeze before dropping his arm, he gave Morgan's cheek a kiss then set her down.

"Wasn't expecting you until later," Nat greeted Steve, arms crossed along her chest and her longer hair braided behind her.

"Mr. Leadfoot here sped the entire way," Cassie answered, almost bashfully as she stared at Natasha in awe. Of course, knowing Natasha, he knew that it wasn't uncommon for people to be stunned by meeting Black Widow in the flesh.

"Captain Noble? Breaking a law?" Tony feigned skeptically as he lingered by the door. Peeking inside, he asked, "Food? Something to drink?"

"Sure," Cassie easily agreed, taking a seat on the outdoor furniture.

"That's really nice," Scott smiled, joining his daughter.

"Would you like some help?" Steve asked, lingering by the door along with Tony.

Tony smirked, "You're the one who will need help if you don't come say hi to Pepper, first."

Steve nodded and followed the shorter man into the house. Nonchalantly, Pepper was sitting comfortably on the sofa, reading. Steve was always pleasantly surprised with how easy the Stark-Potts lives had gotten since stepping away from avenging. Of course, Steve imagined that if Bucky had survived, they would've also settled down in a cabin that Steve built.

"Here's our favorite lumberjack," Pepper greeted with a warm smile as she bookmarked the novel. Gazing up at a disheveled Steve, she commented, "Long time, no see."

Heat spread across the apples of his cheeks, and Steve scratched at the back of his neck as he apologized, "Sorry, Pep. You know I was on a… mission."

"No need to apologize, big guy," Tony surprisingly assured, patting Steve's broad shoulder on his way to the kitchen. Pulling down some glasses and a tray, Tony informed, "Everyone deserves a year of self-discovery. Or five."

A smile tugged at his lips as he looked down at his boots. Although they all knew Steve wasn't searching for himself, Steve liked the sound of that better than what it really was. Especially with how pathetic the truth made him appear. Pity even colored Pepper's expression because she knew it too. Of course, she, herself, had been desperate like Steve once. Okay, more than once, Steve allowed. Tony, after all, did have a habit of narrowly escaping death.

When Steve heard the sound of a blender, he snapped his attention over to Tony. While it had taken a while for Steve to get used to the taste of some of the health shakes that Tony made the team, he'd be lying if he denied that he missed them. He had even bought a blender and tried to make them, but could never get the proportions right.

"Now, get over here and put those muscles to good use," Tony teased, as he poured the blended beverage into a pitcher. Placing it on the tray with the glasses and waiting for Steve to carry it back outside.

Following Tony, and smiling down at Morgan, Steve set the tray on the table. Casually noting how Scott was pacing and Cassie was sitting on the edge of her seat as though she was about to jump up at any minute to either stop her father, or join him. Glancing over at Nat, he could tell that she was figuring out what to do too.

Kneeling, Tony got to eye level with Morgan and suggested, "How 'bout you pick out some pretend clothes for later?"

"Okay!" Morgan quickly agreed, rushing inside of the house.

As he straightened out, Tony crossed his arms and gestured, "Alright, let's hear it."

Nodding to himself, Scott quickly went into relaying the Quantum Realm and how one has to be really, really, really small to get there. Having already heard it the night before, Steve didn't pay too much attention to Scott's explanation of how long it felt versus how long it actually was. Instead of getting his hopes up at the suggestion of time travel -- actual time travel! -- Steve chose to pour himself some of the healthy shake. Catching Cassie's eye, he poured her some too.

"Now, we know what it sounds like," Scott finished, eagerly studying Tony.

"Tony," Natasha started, "After everything you've seen, is anything really impossible?"

"You're telling me this doesn't sound crazy?" Tony questioned, quirking a brow at her.

A smirk played at her lips as she reminded, "I get e-mails from a raccoon, so nothing sounds crazy anymore."

Tony silently agreed with that, still not looking convinced. Especially as he argued, "Quantum fluctuation messes with the Planck Scale. Which then triggers the Deutsch Proposition. Can we agree on that?"

While Tony looked over them, he took their silence as confusion, and he wasn't really that far off.  Steve, for one, didn't know what they were talking about. So, Tony reiterated, "In Layman's terms, it means you're not coming home."

"I did," Scott protested.

"No," Tony corrected, "You accidentally survived. It's a billion to one cosmic fluke. And now you wanna pull off a… What do you call it?"

Holding her head held high, Cassie proudly answered, "A time heist."

"Yeah, a time heist," Tony confirmed, his tone softening with the teen. Steve looked down at his shake, not wanting to see the hurt and defeat on his teammate's face from the memory of the teens he lost.

Then, in a moment, Tony's stance and expression hardened. Always choosing aggression whenever hurt, and now was no different as he mocked, "Of course, why didn't we think of this before? Oh, because it's laughable? Because it's a pipedream?"

Cassie's jaw clenched, but she didn't sass. Instead, she kept her focus on her untouched drink and tried to reason, "There are stones in the past. We can go back and get them."

"We can snap our own fingers," Natasha added.

"Bring everyone back," Steve softly tacked on.

"Or," Tony dissented, "Screw it up worse than he already has, right?"

"I don't believe we would," Steve refrained from clenching his jaw. Desperately needing Tony to see the smallest of possibilities. It was the only thing keeping Steve holding on. If this didn't work, he didn't know what he'd do.

Sadly, Tony smiled at Steve as he admitted, "Gotta say, sometimes I miss that giddy optimism. However, high hopes won't help if there's no logical, tangible way for me to safely execute said time heist. I believe the most likely outcome would be our collective demise."

And just like that, Steve could feel the last bits of his heart shatter. Although Steve and Tony didn't always see eye-to-eye, Steve still cared for Tony. Hell, in a different life, he would've been Uncle Steve to him too. Always trying to care for Tony in Howard's memory. But if Tony didn't even think there was a chance…

Lost in his own thoughts, Steve tuned out their bickering. Trying his hardest to not spiral down to that lonely, dark hole he had been in in the beginning. Finishing off his shake, he set the glass down before he could break it. Knowing that Pepper wouldn't be too happy with him if he did so.

Holding onto the porch railing, he saw Morgan race out of the house and climb onto Tony. Gladly, Tony hefted the little girl onto his hip and turned for the house. Steve knew that this couldn't be it.

It just couldn't be.

A little -- okay, a lot -- desperate, Steve grabbed onto Tony's arm. Pleading, "Tony, I get it. And I'm happy for you, I really am. But this is a second chance."

Holding Morgan just a little closer, Tony declined, "I got my second chance right here, Cap. I can't roll the dice again." Then, a little softer, just for Steve, Tony added, "Really, Steve, I'm sorry."

Thickly swallowing, with tears building in his eyes, Steve nodded. Letting his hand drop, just like his heart as Tony walked inside of the cabin and Steve hurried back to the van. Leaning against the vehicle and burying his face in his hands as his breathing started turning to pants.

Cautiously, a hand touched his back and Nat's familiar voice attempted to comfort him, "He's scared."

"He's not wrong," Steve breathed out, peeking over at the petite woman.

Cassie crossed the drive and asked, "What are we gonna do?"

"We need him," Scott sighed defeatedly.

"What, are we gonna stop?" Cassie demanded, looking over the adults in front of her. Wondering if she finally saw the avengers for what they truly were. For what he was.

Natasha kept rubbing Steve's back, bringing him back down. Making it easier for Steve to remember who he's supposed to be. He's Captain America, god damn it! So, he rationalized, "We're gonna need a really big brain."

[xxkellsvixen19xx]

Fade Into You Michael x Reader Oneshot

There was a gravity that pulled them together Michael and Y/N, she was the light to his darkness. There was an indescribable passion that burned deep inside them, there was noone or nothing that could come between them.

 I want to hold the hand inside you

I want to take the breath that's true

I look to you and I see nothing

I look to you to see the truth

You live your life, you go in shadows

You'll come apart and you'll go black

Some kind of night into your darkness

Colors your eyes with what's not there

Fade into you

Strange you never knew

Fade into you

I think it's strange you never knew

When you know, you just know. That feeling you get when they enter a room, the euphoria you feel when you smell their cologne, the way they make you laugh when you thought laughter was impossible.

I love those feelings. I relish those feelings and crave them.

He gives me those feelings every day. He is perfect. He is beautiful. His eyes are blue like like crystal; but oh God they're beautiful.

His hair is a color of  blonde and when it grows longer, it gets curly and messy and my favorite thing is to run my hands through it. When it's long we fight over who looks most disheveled first thing in the morning; it's a game with no real winner but it's the most fun I have ever had.

It hasn't been long and I know this. He isn't my first love, he isn't my second love but in all due time I'm hoping he's my last love. As cliché and terrible it sounds, I feel like my world doesn't operate the same when he's not involved in it. We agree on nearly everything, and our arguments are always playful; over something trivial like who loves each other more or who thinks about each other more.

In all honesty, his appearance is what drew me to him. Too many people say that inner beauty is more relevant than outside beauty, but when I first saw him I didn't care about anything inside him; he was incredible. His arms were strong, muscular.

We enjoyed each other's company whether we were talking or relaxing in silence. Over the course of 6 months, he went from a hot stranger to feeling like my home. I couldn't imagine doing anything without him. I'm sure I could have been fine without him, but, why would I want to be without my best friend? My partner? My lover? It all seemed to be too good to be true, and I couldn't believe he was mine.

"When you have each other, you don't need anyone else." He would say to me as he pulled me close to him. The feel of his scruffy two-day beard rubbing against my cheek. I could faintly smell his cologne from the morning when he put it on; the smell still gives me shivers.

I fell hard, fast and completely. Within a year we were talking about buying a home together and starting a family. My mother loved him, he was a gentleman and extremely quiet. She appreciated the fact that he was so passionate about our love and how he would go to great lengths to make me smile. He posted a video of him playing guitar and singing to me, on YouTube, in an attempt to "proclaim his love for me to the entire world." I watched the video at least 72 times over the course of a week. I shared the video with everyone I knew; I was so proud to call this boy mine. It seemed like every day got better and better. Eventually he got a great job that gave us the opportunity to move in together. It was a dream come true. The house wasn't anything fancy. A beaten and well-loved trailer in a small community in our hometown – it wasn't much of anything at all, but it was ours. All ours.

It was surprising to me when the next chapter of our love story unfolded. It wasn't long after we had moved in and settled into our home that I found out I was pregnant. Our dream of starting a family finally became a reality and I couldn't have been happier.

It felt right, this all was happening at the perfect time. I couldn't have imagined a better person to have with me through this journey.

[darlingpeter]

a sense of purpose

this takes place a few months after the events of the puninsher season 1, where frank meets you at one of curtis’ support groups when you come to pick up your grandfather and he starts to look forward to seeing you every week. 

pairing: frank castle x reader

warnings: some spoilers for the end of season 1, and just fluff besides that!

length: 2816 words

(i love this gif bc scruffy bernthal has me feeling some type of way, ok?)

Recovery is hard.

That’s what you’re told when you’ve lived through some serious shit - whether it be through drug or alcohol addiction, physical injury, or been on the front lines. It was the hardest thing that Frank had ever had to do.

Showing up to Curtis’ meetings, let alone opening up and talking in them were all new to him, and it was a slow process, for sure. But it was definitely interesting. Weekly, he got to grab a cup of coffee and sit and listen to the thoughts and struggles of other soldiers. It was a lot different than just hearing them from out in the hallway - he was actually able to see their faces as they spoke and see the same fear in their eyes that he felt in his heart every day.

After Central Park and the shootout with Russo, his record had been wiped clean; Frank Castle was dead, but Pete Castiglione was able to go out and live a free life. He stayed in New York but grew out his hair again as well as his beard, and ignored any hipster remarks that were thrown his way - he would much rather deal with those than have someone recognize his face and claim that Frank Castle had once again risen from the dead. While keeping that identity 6 feet under, he still went by Frank in friendly circles, claiming that it was a childhood nickname.

He no longer dreaded mornings. That didn’t mean that the nightmares had gone away, but it had grown easier to get out of bed in the morning.

After another meeting, Frank got up and started to help Curtis put away chairs. It was their routine to help each other out, and that way the both of them would be able to grab another cup of coffee before it was all gone. Once the last one was folded and stacked away, he gave Curtis a hearty pat on the back. “It was a good one today, Curt.” He said, and even though the remark was short, the words were weighted with gratitude.

The two of them had been friends long enough that the other man was able to pick up on that fact, and he gave Frank a smile. “Thanks, man. I’m really glad you keep coming. I can tell that it’s doing you some good.”

They chat a bit more about mundane things, the kind of small talk that Frank had hated before he realized how fucking necessary it was just to feel some kind of normalcy. A few folks from the meeting came by to say their goodbyes to Curtis, but Frank didn’t really pay attention until the other man beamed with his gaze on someone at the door.

“Hey! Was wondering when you would show up.” He boomed with a laugh, and Frank turned to see you walking toward them with a grin. You hugged Curtis and turned your glance to Frank with a smile. Curt took the introduction into his own hands. “Y/N, this is Frank, he’s an old friend of mine who comes to these meetings. We were in the Marines together.” He gave Frank a clap on the shoulder. “Frank, this is Y/N, her grandfather comes most weeks, he’s a Vietnam vet.” You held out your hand for him to shake, and he took it with a small smile, pleasantly surprised at the firmness of your grip.

You turn your attention to the other man and begin a discussion about how your father was doing while in the group, and during your discussion, Frank was taken slightly aback. In such a somber place, it was rare for anyone to bring an energy as bright and lively as you did. It was refreshing, and he couldn’t help but stare as you interacted with his friend.

“I’d better get him back home, you know how he hates to miss his Jeopardy reruns.” You said, and Curt let out a small laugh.

“No wonder he’s quick as a whip for his age. I’ll let you get to it.”

“Thanks, Curt. It was really nice to meet you Frank, I’ll see you around.’ You said your goodbyes and walked over to where your father was standing hunched over next to the refreshment table with his cane in one shaking hand and a cup of coffee in the other. “That’d better be decaf, you know what the doctor said.” Frank heard you say as you looped your arm through his to guide him to the door. He couldn’t help but smile and hope that you came around more often.

Over the next several weeks, Frank found himself looking forward to the end of meetings, but for reasons completely different than when he started going. He couldn’t wait to see you as you arrived to make small talk before you took your grandfather home. In the small talk that the two of you would share, he learned quite a bit about you and your situation. You were an elementary school teacher who moved in with your grandfather in order to help take care of him after your grandmother died a couple of years prior.

After one session, however, you didn’t show, and Frank began to grow worried. It was only rational to presume that something had come up and you weren’t able to make it, but his knee-jerk reaction was to assume the worst.

“Does Y/N’s grandpa have a ride?” He asked as he routinely helped Curtis stack chairs away. He was the last one left of the others who were at the meeting, standing over by the coffee with his cane.

Curtis nodded, wiping off his hands on his pant legs. “Y/N gave me a call and asked me to be his chauffeur, she said that her car broke down and she wouldn’t be able to take him to and from the meeting today.” He explained. “Which means i’ll be a little late for a date that I have in a bit, but I’d rather know that he made it home safe.”

Frank saw his opportunity and took it. “I could see him home if you’d like. You don’t need your good heart tripping up your love life.” He offered nonchalantly, but on the inside he was really hoping that Curtis would agree.

However, his friend knew exactly what was on his mind and gave him a knowing smirk. “Don’t play like this isn’t you trying to see Y/N again.”  

Frank hung his head and gave a chuckle. Curtis really did know him too well. Nevertheless, Curt gave him your address and pulled him into a final hug. On the way out the door, he shook your grandfather’s hand as a farewell. “Frankie here’s going to be seeing you home tonight because I’ve got to run. Let me know if he gives you any trouble and I’ll sort him out for you, ok?” Which made the old man give a beaming smile.

Frank was the next one to shake his hand. “Sir, I don’t think I’ve ever formally introduced myself. The name’s Frank.”

“Arthur.” He responded, shaking Frank’s hand with firm grip, making it clear where you had gotten yours from. “You serve, son?”

“In Afghanistan, sir. As a Marine.” He said, holding out his arm for the other man to take.

He did with an enthusiastic “oorah,” picking up his cane in one hand and taking Frank’s elbow in the other as he let Frank lead him to his beat-up pickup truck.

It was pouring rain outside, but the cab of his truck was warm and his company was more than happy to fill the silence with stories from “back in ‘Nam.” Arthur and his pals in the same platoon got into quite a few shenanigans while they were stationed, and although Frank had been told the same story a couple of times during the car ride, he didn’t mind.

Once he had arrived at your house, he walked your grandfather to the front door and knocked. He heard muffled footsteps on the other side and a second later, the door was opened to reveal you, dressed in flannel pajama bottoms and an old Mets t-shirt. Your hair was thrown up and disheveled and your feet were bare as you held onto a steaming mug. “Hey, old man.” You greeted your grandfather as he crossed the threshold, and then you turned your kind eyes to Frank.

“Curtis had something.” He quickly blurted, nervous all of a sudden. You had expected Curt to drop your grandpa off, not Frank, and he didn’t want you to think that something was wrong when a big, bearded, surly-looking man dropped him off instead. “He had a, uh… a date, i think. Something like that.” He stuttered, and then mentally kicked himself for probably sounding like an idiot.

To his surprise, you didn’t comment on how uneasy he must’ve been behaving, and instead gave him a fond look. “Did he tell you about the story about Nha Trang?” You asked with a smile telling of your grandfather’s talkative habits.

“And the chickens in My Tho. Multiple times.” Frank answered amusedly.

“Thanks for putting up with him, i know that he can be quite the handful to people who expect a two-way conversation.” She said, which caused Frank to let out a small laugh. “Would you like to come in and get out of the rain?” You asked.

“I don’t want to be a bother, ma’am.” He responded quickly, but as you mentioned it, he noticed how after standing outside for only a couple of minutes, he was still completely soaked.

Luckily, she merely stepped aside in the doorway. “I insist. Plus, I can throw your jacket in the dryer and have you out of here in 45 without having to worry about you catching a cold on the way back home, ok?”

You left him practically no other choice, especially not with the promise of putting his sweatshirt on fresh out of the dryer, and he walked past you and into your home. You closed the door behind him, quieting the rain to a gentle patter on the roof. He gave you his jacket and you disappeared for a short minute before you strolled back past him into the kitchen. “I made chicken and mashed potatoes tonight, do you want me to fix you a plate?” You offered.

“That sounds wonderful, ma’am, I’d really like that. Thank you.” He said, pushing his rain-wet hair out of his face and taking a seat next to your grandfather at the sturdy wooden table that sat between the kitchen and the living room. As you put the plates down in front of the two men, Frank tucked in, and he felt like his soul left his body. He hadn’t had food that good in ages.

“Can I get you something hot to drink and warm you from the inside out?” You asked. “I just brewed a fresh pot of coffee. I could also put the kettle on if you want tea instead, you just look more like a coffee man to me.” You told him.

“Sounds like you’ve got me in a box here, ma’am.” He said, “I’ll take it black.”

“Black it is then,” You said, getting a mug from one of the cabinets and pouring him a generous cup. “And you can ease up on the formalities, Frank. Y/N is just fine.” You handed Frank the warm mug, and he accepted it with a quiet “thank you.”

“I like a man who uses those titles.” Your grandfather interjected. “It shows respect.”

“I know, pop.” You sighed. “But it makes me feel like an old maid, and there are other ways that a man can show women respect, like taking their hats off at the table.” You lightly swat his shoulder, and he quickly swipes the “VETERAN” hat off of his head with a sheepish grin.

The three of you make lighthearted conversation, and it’s no surprise that Arthur dominates it with tales of his service and other worldly travels. It would be boring if he wasn’t as funny or as good of a storyteller as he was, and Frank finds himself laughing so hard that he loses his breath a couple of times, which hadn’t happened for far too long.

All too soon, Arthur says goodnight to you and Frank before disappearing from the kitchen in order to head to bed, and you take all of their dishes, washing them while Frank finished off his coffee.

Once the dishes were put away, you sat across from him at the table, the setting littered with papers and various colored pens. “It looks like you have a lot going on over there.” He remarked, looking at your setup.

You sighed and ran a hand through your hair. “It’s conference season and I have a lot on my plate and things are kind of falling apart right now, if I’m honest.” You said, and your eyes immediately widened. “I mean, shit, that just kind of slipped out. I don’t mean to drag you into my pity party, Frank. I’m sorry, change the subject.”

Your cheeks turned red and you avoided his gaze as you waited for him to say something, but Frank wouldn’t let this slide. “You know, if there’s anything that I’ve learned in the past few months, it’s that talking about things that you’re struggling with to other people really helps.” He said softly. “I don’t mind.”

And so, with a little bit of hesitation, you started talking about what you were struggling with. Conference season meant that it was time to meet up with the parents of your students and discuss their marks and behavior in class, and while mostly docile and manageable, there were a few students whose parents treated you badly, and it was stressing you out to try and have to prove yourself to them. Because your car broke down, you were late to a meeting with one said parent, who was unhappy, to say the least, and you had received several passive aggressive emails from them in retaliation for “wasting their time.”

“That sounds brutal.” Frank commented.

“Yeah,” you sighed. “And on top of that, there’s a ton of repairs that need to be made in this house and I don’t have the time to do them myself or the money to pay someone else to.”

Frank perked up. That was something that he was familiar with, and if helping you out meant that he would get to spend more time getting to know you, then he would be more than happy to be of service. “What needs to be fixed?” He asked.

“Almost all of the faucets in this house leak, the lock on the back door gets stuck, the living room needs to be repainted, the fence needs to be stained, the sprinkler system in the back garden got messed up with all the crazy weather we’ve been having, and the garage door gets jammed half of the time, to name a few.” You told him.

“You know, I’m no stranger to a box of tools, Y/N, and I’d be happy to help.”

Y/N’s face fell. “That would be so wonderful, but I don’t have the money to pay you for all of that, Frank.”

“You don’t need to pay me.” He insisted.

“I understand that you could do this out of the goodness of your heart, but I won’t feel right about it unless i give you something in return.”

“Tell you what,” Frank started, putting his mug down. “You could pay me with a hot meal once every week. I don’t get eat a lot of home cooking these days, and I would much rather not eat alone.”

You considered it for a moment. “Make it twice a week.” You said after a beat.

“Will that be too much?”

“Too much? Come on, Frank. With all the things you’re going to do around here, I’m surprised you don’t want to come by every night!”

“Sounds like a deal then.” He said, flashing a grin as you held out your hand across the table. He shook it, the warmth of your palm lingering on his fingertips even after you pulled it away.

About 10 minutes later, as Frank walked back to his truck in a warm coat with a plate to go in a tupperware container, he couldn’t believe his luck. He felt happy in a way as he got back into his truck, a way that he hadn’t felt in quite some time. Not only would he be able to spend more time with you and your grandfather, but he would also be able to feel like he had a good sense of purpose.

Pete Castiglione had something going for him with this, he really did.

[a/n: i’ve left room to continue this as a series if that’s what you all want! this has been in my drafts for months, and i’m very happy to finally get it posted, but as always i would love feedback!! let me know what you think in my inbox, on reblogs, or by dropping me a message! thank you for reading!]

tags:  @howlingbarnes  @rotisserierogers @maybe-mikala @savage-stilinski

[superbearfun]

The first week of November found me dog and house-sitting for my daughter while she and her husband visited Walt Disney World. What does that have to do with anything about Broadening Horizons? Please, allow me to continue, because I had no idea that week would lead to a new journey and life adventure of sorts for me, as well.

Since they were on vacation I decided to also give my razor a break and didn’t shave for the week, just for the heck of it. No other intentions or plans at the time. Just tired of shaving every morning all my life, to be honest, and wouldn’t be seeing or be seen by anyone other than two German Shepherds for the week and they certainly wouldn’t be complaining about stray hairs. Didn’t bother to pack the razor, shaving cream, or aftershave.

When I got back home, I texted my three sons just for fun, saying “You should see me, I’m rocking a seven-day-old beard!” with the “Ha, ha, ha’s!” in parentheses. Before I could set the phone back down I received three immediate replies (most unusual, I hasten to add) saying –

“Keep it!”

“Keep it going!”

“You can’t shave it off, it’s No-Shave November. You have to keep it!”

I hadn’t given any thought about it being No-Shave November, never having participated in it before. According to the site – “The goal of No-Shave November is to grow awareness by embracing our hair, which many cancer patients lose, and letting it grow wild and free. Donate the money you typically spend on shaving and grooming to educate about cancer prevention, save lives, and aid those fighting the battle.”

Well, that seemed like something I could and should support, so decided to go ahead and let my seven-day stubble keep on growing until the end of the month.

I had never tried to grow a real beard before except for a week at a time celebrating St. Patrick’s Day each March in college many years ago, and back then it could only be described as “patchy” at best. And, not that I missed shaving every morning, anyway. So, kept it was – a three-week extension to the end of the month. My razor was granted an extended vacation. Something new, something to do.

But, I was then soon informed that I had to keep it going for TWO months, because it supposedly takes that long growing a new beard in to see what you have to work with before trimming, shaping, or making the decision it was a misconceived, failed, and doomed project from the start and shaving it off all together. Letting it go at the end of November then became holding onto it until the end of December and thru the holiday season. Why not? “Razor, take a break and enjoy the holidays!”

Shortly after though, several others advised that a two-month period is really inadequate to base such a weighty, life-changing, keep or shave decision, and I must leave it alone to grow for a minimum of THREE months. Do you see where this is going?

Well, now I am about nine weeks into it and still growing, looking at the end of January now to be the end of the three-month analysis and all important Keep or Shave review.

Some family members seem to have formed opinions already, a few negatives right away, truth be told. But then, some in life are always resistant to any changes around them or affecting their lives, so not totally unexpected, that.

My own opinion varies thru the day, being much higher in the morning when fresh out of the shower and glimpsing the hinted suggestion of a distinguished college professor look in the mirror, than late at night appearing more of a tired and disheveled, ragged and worn, old wino reaching for his half-empty bottle of Mad Dog 20/20.

As I tell anyone who asks about it, the beard does not yet have a long-term contract and is here on a day-to-day, tryout basis only. It seems to comfort a few while worrying others.

Nevertheless, despite the beard’s uncertain status, I received a rushed early Christmas gift delivered by Priority Mail, an electric beard trimming razor kit from one supportive son who felt that I definitely should and would keep the beard. Followed by a steady stream of advice about beard oils, beard balms, moustache wax, and other such things from another.

And then I was surprised by a 1 oz. vial of pine-scented beard oil in the mail from an unknown source, perhaps not wanting to be publicly numbered in the “keep the beard” camp. And yes, there are periods during the day when I smell as though I rubbed my face in a pine tree. Walking to the mailbox each afternoon, the birds seem to enjoy it.

Overall, it is turning out to be quite the learning experience. I learned right away that one is not supposed to use normal shampoos or conditioners made for head hair on a beard. Nope – too strong and they strip out the oils from facial whiskers, making whiskers tough and brittle. Head hair and whiskers are two entirely different things, it turns out, along with the composition of the scalp and facial skin.

One needs to purchase special, gentler shampoos and conditioners made specifically for beards. Who knew? At this point, I am guessing that the famously bearded Vikings may have used seal oil for their grooming regimens, but again – just a guess. The list of beard items seems much longer than my old shaving supplies list. And this all for a fellow who has never been into styling gels or sprays for my hair, never taking the time or liking the feel of all that gunk and muck in my hair. Towel dry, comb and go, that’s the way.

Beard Oils. Beard Balms. Moustache Wax. Beard Wash. Beard Softeners. Utility and Styling Balms. Most all in different scents and flavors. Not to mention the wide variety of Specialty Combs and Beard Brushes.

Did you know that plastic-toothed combs are not advised for beards because they may cause split ends? Split ends are bad because they must be trimmed. Trimming means bye-bye to beard length! Recommended – wooden combs with the teeth handcrafted to be perfectly round not to tear into the whisker cells. Whoever would have guessed that they actually make handcrafted wooden combs? Guess which is more expensive. And a hint –  it ain’t even close.

I have yet to take the step of purchasing and investing in specialty beard products. Again – here on a tryout basis only. And let’s just say the specialty products do not qualify for the “inexpensive” category in my budget.

One can use vegetable or olive oils in place of specialty beard oils for the same effect of keeping the underlying skin moistened. But who really wants to go around smelling like a salad all day? You can also use Coconut Butter, Shea Butter, or Cacao Butter as the base to make your own homemade beard balm at home. But the first batch will set you back about $50 in starter supplies.

What about baby shampoos? They are gentle. – “Well, yes,” they reply. “But the beard shampoos do not taste bad when you get them in your mouth, which is likely to happen since it is located right where you are shampooing.” Well, that makes sense. And, I don’t know if they make hair conditioners or softeners for babies, anyway. I tend to doubt it.

I do know that shampoos and conditioners made for dogs are formulated to be much gentler than those for humans, but that may be opening me up for more “scruffy” and “mangy” look comments. Attracting birds with a pine-scented beard oil is one thing, but attracting stray dog packs and coyotes with dog shampoos and conditioners would be another. I don’t really run that fast anymore.

Some use Mane and Tail shampoo made for horses on their beards, probably cowboys I’m guessing. But how would I honestly answer or reply if the friendly sales cashier at the store inquired while purchasing – “Oh, what kind of dog/horse do you have, sir?” Having neither, I will probably not be shopping in the dog and horse care aisles, even if they are cheaper than the specialty beard products.

Out in the West, it is an unwritten but well-known rule – “You don’t touch another man’s hat.” Apparently, there is the same rule governing beards – “Don’t touch my beard!” It is considered very rude, and after all the time and effort that some put into growing, trimming, shaping, and maintaining their beards, well – just please don’t do it. But, as for every good rule, there seem to be exceptions, in this case for ladies. But, by all means, don’t do it if you’re another dude, bearded or not. Just sayin’.

Other beard-growing advice and tips abound on the internet on just about any topic one searches for –

“My beard itches.” – Use beard oil to lubricate the skin beneath your beard and to prevent Beardruff, the bane of beardsmen everywhere it seems. (Beardruff — Think Dandruff but from the beard. Another new word learned and added to my vocabulary.)

“My beard still itches.” – Use more beard oil. Down deep. Work it in. It’s the skin itching. Whiskers don’t itch.

“My beard still itches.” – Use more beard oil, and keep it from drying out overnight.

“My head slipped off the pillow from all the oil.” – Try a beard balm. Balm it up good before going to bed and sleep on your back to give your beard air and to allow it to breathe.

“My girlfriend left because I was snoring while sleeping on my back.” – Find another girlfriend, keep the beard.

And other salient points –

“Growing a beard builds character. It teaches the art of patience.” –  I already consider myself a fairly patient fellow, so that’s a non-sell.

“Help your beard grow faster by eating healthy, exercising, getting enough sleep, and losing weight.” – I think I may have heard that same advice from my doctor last year, but I don’t recall him mentioning beards at the time. Interesting.

“Growing a beard, you become a member of the Beard Community, a Bearded Brother — a Beardsman.” – Not much of a joiner here, best left by myself with the bears. Hold the brotherhood club card and save the postage. I am a member of AARP only because they force me to in order to get the supplement health insurance. But wait — does the brotherhood offer Beard Insurance? Wondering about a fire hazard with all this oil and pine resin in it, to be honest.

“Keeping a beard helps your skin to look younger in the long run because it protects and shelters your facial skin if you shave it off when older.” – I am much closer to seventy than sixty and quit caring about what I will look like when I get old quite a while ago because I’m already there. The younger-looking skin ship already sailed. And sunk.

“Do not trim or cut anything, including your moustache, until the initial three-month grow-in period is over.” – Not sure I will ever get used to hairs in my mouth. Some mornings I wake up feeling like I kissed a Golden Retriever.

“Beards are warmer in winter and cooler in summer.” – Taking that summer part under advisement, with a good deal of skepticism. But, must add that the sensation of the wind blowing thru your whiskers on a chilly, breezy day is pretty cool. I’ll give you that one.

“To get an award-winning, competition quality handlebar moustache use a glue stick heated with a blow dryer to cement and hold the whiskers firmly in place.” – Seriously? A glue stick?

“With a white beard (which mine 98% is) you can make extra money during the holiday season playing Santa Claus.” – If I would have any goals about growing a beard, it would not be to grow a Santa Claus length beard, although fill-in work during the Christmas season might come in handy next year for a little extra pocket cash to pay for all the beard stuff. I always wondered why those gentlemen do it each year, spending all day with other people’s screaming kids in their lap. Now I know – they’re in it for the beard supplies money. What is the going rate for department store Santas these days? I may actually have to look into that as there may be an opportunity there. Making a note. I’m hard of hearing already anyway.

Eating and drinking apparently can be problematic with a bushy moustache or full beard. Experiencing a bit of that already, I must say.

“Learn to carefully lift and hold your moustache and beard out of the way when eating, not to mess them up. Always eat with plenty of napkins at hand. And cut your burgers and sandwiches into bite-sized pieces.” – There are videos showing how to artfully, albeit not gracefully, hold your moustache up and out of the way of food while eating, using one or two fingers of the opposite hand. I don’t know if I am that coordinated with the capacity of forethought when really hungry with a juicy hamburger in front of me to remember to lift and separate before each bite. That could be a problem. And as they say, it takes both hands to handle a Whopper. Cutting up a hamburger or other sandwich into tiny bits might raise some eyebrows around the table and restaurant, too.

“Learn to carefully lift your moustache up and out of the way when drinking from an open cup or glass. Always use a straw whenever possible, carrying one with you at all times. Or, use “To Go” cups with lids, sipping out of the little opening.” – Again, videos are available to show you how to lift up your moustache before taking a drink of coffee from a cup or a sudsy brew from a glass. I cannot imagine how any of this would be impressive on a date or on a dinner interview. Nor can I imagine sipping a cup of beer from a “To Go” cup or drinking it thru a straw. But, not to worry, there are moustache-saving specialty devices to carry along with you, if you choose. It appears there are specialty products for nearly every circumstance and occasion a beardsman might encounter. Men have obviously been at this beard game and problem-solving work for a long time. I do not ever recall seeing Gandalf, the Vikings, or dwarves struggle with these drinking and dining issues onscreen. So much for reality TV.  Well, Tolkien’s dwarves, though – never mind. I don’t think Gimli and the others really cared. But for the rest of us who do, there are ‘Mustache Guard Drink Attachments’ and ‘Whisker Dams’. You don’t have to take my word for it, just Google it. Go to Amazon. And they aren’t cheap, so don’t get drunk and leave them behind at the bar or on the table when you leave.

“Soups and such should be eaten only at home, preferably alone.” – Think lobster bibs if you have a full or long beard, to shield and protect it from staining (especially if white!), together with the pesky lifting the long moustache up out of the way of the soup spoon issue. Soups and the like seem to be pretty much a banned food group, at least in public. I wonder if the Campbell Soup Company knows about this and if so, why haven’t they come up with a solution yet? Possibly missing a large market segment here, it would appear. Beard-staining tomato soup thru a sippy cup, anyone?

I don’t know what happened between senior year of college and “almost-seventy”, but “patchy and sparse” back then seemed to have changed into “seeing a noticeable difference daily” over the years. And no patches, much fuller. So, if you are of young age reading this and disheartened dealing with open, bare spots and patches trying to grow a beard, or can only grow one of those scruffy and shaggy throat-beard things, have hope. Just wait until you are old and couldn’t care less about growing a beard in the first place, and then give it a week or two. I suppose the whisker-growing change probably happened around the same time that my nose and ears became involved in the hair-growth business. Just a guess.

Reaching the seven-week mark at Christmas, I was awarded the new nickname of “Grizzly” from two different people at holiday gatherings, both for my grizzled appearance at the time and for the obvious comparison to Dan Haggerty who played Grizzly Adams years back in the late 1970s, with my own affinity for bears and writing about them with Little Red Bear. I took it as a compliment and am honored to “bear” the name, having always been a fan of both the character and the actor. So, just call me “Grizzly”, folks.

And did you ever notice that the words “Bear” and “Beard” are identical in English, with only the extra “d” being the difference? Another of the English language idiosyncrasies. If “bear” is pronounced “bare”, then why is “beard” not pronounced “bared”? I don’t think it would be a problem to be consistent because I have never heard or seen the sentence – “The man was arrested and taken into custody after drinking all night when he later bared his beard in public” on an evening news report. No serious risk of confusion, I don’t believe.

More than exceptional beard length which I don’t care about and see only as problematic and likely more work trying to maintain than shaving ever was, my only “Holy Cow!” objective would be to grow an honest-to-goodness handlebar moustache. But not a Snidely Whiplash, curled up at the ends, “tie-someone-to-the-railroad tracks” type, or a Salvador Dali, not at all.

More of a bushy Texas Longhorn look. If I could pull off a Sam Elliott stache, that would be a keeper! Or perhaps a walrus moustache as a nod to one of my favorite authors and guiding examples, Mark Twain. Or William Farnsworth from “Anne of Green Gables”. Or Grandpa Walton, Will Geer. Pretty good company, those.

Admittedly at nine weeks right now, there is only a hint of a possible handlebar in the future. The beginning of a bushy longhorn, perhaps. At the least a good effort and hopeful indication of future possibilities, but nonetheless merely a start. And we all know that not all “prospects” make the big leagues.

I must add, that trying to train a baby handlebar moustache so far is about as easy as herding cats. Although despite the oft-used expression, I have never seen anyone really try to herd a mess of cats, even on video, so it’s all left pretty much to the imagination, I suppose.

But it sounds tough, and maybe that also explains why I’ve never seen anyone actually trying to do it. Regardless, you get the idea. It’s training time for the stache to separate it from the beard growth and guide it out to the sides into a brave new world. Hold the glue sticks, though. That’s not happening.

Some have tried to talk me into a Yeard (another new word), letting my beard go totally untrimmed for twelve months, a year’s length. Not going to be doing that, either. If I would end up keeping the beard at all, I would most likely end up with what they call a short, one to three-inch beard. Maybe in the style of Ernest Hemingway. He’s another writer I have always greatly admired. But with a full, bushy moustache borrowed from Sam Elliott or the others. That shouldn’t precipitate any sideways glances or comments, should it? I never was much at conforming. Might need the fellowship of that bearded brotherhood, after all.

  As I keep pointing out, the beard and moustache are still trying to earn spots on the team and only here on a day-to-day tryout basis, anyway. I still catch myself wondering who that strange, seedy-looking character in the mirror looking back at me is occasionally.

Clearly, a mantra to keep repeating — “Time and Length Will Solve All Problems.”

The plan at this time, being just under a month away from the noted Three Month Benchmark, is to keep it all going until then, trying to guide, grow out, and train an unruly baby stache into a full and bushy handlebar moustache along the way. Herding whiskers trying to rope in a Longhorn.

Please do not write in and ask for any pictures yet. I do not do selfies and Little Red Bear’s paws are too large to work the tiny camera buttons. Just imagine Santa Claus on vacation at the seaside on a 104-degree day, beard trimmed shorter for summer, after a non-stop, three-day bender at The Shattered Shanty Beach Bar, and you’ll be close.

Maybe a picture later provided the beard, moustache, or both land a permanent appearance contract. In the meantime, here’s a picture of Sam Elliott. If the beard goes in the end but the stache stays and ends up anywhere close to Sam Elliott, well – I can live well with that. I already have a hat and boots. We can all dream.

Perhaps the most illuminating point of all this is how we so frequently make random, off-the-top-of-the-head decisions every day, never giving thought to how they could be possibly life-altering down the road. Even in a small way. I simply decided to stop shaving for a week, just for the heck of it and ended up being introduced to a new bearded brotherhood culture that I never knew existed, and developing a whole new level of respect for people with well-cared-for moustaches and beards. And although admittedly a slight change in the big picture view, possibly a different way of life for me. We never stop growing, changing, and evolving as we go along thru life. Nor should we.

Nor should we live our lives confined within the limits of the familiar and comfortable boxes we unconsciously seem to fashion for ourselves over time. Venture outside and go with the flow. I think it especially important to keep expanding our horizons as we grow older. Even if the beard goes away and is history come the first of February, I will have developed an appreciation for and learned a great deal about things and people I never knew before. And that’s always a good thing.

Thanks for visiting and spending part of your day with us! Is someone around you working on a change in their life, too? Maybe they could use a kind word, gesture, or encouraging support. Will you do that for them today? Maybe send them an anonymous vial of beard oil or a Whisker Dam, if appropriate.

‘Til next time! Happy Trails! – “Grizzly” Jim (and Red!)

“The joy of life comes from our encounters with new experiences, and hence there is no greater joy than to have an endlessly changing horizon, for each day to have a new and different sun.” — Christopher McCandless

                                    “Kissing a man with a beard is a lot like going to a picnic.                                  You don’t mind going thru a little bush to get there.” — Minnie Pearl  

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      “A mind that is stretched by a new experience can never go back to its old dimensions.”    — Oliver Wendell Holmes, Jr.

  Broadening Horizons — My Introduction to the Beard World The first week of November found me dog and house-sitting for my daughter while she and her husband visited Walt Disney World.