#I’ll admit I struggled with 10 so forgive me for being vague there- I’ve never actually seen that word used and it was hard to find a solid

[fowlblue]

Fowl Senior

2, 4, 6, 8, 10

Yesss Timmy time-

2. (do they have any daily rituals?)

Tim has a very strict morning routine-

- wake up an hour or so after sunrise (the actual hours aren’t entirely important, more so the structure)

- get his leg on/assess whether or not he’ll use it or another mobility aid instead

- a short exercise typically consisting of a run, but occasionally of simple stretches/weights if his leg is sore

- get a shower and get tidied up for the day

- go grab breakfast

- start on work for the day

This routine is his most structured portion of his day, and it’s something he values highly! When he’s unable to follow through with it, due to having a bad day injuries/brain-wise or due to scheduling, it annoys him immensely.

4. (what would they need to do if they need to make dinner, but the kitchen is busy?)

Hmm… If he can’t cook something small for himself, and can’t access the cabinets (if he could, he’ll just eat whatever’s in there that doesn’t need cooking), he just orders something and sends someone to pick it up, or just doesn’t bother eating.

6. (eating habits)

(I’m not gonna do a sample menu thing because I don’t know enough fancy rich foods to do so, but I HC Tim, like Artemis, enjoys a lot of fish or fowl- lol- protein-wise, and he really likes soup/stew or similar foods. Easy to make, easy to eat).

Tim’s eating habits could be a lot better- when Butler isn’t cooking, Tim either makes extremely simple food, or just makes do with whatever’s in the pantry, meal-worthy or not. This man, left to his own devices, will eat a pack of crackers and a glass of water and consider that ‘good enough’ to call lunch. Oftentimes he forgets to eat at all. To get around this, Butler will often make him protein shakes or the like, or label a set-aside amount of leftovers for Tim specifically, because this helps remind him to actually eat something.

8. (favorite indulgences and feelings surrounding indulgences)

Two things- collecting (mostly comic- especially Batman- related items) and comfy, casual clothing! Tim has always loved old comics, with a particular passion for the Batman franchise. He has several little collections, from comics themselves to various toys, posters and DVD sets relative to them, even if he never watches them. Putting himself in a world of superheroes- and more importantly, supervillains- that is wacky and outlandish, like comics back in the day, help take him out of the dangerous world he lives in for a bit.

Comfy and casual clothes is an indulgence that was originally born of necessity. After his hospital stay and during the time he was relearning to walk and recovering his strength, Tim often was in a lot of pain and really struggled moving around. Wearing his usual outfits seemed beyond him for the time- once-frostbitten fingers ached too badly for the buttons, and with how painful his leg was, he didn’t want to wear his dress pants either, the fabric uncomfortable against his still-sore scars. So, reluctantly, he made the decision to switch to sweats and the like… and liked them so much he continued to wear them at home when able, because it was comfy.

Tim lived a childhood that, while provided for on account of wealth, featured few indulgences- those Tim garnered for himself were scorned or at times treated as a reason for punishment. He was a Fowl, a future heir- what business did he have, wasting time with his own wants? The family comes first. This was a hard mindset to break, and Tim still grapples at times with a sense that he doesn’t need or deserve the things he has, though Angeline does her best to convince him otherwise.

10. (neuroses? do they recognize them as such?)

Tim has PTSD from his time in the Arctic- and from before, his childhood, though he wouldn’t admit it if asked. He is aware that he has it and is in therapy, though at times he struggles more than others. He is also prone to bouts of severe fatigue, sleeplessness and depression that he can’t quite place or name- most assume when these occur that it’s a matter of pain from previous injuries, though in truth they have occurred long before his ill-fated journey. Paranoia strikes him at times, particularly when he’s reminded of the Arctic and his captivity.

[somethingjustsouthofbrilliance]

I Got You (Tony/Rhodey secret service AU) Chapter 10

Warning for mentions of abuse of a minor. Again, nothing graphic, just an fyi.

Links to chapter 1, chapter 9

Tagging @jamesrhodey  @supernaturalyloki @chanderefk @aimeeroot21 @markedplaces @mostly-marvel-stuffs @matre-dee @le-ephemere @lo-anlurui @savedbyholmes @kimmycup @typicalcampbell @natty-ts70 @damnhiatus @pubzie @giulisetta @goose-danvers  @donttellanyoneitsmebabe @bookwermthings @tonystark5ever  @polygamoussquamous @swanheart69 @schalabi422

Chapter 10

She’s in the middle of changing the dressing on Tony’s wound when the door to her bedroom is pushed open and James walks in.  He watches her in silence for a few moments, hovering awkwardly by the far wall, before stepping further into the room.

 “How is he?”

 She shrugs, one-shouldered, picks up a roll of gauze to place over the dressing.  “The bleeding has slowed down quite a bit,” she allows, carefully smoothing out the gauze.  Lingers, her fingers resting lightly on the strip of the tanned skin turned pale with blood loss.  It feels warm under her touch.  A little too warm.  She tells James as much.  

 “Infection?”

 There’s an unmistakable note of worry in his voice, a reflection of her own, and she bites her lip against it.  Sighs, pulling the blanket back up to cover Tony’s shoulders.  

 “I’ll be keeping an eye on it,” she says.  “There’s a pharmacist I know next town over.  I can get antibiotics from him, if need be.”

And, hopefully, there won’t be, she thinks.  Because, Tony’s strong.  He’s gonna beat this.  She has to believe it, she has to.  

She scans the slack features before her, her chest tight with concern.  “You made me a promise, Mr. Stark,” she reminds him silently, smoothing her fingers over a furrow of pain that creases Tony’s forehead even in the unconsciousness of sleep.  “Don’t you dare break it now.”

 She hears James hum distractedly in response, hears the floorboards creak as the man approaches the bed, hesitating to a stop a couple steps away.

 “Something on your mind?” She raises an eyebrow at him, waits him out as he stands there, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth as if unsure how to begin.

 He sighs, long and heavy. Runs his palm over his short buzz of hair.  “Is it true? About Howard?” he blurts out finally, his eyes a bit desperate, a bit wild.

 “What about Howard?” She sees James flinch at her tone. Knows she sounds cold, hostile even, but she can’t help it – the mere mention of that man sets her teeth on edge. Especially now, when Tony lies here, unconscious; when it’s only been hours since she cleaned his blood off her hands; when she can’t help but remember the last time she’d seen him like this….  

 To James’s credit, he doesn’t back down.  Holds his ground even under her scorching glare.  “I didn’t know Howard personally,” he begins, cautious but determined, “but his reputation–”

 “I know all about his reputation,” she spits, her lips pursing in disgust.

 “He was a well-respected figure in Washington,” he objects weakly, like it’s an obligation he feels somehow to defend Howard’s name, and she grits her teeth sharply to keep herself from snapping at him once again.  

He’s got more to say, she can see it.  So she’ll let him talk and then she’ll decide if what he says justifies her committing murder.

 James chews his lip again, blows out another breath.  “Look, I misjudged him.  Tony. Badly.  I… everything I’ve learned today, it’s…” He shakes his head, looking weary all of a sudden, drained.  “Tony said something in the car on the way here.  I don’t think he meant to say it and I, well, frankly, I wasn’t even sure I understood him right, but…”  He flicks an oddly distressed, uneasy glance at Tony before meeting her eyes once more. “Did Howard really…” He makes an aborted gesture in Tony’s direction.  “Was Tony…”

 “Abused?”

 He winces at her bluntness. Nods, crossing his arms on his chest as if to protect himself somehow from the ugly truth of it.  

The absurdity of the gesture almost makes her laugh.

 “I met Tony when I was in fourth grade.  Our principal, Mr. Wolfe, came in to our classroom one day almost halfway through the first semester with this scrawny 7-year-old.  Said the kid was gonna be joining our class.”  He reminded her of a cornered wolf cub then the way he stood there, staring defiantly at the classroom full of much bigger, older kids – frightened and beaten but ready to fight.  

 “Fourth grade at 7 years old?” James whistles in surprise.

 “Yeah,” she chuckles grimly, remembering the angry looks, the jealous rumors, the taunts that were thrown Tony’s way.  “It didn’t go over well with the rest of us, as you can imagine.  Everyone saw him as a spoiled rich brat whose daddy probably paid off the principal to get him placed in a higher grade (never mind that he was smarter than everyone there).  Who was too good to talk to any of us or to sit with us at lunch.  Too good to ride the bus, so he had his butler take him to and from school.”

 She runs her hand absently down the blanket, smoothing out nonexistent wrinkles.  Stops when she reaches Tony’s hand, her fingers twitching slightly in indecision before she carefully picks it up to cradle in her own.

 “Took me months to realize that that butler, Jarvis, was the only person in Tony’s house who actually gave a damn about him,” she admits, her voice thick with self-loathing.  Runs her fingers with soothing apology over the bruised, scraped knuckles.  “Tony would disappear every so often.  Wouldn’t show up to school for days at a time.  Everyone thought he was probably tanning on some exotic beach in the Caribbean or something.  Only…. only he would come back and he’d be paler than before and he’d walk funny and flinch as if he were in pain whenever people bumped into him in the hallway.”  She looks up at James, her lips twisting bitterly. “You don’t get concussions and broken bones while lounging on the beach.”

 James runs a shaking hand over his mouth, eyes wide with horrified disbelief.  “And nobody… nobody knew?”

 “Some people did,” she acknowledges, the old familiar pang of guilt thrumming deep in her heart, making her chest twinge with it.  “But nobody could do anything.  Howard had the whole town bought and paid for.  His staff, the school administrators, the teachers, the doctors – if any of them so much as thought about going to the authorities, Howard’s lawyers would have… these people would have been out of the job.  He’s done it, too.  It wasn’t an empty threat.”  She drops her gaze down to where her thumb continues to trace gentle, absentminded circles along the skin of Tony’s hand.  “And Tony knew.  That’s why he never complained to anyone.  Lied whenever someone would ask him how he got hurt.  He’d say he fell off a bike, or tripped walking down the stairs, or ran into a door, or some other ridiculous excuse like that.”  

 A harsh angry bark of laughter scrapes its way out of her throat, and she clamps her mouth shut against it, clenches her free hand into a fist.  Because those lies? She fell for them, too, at first.  She fell for them, too.  And she never did forgive herself for it.

 “He didn’t want people losing their jobs because of him.  Didn’t think he was worth it,” she whispers, feeling the shocked horror of that realization gnaw at her heart even now, decades later.  “Can you imagine that?  The kind of life he had as a kid that would make him believe something like this?”

 James swallows thickly, looking vaguely sick.  Works his mouth for a moment, the words seeming to flounder in their attempt to break past his lips.  “And his mother?” he manages finally in a breathy whisper.

 “His mother…” She huffs out a tired, rueful breath.  Maria loved Tony, Pepper’s sure of it.  Tried her best to protect him from Howard’s drunken rages when she could muster enough courage to do so. Which wasn’t often enough.  Not nearly often enough.  But she did try.    

 In the end, it was what got her killed.

 “Tony got sick one time over the winter.  The flu.”  Her lips twitch with mild amusement when she sees the way James frowns at her, confused at the apparent non sequitur.  But her smile dims all too quickly as her mind flashes back to that night she visited Tony at the hospital, to the way he sat there, slumped in Jarvis’s cautious embrace, still so frighteningly pale and with that heartachingly lost, broken look in his eyes.

 “Howard didn’t believe in being sick,” she spits out, her voice dripping with venom.  “His favorite mantra was ‘Stark men are made of iron’. Been drilling it into Tony’s head from the day he was born.  Imagine how disappointed he was when he found out that Maria kept Tony home from school because of some flu.  So the bastard made Tony stand outside for 3 hours in his pj’s in 20 degree weather.  To toughen him up.” She raises one hand in the air, her fingers snapping out air quotes. Drags in a breath, struggling to maintain her rapidly slipping composure.   “Tony ended up in the hospital with pneumonia.  Jarvis told me his fever got so high, they were afraid they were going to lose him.  And Maria, she didn’t take it well.  It…uh… it was the first time that Tony actually came close to dying at Howard’s hand and, I guess, it rattled her.  Enough so that she confronted Howard.”

 “What…uh… what happened?” There’s a hesitancy in James’s question, almost as if he’s asking it against his will, as if he would really rather not know.  Not that she can blame him, really.

 She doesn’t know all that happened, though.  Jarvis wouldn’t even tell Tony all of it, trying to spare the boy (not that it helped any).  

She tells James what she does know.  That there was an argument, a bad one.  That, for a long time after, there was a faded bloodstain on the floor of the Stark mansion next to a broken piece of railing at the bottom of the staircase that led from the upstairs floor down to the foyer.  That Tony got so upset when Jarvis broke the news to him that a nurse had to sedate him to keep him from hurting himself.  And that Tony believes his mother’s death was his fault because, in his mind, he was the reason for that argument and because he was stuck in the hospital and wasn’t there to keep Howard’s fury away from her.

 Tony had vowed then that he wouldn’t let anyone else he loved get hurt because of him.  He hasn’t broken that vow since.

 Beside her James sinks down heavily into a nearby chair, moves his head from side to side with a wide-eyed, shell-shocked look.  “Was that when… You said before that Jarvis was Tony’s guardian.  Did he take custody of him then?”

 She shakes her head, presses her lips together hard enough to feel the ache shoot all the way up to the joints of her jaw.  “About a year later,” she replies, reaching for the blanket again to pull it down from where it’s covering Tony’s chest.  “After this.” She points to a small round patch of scarred skin slightly to the left of Tony’s breastbone, faded over time.   Hears a sharp intake of breath beside her that lets her know James recognizes it for what it is.

 “H-how?” is all he manages, his voice sounding dangerously strained, as though it physically pained him to say it.

 She raises Tony’s hand to her lips, turns it gently to press a light kiss into his palm.  Lays it against her cheek, letting herself burrow into its familiar calloused warmth, drawing strength from the contact.  She’s gonna need it if she has any hope of getting through that particular story without breaking down completely.

 “It was the anniversary of Maria’s death.  Tony was…,” she closes her eyes briefly, wincing at the memory, “he wasn’t handling it well.  Couldn’t really concentrate in school.  The teachers were understanding, of course.  They knew.” She huffs, resentful.  “It was hard not to, what with the news coverage slobbering all over the tearjerker story of the poor grieving widower Howard Stark and his son.”  She finds it hard not to gag as she says it out loud now.  Back then she felt like scratching out the eyes of every news anchor that waxed poetic about the elder Stark on that ‘difficult anniversary of his wife’s untimely death’.

 “They let him go home. I volunteered to drive him – the perks of being 3 years older.” A smile tugs at her lips unbidden as she remembers Tony pouting like a disgruntled toddler the day she got her learner’s permit. She, of course, made sure to milk the advantage fully for the next three years, rubbing it in her friend’s face any chance she had.  

 Except that day.

 “We heard a gunshot just as we pulled up, and Tony… he just ran inside – didn’t even wait for me to stop the car.”  

 She takes a breath, short and unsteady.  Feels it hitch uncomfortably in her chest.  She remembers running into the house, following the sounds of raised voices. Remembers finding them all in the kitchen: Howard, his eyes bloodshot with alcohol and anger, a half-sloshed-out drink in one hand and a gun in the other; Jarvis, pale but determined, his hands gripping the countertop as if he were trying to stop himself from lunging at his employer; and Tony, slowly inching closer to his father, his hands raised imploringly as he pleaded with him to put the gun down.

 “Howard was drunk,” she says, gripping Tony’s hand harder.  She can feel herself start to tremble, can feel her heart stammer wildly in her chest.  She doesn’t think she’s ever been as scared as she was that day.  

“He was drunk and he was angry, and he decided to take it out on Jarvis.  And Tony, he…  he couldn’t bear the thought of losing someone else.  Especially not on that day.  There was already a smoking hole in the wall next to where Jarvis was standing, and Howard wasn’t calming down, he wasn’t even… I don’t think he even knew where he was or what he was doing.”

 There’s a watery veil in her eyes, and she raises her gaze to the ceiling to keep the tears at bay. Beside her James sits still as a statue, she’s not even sure the man’s breathing, but she can feel his eyes on her, the shocked, troubled heaviness of his scrutiny.  

 She forces herself to keep talking.

 She tells him how Howard raised his gun again, and how Tony lunged at him, pushing him hard into the wall to get him away from Jarvis.  How Howard roared in a drunken rage and swung the weapon at his son, pistol-whipping the boy and sending him stumbling down onto the floor.  How his trigger finger jerked at the tail-end of that wild swing; how deafening the sound of the gunshot felt when she was standing so close.

 She blinks, letting the tears spill over, running unchecked down her cheeks.  Drops her gaze back down to the small pink scar on Tony’s chest, her free hand reaching for it without conscious thought, fingers ghosting over the puckered skin.  

 A memory washes over her, a nightmarish flood of images she knows she’ll never forget.  

 Jarvis rushing past Howard to get to Tony, who’s struggling weakly to pull himself up, looking dazed and scared.  There’s a small trickle of blood on Tony’s face from where the impact of the barrel broke the skin, and it runs in a thin steady line down his cheek, curving at his jawline to slip innocuously down his neck and stain the collar of his shirt.  Another, larger stain mars the front of it, spreading outwards from a small ragged hole in it center, growing and growing and growing.  Jarvis presses his hands over it – they tremble, Pepper notices.  And isn’t that odd? Jarvis’s hands never tremble, but here they are, shaking like an aspen leaf in the wind.  And Tony winces, trying to flinch away from Jarvis’s touch, his face scrunching up as if in pain, but Jarvis doesn’t relent.  Jarvis shouts at her, at Pepper, to call the ambulance, and he presses down on Tony’s chest harder and harder and harder.  And Tony cries out, Jarvis’s name falling from his lips – a gasped out plea chased with blood that stains them red and drips down his chin when he attempts to speak again.  And Jarvis’s face grows ashen with fear, something Pepper’s never seen before.  And then he’s lifting Tony up in his arms, and then they’re running, out the kitchen, down the hallway, outside, to Pepper’s car.  No ambulance, it’s gonna take too long….

 She takes a long, shuddering breath, pulling herself forcibly out of the haunting vision.  Glances at her suspiciously silent audience, sitting hunched over in his chair, his head buried in his hands.  

 “I’ve never seen Jarvis so angry.  He was… I honestly think that the only reason he didn’t shoot Howard right then and there was because Tony needed him more,” she muses quietly.  “And I think Howard realized that, too.  Jarvis told him after - once we knew that Tony was going to be okay – he told him he was taking Tony away.  He went back to the house, packed up all of his and Tony’s stuff right in front of Howard and told Howard that he was leaving and taking Tony with him, and that if Howard so much as thought about stopping him that he would rip him apart with his bare hands.  And Howard just… let him go.  Let them both go.  He didn’t fight it.  I think he was afraid to.”

 Gently, she lays Tony’s hand back down onto the sheets, tucks it under the blanket that she pulls back up to cover his chest.  “Very few people know about this.  Even here at the Foundation,” she warns, and James raises his head at that, gives her a slightly confused look.  “Tony doesn’t like to talk about being abused.  Thinks it makes him weak.”  She closes her eyes, pained, lifts one hand to wipe at the tears drying on her cheeks.  “Another one of Howard’s life lessons,” she adds, her lips twisting in disdain.  She’s glad Howard’s dead, but she still thinks he got off too easy.  One day, she thinks, she’s gonna drive out to New York to the ruins of the old Stark mansion and dance on the bastard’s grave.   Maybe drag Tony and Jarvis along, make it a party.

 “The only reason I told you,” she continues, stern, “is because Tony let some of that slip out in your company, and I could see you’ve already started making assumptions.  I didn’t want you to make the wrong ones.”

 “I understand,” James rasps out, subdued.  “I won’t say anything.”

 She nods, satisfied, rises stiffly to her feet.  “I’m gonna go check on the animals,” she says. “Gotta secure everything for the night.”  She still feels shaky and cold, her head swimming with the haunting memories of the past.  Some fresh air would do her good.

 James doesn’t move from where he’s sitting.  Looks at Tony with an expression of pensive worry and a watchful sort of protectiveness that loosens something in Pepper’s chest, fills it with warmth.  “I…uh… I think I’m gonna stay with him a bit, if that’s okay,” he murmurs, breaking his vigil for a moment to send a questioning look Pepper’s way.

 She dips her head in approval, leans in to plant a quick gentle kiss on Tony’s brow.  “Don’t stay up too late, though,” she warns, trying to pull off an easy smile but still falling far too short.  “This is a working farm, Mr. President, and we are all in the habit of rising early.  As a temporary resident here, you’ll be expected to pitch in.” She gestures vaguely in the direction of the window that looks out onto the field and the barn behind the house.  “Them cows ain’t gonna milk themselves.”

[phantomwarrior12]

Believable (Part 9)

Prompt: Duality by Set It Off

Word Count: 2,510

Warnings: Angst, canon-style swearing, a smidge of PTSD

Summary: Forgiveness is the hardest thing to give--it’s even harder to earn after committing genocide.

A/N: Hey folks!

Ah, I finally found the inspiration to finish this next chapter. It was a little difficult, but I found the right way for Isaac to approach the Reds and Blues: reluctantly.

As always, leave a like/comment and let me know your thoughts!

Enjoy!

~ Phantom

Saudade Masterlist

Shenanigans (Part 10)

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

I have a confession that you will not believe That you could not perceive this freak

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

"Don't move."

"Lower your weapon, Carolina." Sam steps between the barrel of the former Freelancer's gun and Isaac's tense frame.

"I thought he was dead." Washington tightens his grip on his magnum.

"We blew him off a fucking cliff! He should be splattered!" Tucker adds, keeping himself between the mercenary duo and Caboose.

"If you'll lower your weapons--"

"Alright. That's enough," Isaac heaves a sigh and steps around Sam, sporting more bravado than he truly has, "If you want to shoot me, shoot me--"

"Felix! 

"--after you hear what I have to say."

The siblings exchange a short, reluctant look before lowering their weapons, "Talk fast."

"You're all probably wondering how the hell I'm still alive and what the actual fuck I'm doing here. Well, it's an outrageous tale, but in short, armor lock saves lives and my partner wants to patch things up. No, I'm not going to shoot any you because I have zero interest in dealing with that level of bullshit after all this time. Only reason I'm here is because Sam insists we reconcile or some shit."

Isaac folds his arms across his chest, "You don't bug me, I leave all of you alone. Sound fair?"

Wash glances towards Carolina, "What do you think, boss?"

Carolina stares him down and for a split second, Isaac thinks she's going to shoot him. It's only after the barrel of her battle rifle lowers that he allows the breath he's been holding to slip out.

"You're on thin ice, Felix. If you so much as a look at my men the wrong way, Locus won't be able to save you. Do I make myself clear?"

He doesn't like how close she's standing, but somehow he manages to play it off with a wry smile and a quick nod, "Crystal." 

"Good. I'll be keeping my eye on you, so don't get any ideas."

He nods, relaxing a little when she starts back towards Blue Base. His eyes drift to Tucker and Washington, both of whom are slowly corralling Caboose away.

There's a pang of guilt in the pit of his stomach when Tucker levels a meaningful look on him, a warning to steer clear of him and all of Blue Team.

Isaac doesn't blame him, he'd do the exact same thing if it came to Sam and their positions were reversed.

"That went better than anticipated."

"What'd you anticipate?" Isaac turns to face his partner, curious.

"I anticipated getting shot." Sam returns coolly, starting past Isaac and towards the smaller base the Reds and Blues had built for him.

It isn't until they're inside that Isaac speaks again, "Nice place you got. Sparsely furnished with--" he stares incredulously at the cot in the corner, the weapons on a shelf and something that vaguely resembles a bathroom in the back of the building, "--weapons."

He tries a smile, but Sam notices the prominent grimace. He's trying, Sam knows that. This isn't going to be an easy process, but they can try--they have to try.

"I'll talk to the others about acquiring another cot." 

"No, it's okay. I'll just," distasteful glance at the floor, "sleep on the floor. Besides, they're not going to want to help me out--not after everything that's happened. I don't blame them, Sam, not anymore."

His voice almost cracks and Sam frowns, setting his pack off to the side and moving to stand beside his brother, "What are you talking about?"

"The things we did on Chorus, the last time I faced them. God, Sam, I tried to kill them. I was so blinded by rage that I didn't try to think about it as a mercenary or even as soldier--I thought about it as a monster. Vengeance, pride, retribution. It was stupid."

"It's in the past, Gates. There's nothing you can do to change it. The only way forward now is to accept and push through--make amends, try to reconcile with what's left of your humanity."

Isaac gives a slight nod, "That what you did?"

"It's what I'm doing."

Isaac snorts but offers a smile, "where do we start?"

"With the Reds and Blues."

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

"I don't think I'll ever understand how you haven't killed these people yet. I mean, God! They're so fucking stupid!"

"Calm down, Felix."

"I'm trying!" Isaac flings the pillow across the room and heaves a sigh, "how are they this stupid?"

Sam shrugs and returns to cleaning his weapon, the same weapon he's cleaned every morning for the past six months.

The former mercenary runs like clockwork; a morning run around the complex, an improvised weightlifting regiment before he showers and begins the process of cleaning his equipment.

He provides structure, a routine to give him some semblance of normal in this fresh hell that Isaac has struggled with adjusting to--a hell he hadn't known even existed until he arrived six months ago.

He'd begun to join Sam on his runs two weeks in, a bonding exercise that dredged up memories from their time in basic training. Eventually, three months later, the Freelancers joined in, opening gateways to conversation--paths that would ease his transition as a member of their crew.

Carolina didn't shoot him threatening glares in passing, Washington allowed Caboose near the former mercenary--something Isaac dearly wishes Wash wouldn't do.

He's sure the big, blue man-child isn't so bad once you get to know him, but heaven knows he never wants to get to know him.

The Reds have slowly warmed up to him, going as far as to quite forcibly include him in their debates and shitty plans. In short, Isaac actively avoids them whenever possible, especially when Grif decides to become philosophical.

The only remaining member of the Blood Gulch Crew, the only man who continues to hate him with every fiber of his being is Tucker.

He's tried, dear God, he's tried to break the wall around Tucker's exterior, but to no avail. The teal trooper is stubborn, bull-headed in more ways than one. Isaac might even dare to suggest that he can respect Tucker's resolve--his unwillingness to accept Isaac, to accept everything he's done and forgive him.

Perhaps he's right. Perhaps Isaac isn't worthy of forgiveness, but he promised Sam he'd try.

So, he heaves a sigh and starts out of their barracks, grumbling about stupidity and how he wished he could have escaped these rainbow colored morons.

It isn't long before he reaches Blue base, it isn't long until Wash directs him to Tucker's room and suddenly he's staring at the cold steel. A quiet inhale before he squares his shoulders and knocks on the door, forcing the annoyance and reluctance from his features.

"No, Caboose! I do not want to go play with--" the door slides open and Tucker's features contort in disgust, "the fuck do you want?"

Isaac clears his throat, "You have second to talk?"

"For you? Absolutely not." Tucker moves back inside his room, tension and silent fury radiating.

"Tucker--wait." Isaac reaches out, he's not sure why but it's a desperate plea. Tucker's eyes flicker between his hand and his gaze, thoroughly unimpressed and uninclined to humor him.

"Please," the lean mercenary manages, "just hear me out."

"You murdered thousands of people, why the hell would I listen to anything you have to say?"

It's a brief moment of hesitation, a fleeting moment of uncertainty before Isaac finds the words, "You're right."

"What?"

"I said you're right. I've done some pretty fucked up shit in my life and I'll be the first to admit that Chorus was one of the worst."

"One of the worst?"

"I fought in a war, Tucker, there were missions I regret more than anything in the world. Kimball no doubt mentioned that--

"--she mentioned it." Tucker folds his arms across his chest, perching himself against the desk just inside the room.

"She mention the battles Sam and I were in?"

"She did, but if you're gonna use that as an excuse--"

"--it's not an excuse, not even close. It's an explanation."

Teal flickers over the lean mercenary, skeptical and cautious all at once. "And you expect me to listen to it?"

"I'm hoping you'll listen to it."

For a brief moment, Isaac's certain the simulation trooper will tell him where to shove it and close the door in his face. For a brief moment, all time stops and he's never been this nervous in his life. For a brief moment, he wishes Sam was standing beside him, an anchor he clings to far more than he likes to admit.

"Fine." Tucker beckons him inside, "you have five minutes. I promised Wash that much."

Isaac snorts, "Seems we both made promises we're reluctantly keeping."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Never mind," Isaac waves the question off, casting a quick glance around the room before tired brown settles on Tucker's impatient expression.

"So? You gonna bare your soul or what?"

Some piece, some fragment of the soldier he'd once been begs him to leave, to keep the horrors tucked away in the box buried beneath booze and snark.

He brushes aside the hesitation, doing his damndest to square his shoulders and grasp at the fleeting confidence crumbling beneath ghosts and nightmares re-enacted behind glossed hazel.

"Right," Isaac mumbles, "bare my soul." Hands clap together, wringing together uncomfortably, "not an easy topic, but hey, let's try it."

Tucker seems unimpressed, but straightens a little from the desk, "Four minutes."

Something inside curses, but Isaac forces annoyance aside in favor of humoring his partner, "You signed up for the war, got dumped into Freelancer's little program where all you had to do was sit in a canyon and play pretend. Sam--Locus and I weren't so lucky."

He clears his throat, arms folding defensively across his chest, "We grew up together and were fortunate enough to be assigned to the same squadron. There were a lot of battles we shouldn't have walked away from, but we did."

Eyes turn downcast as words slip and slide past his tongue, hell shifting to the forefront of his mind.

"The battle Kimball told you about, the one where Locus and I were the sole survivors? It's not something you can forget."

Tucker tilts his head, slowly unfolding his arms, "What happened?"

"I don't want to talk about it."

"Then why bring it up?"

"To set up the explanation--" Brown flickers upwards, searing sparks dancing dangerously in the dimly lit room.

"Dude, you can't just reference some epic war story and not tell me about it!"

"It's not a great story to tell, Tucker."

"If you want me to understand where you're coming from, you're gonna have to give me some sort of picture to go off of! All I've seen is the douche bag mercenary who killed a bunch of people!"

"God, you're such a dick." Isaac heaves a sigh, scowling at the triumphant smirk etched into Tucker's features.

"Just tell the story."

"All right, all right. We were en route to an outpost the UNSC had established as a staging area."

Reluctance ebbs away as Isaac's gaze drops from the cocky trooper to the floor somewhere between the two of them. The snark falters, leaving only the ghosts of his past to haunt his every thought. His voice is hollow, quieter than Tucker's ever heard him speak in the six months he's been there. 

"We didn't see them until it was too late and by then, our squadron was surrounded. Locus and I stayed together, cleared a path wherever we could, but it wasn't enough."

Trembling fingers dig into flesh, warding off the flames behind his eyes, gazing absently at the cement floor, "One by one, we watched our squadron fall. There was an explosion, knocked us apart. I landed far enough away that when the Covenant came through--they took Locus instead."

Isaac purposefully leaves Mason's name out of it, he can't bring himself to utter it.

"After the smoke settled, another squad came through, searching the remains for survivors. I came to, they told me I was all that was left. I had seen Locus's capture, I watched them drag him away. Every muscle screamed for me to stand and go after him," Isaac's hands curl into fists, knuckles digging relentlessly into aching tendons.

"I couldn't stand. I couldn't move. I couldn't save him."

"What'd you do?" Tucker asks, gone is his scowl and malice, leaving only curiosity and an entranced gaze.

"I did what any sane friend would do: I disobeyed orders and charged into their camp with an assault rifle and a half-assed plan." Isaac manages a snort, a slight smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

"Guess you really are one of us. We wing all our plans too." Tucker smirks, almost proud of the mercenary.

"Yeah, well, long story short, I rescued Locus and we were discharged from the military shortly thereafter. What I'm trying to say is that I've always done what it takes to survive, whether it's killing aliens or attempting to exterminate a bunch of unsuspecting civilians. I recognize that what I did was horrible and unforgivable and, in a way, it makes me almost like the Covenant--"

"--no, it makes you exactly like the Covenant."

"Fine. In any case, I want to try to make things right. I want to do what Locus is doing, and, unfortunately for me, that means making peace with all of you."

Tucker snorts, "So, you're essentially trying to save your soul by apologizing to us?"

Isaac's shoulders slump, "It's a first...tiny step in a decent direction."

"You're gonna need more than a tiny step, Felix."

"I'm well aware of that, Tucker. Are we good?"

Tucker eyes him quietly for a moment, seemingly mulling over the question before he pushes off the desk and holds out a hand, "I guess. I have one condition, though."

"What?"

"No more murdering innocent people."

"What qualifies as innocent?"

"Felix--"

"--kidding. I agree to your terms." Isaac accepts his hand with a quiet smile.

"Good. Now, the first order of business is to subject you to Caboose's official welcoming seminar."

"No."

"Oh, yes. If you're gonna join our team, you have to experience the same level of hell the rest of us have."

Tucker guides him out of the room and towards the commons area.

"Can't I just stay in my mini base and be on my own team with Locus?"

"Nope! Your buddy joined Red Team, so you get to join Blue Team."

"You already have two Freelancers, that doesn't seem like a fair fight."

"Blue Team rules this canyon, get over it." Tucker's grin widens when he spots Caboose playing with Freckles, "hey, Caboose! Come give Felix the Blue Team welcome seminar!"

"Yes! Welcome to Blue Team, Mr. Felix!"

"Tucker--"

"--have fun."

The teal soldier leaves Isaac alone with the tallest member of Blue Team tearing across the room to come greet him.

"Goddammit."

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

Part 10

Tagging:

RVB Forever: @mamma-dragon @loveliestoflunchboxes

RVB Mercs: @antsyserpentine

Bonus: @miles-superus-117