#ageretober2023

[companionwolf]

Fill #1 for Ageretober

Prompt: 1. pumpkins

Fandom: XCOM 2

Verse: General

TWs/CWs: N/A

It's autumn, again.

But it's the first autumn with Commander back, so it's special. At least Central thinks so. In any case, the chill in the air doesn't bite like it used to, and he finds himself appreciating smaller things -- the changing colors of the leaves, the darkening of the world at the edges, phantom taste of spice and sweetness.

And he guesses his CO's insistence on proper Halloween celebrations helps too. A little bit. A lot a bit. He'd never admit it, of course, but...

Central shakes himself.

They're visiting a haven today, the Commander rushing ahead to anyone they can, excitedly asking if they have pumpkins, offering books they'd brought in exchange. Their voice is muffled behind the scarf around their neck and over their lower face, and they're dwarfed in the field jacket Central gave them.

He makes his way through the haven leisurely, one eye on his CO, but otherwise taking in the amenities of the place. They've got a radio tower, a makeshift bar, a well. Not as well off as Alpha Seven, but certainly not lacking.

Ahead of him, the Commander races into a well tended garden, spinning on their heels to yell about pumpkins again, but this time the childish shouting is directed at him.

The haven member who's lead them there gives Central a questioning look as he approaches. He shrugs at them; they give one last glance at the Commander before walking away, the books laden in their arms.

His CO has a decent amount of quirks, and this is one of them. He doesn't really get it, the regression thing, except that for them it's one part voluntary one part not, and that for whatever reason, they trust him with it the most.

The Commander is crouched amongst the leaves now, studying the pumpkins. They're not very big, not like the ones you'd find in grocery stores back before the invasion, but the size doesn't seem to matter much.

As Central makes his way over to them, they've gathered a couple into their arms, brow furrowed in thought as they pursue a third.

"Find anything you like?" Central asks.

The Commander looks up at him, nods furiously.

He finds himself smiling. "Good," he says. "What're you gonna do with 'em? Kinda small for--"

"Little Jack-o-latern...yeah," mumbles the Commander. They nod again. "Wanna carve."

"You're a bit too little for that," he says.

"Am not!" They're standing up now, pressing a few of the pumpkins into Central's arms. They pout at him. "I'mma a big kid."

"Even big kids have to be careful," Central says.

The Commander eyes him, and he's aware of how their gaze lingers on the scar that crosses his cheek. "Like Kelly," they say. "Like you." With a free hand they clumsily mime swishing a sword.

"Exactly," he says. "C'mon, let's go find somewhere to sit with these... assuming you want to carve them now?" Enthusiastic nodding meets his words.

With their free hand the Commander finds one of his, and the pair make their way through the haven, hand holding as discreetly as they can.

Central eventually finds a decent spot on the outskirts of the settlement, and sets down the pumpkin he carries onto the short dry glass; the Commander follows suit with theirs. The two of them sit across from each other, pumpkins in the middle.

"Okay," Central says, "what's your plan?"

The Commander studies the largest of their pumpkins for a moment. "Not a alien," they announce finally. "Don't like 'em anymore."

Central can't help a little laugh. "Make that two of us," he says. "What about, I dunno... werewolf?"

They shake their head. Silence for a few seconds more. Then: "Kitty cat."

"Sure," says Central.

He pulls a old map from a pocket alongside a pencil, flips the map over so it's on the bank side and offers it to them. "Draw your idea first."

The Commander holds the paper against the side of the largest pumpkin and draws, tounge sticking out a little as they work. They glance up from their drawing at him. "You make one too?"

Central shrugs. "Bit old for that," he says.

The Commander frowns. "Great Commandy One says do it anyway," they reply, turning their attention back to the paper.

Central rolls his eyes at them as he stares at the second largest pumpkin in thought. "Not much of an artist," he says, "but I'll try, since you asked so nicely."

When they're done, the Commander shows him their drawing -- it's a fairly simple cat face, he's pretty sure if he helps they'll be able to carve it just fine. He nods at them. "Good work."

They hand him the paper and pencil. "You now."

He glances from the paper to the pumpkin and back. "Here, how about this?" He sketches quicker, more refined-- it's also cat themed, but his is a silhouette arched in a fearful pose.

The Commander ponders it. "Scaredy cat."

"Mm hmm."

"Why is it scared?"

Central pauses. "Saw something, probably," he says finally. He doesn't say that there is a lot to be scared of. He doesn't say that he is scared.

The Commander accepts this answer. They make grabby hands at the knife strapped to his shoulder. He shakes his head at them, waves them off as he unsheathes it. "Easy," he says, "don't get in the way or you'll get hurt."

"Wanna do it myself," they complain.

"No, not today," he says, but lets them put their hands over his as he cuts into the pumpkin. Together they work to hollow it out and then carefully carve out the design the Commander made; eventually the latter gets distracted by the excess pieces, playing with them idly as Central puts finishing touches on it.

"Can I eat this?" they ask, holding up a chunk.

Central snorts. "You can do whatever you want," he says as he shifts gears and pulls his own pumpkin closer. "I wouldn't recommend it, though."

The Commander watches him as he prepares his pumpkin, oddly quiet. Central looks up from his work. "Something the matter, Commander?"

The don't answer for a minute. Then: "I'm sad, Central." They're fiddling with the ends of their scarf now.

He frowns at them. "You're sad?" he asks. "Mind telling me why? Or do you know?"

They shrug. "Big sad...dunno why. I'm having fun. So why am I sad?" Their voice wobbles a little.

Central hesitates for a second. "Sometimes we just feel things and we don't know why," he says slowly. "Even big kids. Even adults. We don't have to know what it means all the time. Sometimes we just need to feel it, whatever it is."

The Commander picks at the short dry grass, doesn't look at him. "You heard that from the smart lady," they say.

Central nods at that-- smart lady is a understatment, he thinks. There's a therapist now, on the Avenger. Together the pair of them found someone, someone who'd be willing to field the woes of the crew and senior staff. She's good at her job to boot.

"Yeah, you got me," he says. "Helen told me that. She's right, too. She usually is."

The Commander murmurs agreement, but still don't meet his gaze. "I wish..." They trail. Their voice is choked. "I wish things were different."

Central swallows around the sudden tightness in his throat. "I know, kiddo," he says. "Me too." He takes a deep breath, holds the pumpkin out and away at arms length. "What do you think? Good enough?"

They nod at it, at him. "Kitty," they say.

Central cleans the knkife with the end of his shirt snd sheathes it before gathering up the pumpkins. He helps the Commander to their feet.

In the distance, the Avenger blots out the sky.

"Wanna show off the pumpkins..." the Commander mumbles from where they walk beside him as he begins toward the ship.

"We'll put 'em in the bar," Central says. "Okay?"

A nod.

"Good," he says. "Let's go home then."

(And he can't help it-- for one brief heartbeat, Central pretends he's leading the way back to the house he's building, that the pumpkins will sit on the front porch. That they are finally safe.)

[companionwolf]

Fill #2 for Ageretober

Prompt: 6. Scary movies (changed kinda into 'scary stories' but hey)

Fandom: XCOM 2

Verse: general ...? sort of idk

TW/CWs: unhappy regression; self hate

Central's trying so hard.

So very hard but it's late, and he's tired, and he's hungry, and distantly from the quiet hollow streets he can hear the occasional groan and shuffle of the Lost, and and and --

He shakes himself, tries to focus on one of the candles Levy has lit around the apartment, sinks further into his spot on the peeling old loveseat as the other man continues some story about ...

Central isn't really sure anymore, just knows it's made him afraid, that he feels not good and is so entirely alone in whatever this childish fear is.

He fumbles for his flask, takes a drink. Levy goes on, either too deep in the story to notice his audience's lack of attention or so happy to hear himself talk he doesn't care that Central's face twists in something between a frown and a grimace.

God, this is stupid, he thinks. He's a grown man, he shouldn't be scared of some ghost story-- he doesn't even believe in ghosts.

But here he is, wishing for things that he thought he grew out a long long time ago.

Levy comes to a pause in his tale. "Awfully quiet over there, aren't you? Heh, did you fall alseep?"

Central swallows hard, finds there's a lump in his throat. "'M awake," he manages to barely choke out, nearly unable to contain the tremor in it.

The other man resumes his chattering at that.

Central rubs his dog tags between his fingers, and tries to keep the aching in his chest from spreading, to little success. The more Levy talks, the more fear bubbles up, spilling out from his ribcage into his arms, legs, up into his head.

What -- what would the Commander say?

The thought makes him cringe. They'd want no part in whatever you've got going on, answers some part of him untouched by the kiddish anxiety. They'd never look at the you the same.

But they're not here, he thinks back, and it comes out far more needy and lonely and pained than he means it to, even internally to himself.

Suck it up and survive, hisses the first part back.

Central takes a larger swig from his flask now, hoping maybe being drunk will ease the rising childlike paranoia. But when it comes, and he's lying still in the dark, the soft noises of the shambling swarms drifting up through the broken windows, it just makes him sad.

Now he's scared and upset, and whatever the hell this is, this fuzzy youthful thing that feels like maybe in another lifetime would be nice, but right now is horrific, together.

And Central has no one at all.

At least Levy shut up, he thinks tiredly.

It doesn't do much for all the feelings. God, why does he have to feel all of this? When it's this, this muddled headspace between who he is and who he was, it's amplified. It's just too much.

It's all too big.

And Central knows he's supposed to be big. He should be able to handle it. But he can't. Not right now. Not when he is afraid and alone and--

Little.

He's too little.

In his head, Central makes like the Commander is here, because when he's like this, his steadfastness toward them warps into something like parental transference. He hates it, he hates this, he hates himself, but it's phantom arms around him and imagined soft assurances and someone to look after him.

It doesn't help, not really, but at least he can pretend.

Central cries.

The more he tries to hide it the more it comes out, and soon he's snotty and breathless and feeling young in the worst way possible.

There won't be anyone, snarls the part of him that is still somehow everything he should be, everything he's not right now. Not for you.

Central cries harder.

He won't remember it in the morning, not with the way he's going through his store of alcohol, but the hurt will still be a burr in his chest. There will still be a little boy in his heart that sits and wails unloved unloved unloved.

He's been there for decades. And Central still doesn't quite know what to do with him.

He still doesn't quite know what to do with himself.

[companionwolf]

Fill #3 for Ageretober

prompt: 5. injured

Fandom: XCOM 2

Verse: 'gen but Central's a regressor'

TWs/CWs: unhappy regression, self hate, implied child abuse, implied alcoholism

The Commander won't wake up tonight. Today. The time's blurred together now that it's all been done, that they breached the gene therapy clinic and ran Gatecrasher and got back and and --

Central stumbles over himself, alone in the makeshift medbay. He wheels wildly through open space, catches himself on a wall. The rush job Kelly did on the wound to his side means he's not bleeding to death, means he can move around, but he shouldn't. He really shouldn't.

Still, here he is, making his way painfully to where the meager supply of painkillers is kept, dry swallowing 2 and then sinking down to sit beside the medical cabinet on the cold metal floor.

As Central does, he also drops.

As small as he feels, as alone and afraid and in pain as he often felt when he was so young he probably shouldn't remember but he does. He does. It burns in Central's chest and nothing puts that out; he's tried and tried and it just keeps burning.

His hands shake -- where's his...? Oh, right. He left it in the barracks, convinced himself yesterday this, Gatecrasher, The Commander, were worth being sober for. They still are, but...

Central's face screws up, and self-hate eats at him like acid. He's too old to feel like this. He's fine, and more importantly they're fine; the operation was a success, the surgery worked.

So why does he feel so little?

Central manages to his feet, stands a bit lost as to where to go, what to do. There's no one here. Everyone either has gone to sleep or would notice right away something's up beyond the fact he's injured.

He could go get his drink, or go serve himself one from the bar, but the thought is repulsive somehow, plus with how much his hands are trembling he'd probably just spill it. No, won't do that-- can't, Central thinks, and his own thoughts sound way too big for how he feels right now.

What he wants, will not get, not ever, is to have someone with hin when he's like this. To have someone care. Not like a mom, and certainly not like a dad -- the mere concept makes Central feel vaguely sick past the dizziness of his pain -- but maybe someone. Someone older, wiser. Some other person he could cry to.

Not that he'd cry.

No one wants to see that, he thinks. Central swallows hard. Don't cry. Don't cry.

Still his eyes prick moist with tears anyway.

Somewhere in the midst of the fuzz of pain and smallness he finally pins down a coherent idea: he wants the Commander. A wave of nausea. You always want them when you're at your worst. They wouldn't want you. They don't.

Central squeezes his eyes shut, blinks a few times as hard as he can, tries to force down the lump in his throat. Get it together, Bradford!

Using his own last name sends him reeling internally-- it sounds like... well. It's enough to making the heavy feeling in his chest worse, to make him feel like he sinks even lower, littler.

Goddamn it, why can't he handle this?

"Central?"

He startles, looks toward the doorway from where's he's frozen standing by the medical cabinet, and frowns. "You're not real," he blurts out before he really even realizes what he's saying.

The figure at the threshold tips their head at him, and then they laugh, and Central remembers that God, he wants to live inside that noise forever.

"Maybe not," they agree. "But you don't care."

His ears burn. They're right. He doesn't care. He'll never have this for real. It just won't be. He should take what he's getting. It's all he'll get.

"C'mere," says the Not-Commander.

And Central goes over.

Phantom sense of a hug, and he slackens. When was the last time he hugged someone? Was hugged himself? He feels the tears he's being trying to keep in finally falling down his cheeks.

"Ohhh, you're a little guy," says the Not-Commander.

Of course they know, they're him, they're just him, but it still feels bad to have someone notice. Central finds himself shaking his head, mumbling something about being big, very big.

The Not-Commander clicks their tongue at him, and then frowns. There's the sense of a hand on his face wiping the tears away. "Oh, John..."

And Central can't anymore.

He drops further, and he sobs.

He must lose time somehow, which isn't actually that strange for him, but it's not happened like this before, because when Central finally regains his composure he is on the couch in the Commander's Quarters. He glances back at the real Commander's unconscious form, nervous.

"You didn't wake them," says the Not-Commander. They're sitting beside him.

Central sniffles a little, says nothing. The Not-Commander gently gestures to the coffee table; he looks over. There's scrap paper and old dull crayons, missing quite a few colors, spread on it.

"I'd give you a snack and a drink and a actual thing to play with but uh, upstart resistances don't usually have kids running around," explains the Not-Commander. "I think we outta do something about that, when you're big again."

"You mean I outta," he says, picking out a blue crayon that's very flat on one side and beginning to draw. The Not-Commander hums, a song he always liked, but wasn't from his childhood.

Central works, brow furrowed. He's not much good at art when he feels grown up, and while he's lile this it doesn't get any better. It's okay, though. The point of this is the --

He stops.

The Not-Commander, who's been studying their nails with occasional glances with comment on his drawing, looks up fully. "What's wrong, little light?"

Central blinks.

No one's ever given him a pet name before, and  such a childish one to boot. Maybe it's appropriate given the circumstances, but still he feels his face heat up.

"Nothing," he says. It comes our sounding a little off, as off as he feels at the moment, which he supposes might as well be the case.

The Not-Commander leans a bit closer to get a better sense of what he's drawn and then throws a backwards look toward the real Commander. "Ohhh," they say after a moment. "I see now."

They know. Of course they know. He knows, too.

But he can't say it. He can draw it, though, so...

"You're a silly little light," they say fondly. "Don't let me distract you then; keep working on it."

When he finishes the piece, the Not-Commander helps him a nice place to tuck it away into. Central desperately wants to give it to them, to have them see and know and know, but no. He can't. Leaving it hidden in the room, though, that works out anyway. He'll know it's there, at least.

The Not-Commander ruffles his hair; he leans into the false touch. "Let's go to bed," they say.

Central slips quietly out, down to the barracks, curls up under his thin blankets. He won't sleep well, he never does after this -- something about it makes the nightmares worse -- but that's OK. The Commander needs someone to check on them, keep a eye on them, greet them when...

When they wake up, he thinks. I'll be there, whether I'm back to normal or not. I'll be there.

In his dreams, Central's horror is cut short-- a explosion, the sound of breaking glass as the twrrible things suddenly cease. He's picked up and carried away, and he's safe.

He's safe.

(Still, he wakes up crying.)