#and get a bunch of joint sleeves that ive been putting off getting

[strxngersmind]

i hate being an adult but i especially hate being a disabled adult :D

[hangovercurse]

The Things We Can’t Tell Pete About

Pete invites you to meet his friends from The Dirt and makes you promise not to flirt with any of them, which is a lot easier said than done, especially when Colson Baker acts like that.

Request: “Hey so I love all your writing and I just thought you should know that! But also I’d your requests are on still would you mind writing a youre Pete’s little sister but kells got a crush xx”

Colson x reader

Warnings: Drug use, Cursing

A/N: I know, Dom (Yungblud) wrote the song, but also I am the writer and I say that Y/N wrote it :) Anyways, enjoy. This is only part 1 of what is probably going to be a fun, cute lil series. Also thank you to the anon who sent this! You made my day(s)

Word Count: 2411

| ii | iii | iv | v |

masterlist

New York was lonely without your brother. He had been filming in New Orleans for the past three months, leaving you alone. You had some friends, but Pete was your best friend. You were only eight months younger than him and practically attached at the hip. You supposed going through trauma together would do that to people.

He facetimed you all the time from set, updating you on things in his life, showing you cool stuff from the set, and introducing you to his castmates. You had kept him updated on your music, playing him demos of songs you were writing and getting his opinion on them.

Him being away wasn’t the worst thing in the world, but it definitely sucked for you. So, when Pete texted you that he was having a few friends from the movie over the night he got back, you were ecstatic.

Before you left your apartment to walk to his, he texted you.

You’re not allowed to flirt with any of my friends

You rolled your eyes as you locked your door, preparing a response.

I’ll try my best

Your phone buzzed seconds later.

I’m serious. I don’t trust any of them with you.

And I don’t need that kind of awkwardness in my life

Like if you date one of my friends and it goes badly

I don’t wanna deal with that shit

You chuckled at his chain of texts.

Don’t flirt with your friends because they’re dicks, got it

Don’t worry bro, I know the sibling code

 You came to find out that that was a lot easier said than done. When you walked into his place, everyone in the room turned to look at you. You recognized most of them from your facetimes with Pete, but you doubted they remembered who you were. One who did remember you was Colson, Pete’s new best friend. He made eye contact with you from across the room, a sly grin on his lips. You sent him a small smile, Pete’s text running through your head briefly.

You found your brother lounging on the couch, a huge grin on his face. He was definitely tripping on mushrooms. “Y/N!” He yelled. “This is my baby sister, everyone.”

You rolled your eyes, walking further into the room, grabbing a drink from the cooler, and taking an empty seat on the opposite couch. “I’m less than a year younger than you, Pete.”

You heard a snicker from the one of the guys, looking over to see Colson covering up the smile on his face. “But you’re still younger than me so it counts.”

Everyone went back to their own conversations, which you were thankful for. “Y/N, you remember Colson, right?” Pete motioned to the blond guy.

“Yeah.” You nodded, looking him up and down. His muscle tank exposed the sleeves of tattoos, which seemed to cover every inch of his skin. “Your hair was different, but yeah I remember you.” You opened the beer on the coffee table, taking a swig.

“You’re the musician, right?” He asked you, leaning back onto the couch.

You nodded, “Aspiring musician but, yeah.”

“Oh, she’s great. You should hear her sometime.” Pete butted in, grinning like an idiot at you.

You rolled your eyes but had a smile on your face. “I work primarily as a songwriter and editor right now, but I’m trying to work on putting out some of my own stuff.”

You felt a little intimidated talking to Machine Gun Kelly about music, seeing as he was one of the best in the industry, but he seemed to be genuinely interested in your work. “Well, if you ever want some help or someone to listen to it, I’d be willing.” He flashed a smile, his bright blue eyes sparkling.

“Thanks, that’s really cool of you.” You bit your lip slightly, trying to hide the fact that you were totally breaking Pete’s rule.

Pete sent a glare your way to which you raised your eyebrow. You weren’t really flirting; you were just… making connections. “Anyways,” he cleared his throat, “I’ve been working on this sketch idea, Y/N, and I need your opinion.”

You nodded, letting him talk. “So, I was thinking like, there’s this guy with posters all over his wall. Like life size posters of a bunch of different people. And he falls asleep while doing homework and he dreams about them coming to life. And it plays out like one of those really bad commercials that encourage kids to stay in school and shit. Like the posters are telling him to study for his test, but then there’s this one poster that’s like, very sexy. And she’s just like, talking about hot dogs and everyone else gets really sick of it and one of the other posters tries to like, tear down her poster or something.”

Throughout his description, you got more and more confused. “Pete, that’s not funny that’s just fuckin weird.” His mouth hung open in shock. “Dude, seriously? The big punchline is the playboy poster girl talking about hot dogs until the other poster people get tired of it?”

“Yes.” Pete said, as if it were obvious. “That’s hilarious.” You glanced at Colson with a questioning look on your face. He seemed as unsure of the joke as you were.

“Pete, man, that’s not your best work.” Colson clapped him on the shoulder and you giggled at Pete’s disappointed expression.

“You guys are mean.” He pouted and you two laughed. “Ok, well, how would you make it funny?”

“I don’t know if you can, bro.” Colson’s laugh was contagious. When he laughed his whole body shook, his feet stomping and everything.

“What are the other posters?” You asked, trying to be supportive but knowing this wouldn’t turn out very good.

“Well, I was thinking maybe one is like a video game character. Like that lady from Wreck-It-Ralph. The mean one. And then like a snowboarder who is definitely high, and someone else, I dunno.” He shrugged, taking a hit from the joint in his hand and passing it to you.

“Okay…” You trailed off, looking at Colson for support. You brought the blunt to your lips, inhaling the smoke and bringing it down, letting the smoke leave your mouth slowly. You passed the joint to Colson, who gladly took it, a smirk on his face.

Pete looked between you two at the small interaction, a frown. “So, the posters,” he brought your attention away from the man again, “they’re all really serious about teaching this dude math. But the hotdog girl just keeps talking about hot dogs in like this really high-pitched voice.”

You watched the smoke fall from Colson’s lips, not fully paying attention to your brother.

“Yeah man, I think that sounds funny.” Colson told Pete, his eyes lingering on you for a little longer than they should have. “It could use some work but if anyone can make it funny, it’s you.” Colson punched your brother on the shoulder, but the look he sent you said the exact opposite.

You held in your giggle, taking another sip of your beer.

The rest of the night followed a similar pattern, you and Colson flirting and Pete trying to get in between you two. At one point, after a few more hits of weed and a couple more drinks, Colson brought out a guitar, insisting you play something for him. Where he got the guitar from, you had no idea, but you didn’t ask questions. Instead, you rolled your eyes, insisting that “if I have to play something, so do you.”

Everyone was too caught up in their own conversations to care about the noise, or too drunk. You started strumming, trying to remember the chords to a song you had started writing a few days ago. “There’s no lyrics yet, just a melody I came up with.” You blushed, feeling very self-conscious suddenly.

“Guess I’ll just free style to it then.” He chuckled as you started to strum, your fingers working the strings like they had your whole life.

The blond man closed his eyes, head nodding as you played and thinking of what to rap.

“Watch me, take a good thing and fuck it all up in one night. Catch me, I’m the one on the run away from the headlights.

No sleep, up all week wastin time with people I don’t like. I think, somethin’s fuckin wrong with me.

You smiled as he sang, watching his expressions change as he tried to think up the next line.

Drown myself in alcohol, that shit never helps at all

I might say some stupid things tonight when you pick up this call

I be hearin silence on the other side for way to long, I can taste it on my tongue, I can tell that somethin’s wrong.”

He opened his eyes, looking rather proud of himself. “I had some of those lyrics already, but I just changed ‘em a little. I really liked that.”

You nodded, “That was impressive.” You smiled, looking back down to the guitar when something hit you.

You began to play the same melody but pitched higher to fit your voice.

“Roll me up, and smoke me love

And we could fly into the night

You take drugs, to let go, and figure it all out on your own

Take drugs, on gravestones, to figure it all out on your own.”

You looked up to Colson, watching his expression change, his eyes wide. Pete had a proud look on his face.

“Pete, you are a sucky hype man. You did her no justice.” Colson hit Pete on the arm.

“Whaddya mean, I told you she was great.”

Colson looked over to you, a stupid smile on his face. “Seriously, that was fucking amazing. Like, we gotta write that shit out some day.”

You bit your lip, trying to stop the blush from reaching your cheeks. “Yeah, that’d be cool.” You were trying your best to keep your cool as Colson kept his gaze on you, but you were completely freaking out on the inside.

A little while later, almost everyone was gone except you, Pete, Colson, and Douglas Booth, who joined your conversation not long after your jam session. Pete let out a yawn, directing your attention to the time.

“Jesus, it’s already 4am?” You asked, a frown on your face.

“Why, you got somewhere to be, darling?” Douglas asked you, your face scrunching up from the nickname.

“I have a writing session at 11 am tomorrow. Or, today, I guess.”

Pete reached out to hit you in the head, playfully, which you dodged. “Go to bed, dummy.”

You shrugged, “I’m gonna be dead at it anyways, might as well keep the party going a little longer.”

Douglas rolled his eyes, patting your shoulder. “Be that as it may, I am ending this party and going home. Goodnight, guys. It was nice meeting you again, Y/N. Good to see you guys.” Douglas and the guys did that little hand slap and hug thing before he left.

“I love you both, but I will also be going to sleep. And you should too.” Pete stood up, stretching his arms out before giving Colson a fist bump and leaving to his bedroom.

Once your older brother left, Colson moved to the couch you were on, his arm falling over your shoulders. You looked up at him, raising an eyebrow. “And how can I help you Mr. Kelly?”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “I’m assuming Pete gave us both very similar talking to’s, given the glares you’ve been receiving all night.”

“You mean the “don’t flirt with my friends” talking to or the other one?” You tilted your head, a sly look on your face.

“That’s the one.” Colson laughed through his nose, an adorable smile on his face. You were both considerably high, but you still knew exactly what you were doing.

You moved closer to Colson’s body, “Well then I guess we’d better not do this.” You said quietly, leaning into him. “Or this,” You grabbed his jaw, inches from his face.

“Or this?” He whispered, connecting your lips. You smiled into the kiss, tasting the weed on his tongue. You adjusted your body so you were facing him, his arm that was once around your shoulder now wrapped around your waist.

His other hand grabbed your leg, pulling you up so you were straddling his lap, and your arms wrapped around his neck. His lips seemed to fit perfectly around yours, and you did all you could to keep yourself from moaning into the kiss as his hand began to travel up your leg.

Realization hit you like a brick wall, and you pulled away, your breathing heavy. “Sorry,” you muttered after a few seconds. You climbed off his lap, smoothing out your shirt. “We shouldn’t do that. I shouldn’t have done that.” You smiled awkwardly down at him.

He nodded, the same realization hitting him. “Yeah, that’s not the best idea. Sorry I wasn’t really thinking.”

You shook your head, cheeks still very red. “No, no, no don’t apologize. It was fine, it’s all fine.”

He nodded, looking down awkwardly. “I should get going.” He stood up, landing a little too close to you.

“Why don’t you just sleep here? Pete won’t mind and it’s a lot easier than going home.” You bit your lip awkwardly, taking a few steps back.

Colson scratched the back of his neck. This was a very different demeanor than he had before, and you found it very cute. “Are you sure?”

You nod. “I’ll get you some blankets and pillows.” You moved towards the guest bedroom, a guilty smile on your face. You moved your hand to your lips, feeling where Colson’s lips had graced you minutes before.

You came back to find Colson laying on the couch, one hand behind his head. “We don’t have to tell Pete about that, right?”

You shook your head, a small smile still playing on your lips. You put the pillow behind his head, watching his eyes as he watched your lips. “Stop looking at me like that or I’ll do something else we can’t tell Pete about.” You said quietly, watching him grin. You pulled the blanket over him, leaning down to be level with his face.

“I kind of like the things we can’t tell Pete about.” Colson chuckled, leaning forward to connect your lips again.

[penpatronuswhump]

WHUMPTOBER 2020

No. 14

Fandom: Avengers

Whumpee: Tony Stark

Caregiver: Clint Barton

Title: The Vision Worshippers’ Revenge

By: PenPatronus // PenPatronusAooO 

The stuffing was coming out of the ancient eye doctor’s chair Tony was strapped in. It was wobbly, shaking every time Tony shifted his weight. And it was that gross shade of burnt orange everyone associates with the 60’s. Tony decided to focus on these facts – on the way his neck felt against the headrest, the way the torn armrests irritated his skin, the plastic sheet under his sneakers – because, if he didn’t, then his focus would be on the burning sensation the mystery liquid in the IV caused as it dripped through the needle in his arm. His focus would be on his broken foot and the way it was throbbing. He’d put up one hell of a fight when he was kidnapped, and his broken foot was the consequence.

 The rogue robots had downloaded themselves into Tony’s Iron Legion bots during the Avengers’ latest adventure. They’d kidnapped Tony in the middle of the night – right out of the Tower – and taken him to some vacant eye doctor’s office somewhere in New York. They hadn’t flown very far and, even though Tony was only half-conscious during the trip, he was sure they were still within the city. That had been three days ago. Tony was weak with hunger. They’d given him a little bit of water, but not enough to sustain him. For three days, the robots demanded that Tony turn them into bots like Vision. It was then that Stark realized these bots were the same that had nabbed Clint months ago. The Vision Worshippers.

 For three days, he told him that, no, it was impossible to turn them into Visions. For three days, they didn’t believe him.

When the mystery liquid had been in his body for five hours, the robot who called himself “Dad” returned to the office.

 “Your team isn’t coming for you,” Dad said. “We’re sure of that now.”

 Tony harrumphed. “Um, yeah, do you not know the Avengers? They’re on their way right now. I guarantee it.”

 There was a smile in Dad’s voice. “Actually, right now they’re leaving a cemetery. The service was quite nice. Miss Potts and Steve Rogers spoke very highly of you.”

 Cold dread replaced the warm liquid in Tony’s veins. “You faked my death?”

 “Successfully.” Dad walked around the chair, absent eyes on Tony’s expressions. “Private plane went down in the Pacific. No survivors. Now we get to keep you as long as we want.”

 Tony glared at the robot. “I wonder what they buried in the cemetery. You think there’s a casket with my worldly goods in it? You know, like an ancient Egyptian sarcophagus? Fill a coffin with my collection of first edition Beatles records?”

 Dad made a sighing sound with absent lungs. “I knew you were an insolent asshole, but I didn’t think you’d be so… Exhausting.”

 “You really should know that about me. You got into FRIDAY’s systems. You should know everything about me.”

 “I know the important things. I read your therapist’s reports, your surgeon’s notes, your doctor’s reports… Your social security number and credit cards, of course…”

 Tony rolled his eyes. “My therapist thinks I’m narcissistic, my surgeon thinks my heart only has about ten more years left in it, and my doctor’s concerned about my drinking habits. And my social security number is 792 09 0664.”

 Dad chuckled. “You’re off by a few digits.”

 “Pepper knows it.”

 Dad kept circling. “And what do you think about Miss Potts?”

 “She’s the most beautiful, insightful, observant, loyal, clever woman in the universe and I don’t deserve her one bit. And I love her more than I ever thought I could love anyone.” Tony frowned at himself. “Why did I tell you that…”

 “And what do you think about Steve Rogers?”

 “He’s the most honest, trustworthy, bravest man in the universe. He annoys the crap out of me and I adore him and I don’t deserve his friendship one bit.” Tony looked down at the needle in his arm. “Truth serum? You’re putting truth serum in me?”

 Dad stopped in front of Tony and put cold, robotic fingers on his warm hands. “You keep saying that you can’t turn us into beings like the Vision. I don’t believe you’re telling me the truth. This will make you.”

 Tony sighed. “For the hundredth time: Vision is unique. What makes him special is the Mind Stone, not anything I did.”

 “Then duplicate this ‘mind stone.’ Make more.”

 “That’s impossible,” Tony said. He explained why. The longer he spoke, the harder Dad squeezed his hands. Tony heard something pop.

 Dad’s voice got low. He spoke slowly. “There’s really nothing you can do. You. Banner. Cho. You can’t make us Visions.”

 Tony leaned forward so that they were truly face to face. “There isn’t a damn thing I can do.”

 Dad roared and punched him right in the mouth. “I don’t believe it.”

 “You’re the one who put that serum in me,” Tony gasped as blood splashed out of his mouth. “You know that what I’m telling you is the truth.”

 “I would’ve been beautiful,” Dad mourned.

 “You don’t deserve to be beautiful,” Tony spat.

 Dad suddenly put his hand around Tony’s throat. “You’re of no use to me anymore,” he hissed. “I should kill you.”

 “Go ahead. I don’t care.” Tony heard himself say those words as if from far away. Did he really not care if he died? That would have to be the next subject of discussion with his therapist.

 Dad squeezed harder. Then, suddenly, he let go. “I have nothing left to live for. This is all we wanted – all we wanted in the world. I think we’ll go with you.”

 “Go with me where?” Dad left the room, head bowed. “Go where?”

 A minute later, Tony smelled smoke.

 --------

 Clint wanted to be alone after the funeral, so he went for a walk. He was already alone in one other way. He was the only one on the team who thought that Tony was still alive. There were seven minutes of missing security footage that FRIDAY couldn’t account for. It happened the night before Tony was declared missing, and later declared dead. The other Avengers said it was a fluke, a mistake in the system, but Clint was convinced that it was significant – that something either blocked or erased that footage. Maybe the others were too deep in their grief to see it, but Clint wasn’t. He just didn’t know where to begin. There were zero clues, just a soldier’s instinct.

 He ended up at his favorite shawarma joint where he ate outside on a bench. The restaurant was beside an abandoned eye doctor’s office. “Vision Care” the practice was called. Clint shuddered at the word “vision.” It wasn’t that long ago that he was kidnapped by a bunch of robots who called themselves the Vision Worshippers. They’d used him as bait to get to Tony and Bruce. Clint hated being bait, almost as much as he hated mind control.

 Speaking of vision, Clint thought his was messed up a minute later when one of Tony’s Iron Legion robots suddenly burst from the roof of the eye doctor’s office and disappeared into the city, shouting, “I don’t want to die!”

 That was when he smelled the smoke. His shawarma dropped to the ground.

 ---------

 Burning to death wasn’t on Tony’s list of preferred ways to die. He didn’t realize he even had a list until he was in that chair, watching and feeling the flames getting closer to him. Smoke swirled around his head. He was going to die, but all he could really think about in that moment was how hungry he was. He wondered if there were cheeseburgers in heaven.

 “Tony!” a familiar voice called out “TONY!”

 “Clint?” Tony coughed. “Clint! Here! Back here! No, wait – Barton – get the hell out of here, this place is burning up!” The truth serum kicked in. “Clint, I can’t lose you! Get out of here!”

 Clint suddenly appeared at the door to the office Tony was in, his sleeve against his nose, eyes wide and red and his face – grinning. “I knew it,” he said between coughs as he worked at unstrapping Tony to the chair. “I knew you were alive. I just knew it!”

 “That’s lovely, Legolas, but seriously – you need to get the hell out of here. Leave me behind.”

 “Not a chance,” said Clint as he removed the final strap. “I can’t wait to see the looks on the others’ faces when they see you.”

 The flames got higher and hotter, and Tony’s foot was broken. Clint threw the other man over his shoulder and RAN. The firefighters and paramedics yelled at him to stop when he barged out of the burning building. The man he’d rescued probably needed medical care and he probably did, too. But, Barton, though he slowed down to a walk and put Tony on his one unhurt foot so they could limp together, wasn’t going to let his friend out of his sight. He’d take him to the hospital, sure, but not just yet.

 They walked to the Tower. It was three blocks away.

 The other Avengers were in the sitting room, silently eating crackers and drinking wine and avoiding each other’s gazes. The gloomy bunch were interrupted when the nearby elevator opened, and Clint led an exhausted, starved, partially singed, broken Tony Stark into the room. Jaws and glasses of wine dropped. Clint pointed at Cap. “You were wrong!” he said. “You were wrong, and you were wrong, and you were wrong!” he declared, finger going from Natasha to Bruce to Thor. “You were all wrong!”

 Tony waved. “Hey, guys.”

 No one said a word. The shock was paralyzing.

 “Now we can go to the hospital,” Clint declared, and he walked Tony back into the elevator.

 The End

[r5h]

Moving On—Interlude IV: Voodoo Child

AO3 LINK

PREVIOUS CHAPTER

NEXT CHAPTER (not out yet!)

Yet again, props to @hecallsmehischild​ because if not for her encouragement, this chapter would have waited even longer.

“Let me get this straight,” Lance said, after a long pause.

Arthur glanced up at him from his supine position on the creeper, his legs under the hood of Lance's tow truck. “Take your time,” he said. “And I, um, don't mean that in a condescending way, I just mean that it is honestly a lot to take in, so—”

“Stop being a dingus, Art. You didn't sound condescending.”

Arthur grunted and pulled himself entirely underneath. That was how he'd related his long, crazy story, once Lance had finally managed to cajole him into relaying it. He'd been under Lance's truck, devoutly fixing the car, and explaining what had happened like it was some kind of idle gossip about celebrities, or hair, or something.

“So, Lew's a ghost, tried to kill you because he thought you killed him, but now he knows about that demon thing that got in your arm, so he doesn't try to kill you—as often. Vivi can remember Lew except she still doesn't. And her dog can talk. And isn't a dog.”

“That's the essentials, yeah.”

It wasn't even like when Arthur had told him about the cave. He'd been sobbing then, still lying on the hospital bed, curling up instinctively and without enough arms to hold himself.

Gritting his back teeth, Lance stepped forward and leaned on the truck. “Art?” he asked. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah. Why?”

Offhand. Disinterested.

“Why? What the—God's name—Christ, are you kidding?” After some aggressive yanks at his mustache, Lance crouched down, looking Arthur in the tops of his eyes. “You didn't exactly describe a trip to the spa there, kiddo!”

“Oh, I see what you mean. It's just....” Arthur glanced at him. “Everyone made it out fine. So I'm fine.” His gaze returned to the car above him.

“For real?” Lance gestured futilely, since Arthur wasn't looking at that moment. “How about your prosthetic? It's looking beat-up. Sounds like it's taken some abuse the past forty-eight hours.”

He waited, but Arthur seemed content to let the silence draw out. Eventually, Lance continued, “Don't you wanna take it into, y'know, the shop? Before it breaks on you?”

“It can take more abuse. I built it pretty strong.”

Arthur's mouth moved, and the rest of his body kept working, and they might as well have belonged to two different people. The answer was dispassionate—no, automatic. He'd been stockpiling answers like this.

“What about your van? That's still not fixed, and it's your car.” Lance winced as he glanced once more at Arthur's van, its insides still blackened and melted. “How are you gonna go pick up that Surf's Up Pizza you like? You know they ain't delivering any time soon, no matter how well you tip 'em.”

“Eh. You know it's not good for me.”

“Art, when you get to my age, you're gonna find out that sometimes terrible pizza is the best thing for you.” Lance blinked a few imes as an unhappy hypothesis occurred to him. “Besides, your friend's not gonna be able to go on cases without a working vehicle, either.”

Arthur didn't respond immediately, and when he did, the response didn't sound as rehearsed. “That's a good point, actually. I didn't think of that.”

Lance sighed. Everyone made it out fine. It seemed Arthur hadn't been counting one crucial person among 'everyone'.

Scratching his hair, Lance trudged back not to his office, but to the second floor stairs leading to where he lived, above the shop. Sure, the oil smells could be bad sometimes, but after a while they just started smelling like home.

It wasn't a large home—just a hallway with rooms hanging off like grapes. Lance's room was at the end, past the living room, kitchen/dining room, bathroom... Art's old room.

The door was closed, and his hand rose to the knob for a second—but then he let it fall. It hadn't really changed much since the last time he saw it, now that Arthur didn't live here anymore. Lance had forced him to find his own place once he'd reached eighteen and had, frankly, outgrown the room.

Pushing forward, he opened his own door, revealing a room even smaller than Arthur's: no one could accuse him of outgrowing the space. He crossed to the wardrobe and opened it. Then, he opened the second wardrobe within.

Lance stared at what hung behind the false wall; he squinted, clenched his jaw, and sighed; and then he closed the wall back up, climbed onto his bed, and lay there. He knew how this worked: the decision wasn't made yet, but it was coming, bit by bit. And once he was fully sure—

He closed his eyes, but still felt the deja vu. “It's gonna be like last time, huh?” he muttered.

“Heya there! How's my least favorite sister doing?”

Niav rolled her eyes, looking down at Lance from her doorway. “Do we really need to do this? Every time, doing this?”

“Aw, you know you're my favorite sister too.” Lance grinned up at Niav Kingsman, his only sister. “Now get down here so I can noogie ya.”

She did no such thing, but did step aside to allow him entry. “You're a bit overdressed,” she murmured with a little smile. “And what are you hiding back there?—and I use the word 'hiding' loosely.”

Indeed, Lance wore not his usual torn-sleeved white shirt and jeans, but instead a suit and tie. It was a special day, after all, for a special person. “Now where's the birthday boy?” he called out, holding a box half his own size behind his back.

Looking around, it wasn't what he'd expected. Obviously he'd been there before, so he knew that the couch would be there, on the left, facing the TV—and then a staircase on the right, on the hallway to the main living room, dining room, and kitchen—but where were the decorations? The stack of presents? (Or maybe he was thinking of Christmas—who knew.)

“Arthur!” called another voice, from the kitchen: this had to be Wayne, Niav's husband, making the cake. “Your uncle's here!”

After maybe half a minute, Arthur finally came down the steps and around the corner. “Hi, Uncle Lance,” he said, a little smile on his face.

“Oh, don't be so shy—” Lance dropped the box, letting it rattle on the floor, and rushed forward to grab Arthur in a bear hug. “Happy birthday, Arthur, and welcome to double digits!”

Arthur let out a little surprised cry as Lance picked him up, then a laugh that wasn't quite as little. “You too, Uncle Lance—wait, I mean—”

“Ah, I know what you mean, it's okay.” Lance released him, and looked up at his nephew. Up, he realized ruefully. “You've finally gotten taller than I have, huh? That's pretty rude of you, y'know....”

“Oh? Sorry—”

“I'm messing with ya, you smarty pants! Grow all you want!” Lance reached up and ruffled the unruly shock of orange-yellow hair that mirrored his own so closely. He wouldn't get too many more chances to ruffle like this, he knew, before the kid inevitably became a beanpole.

“So, what'd you guys get him?” Lance asked, grinning at his sister. “Come on, let's compare gifts. I bet my uncle gift is better, whatcha think?”

Niav groaned and rolled her eyes. “Ugh, uncle gifts.”

“No, not that kind of—look, it doesn't need batteries and it doesn't make loud noise, okay? I'm not that much of a rascal.” Lance backed up enough to grab his gift, then trotted forward, presenting it to his nephew. “I'm not gonna be here all day, so you should open this now.”

Arthur took off the bow, carefully so that the paper didn't rip as the adhesive came off. Then he untied the ribbons with similar caution.

“Jeez, did you raise him in a barn?” Lance whispered to Niav, as Arthur kept going. “Also, seriously, what'd you get him, while we're waiting for an hour. I don't wanna have gotten the same thing as you and made you look like a jackass. Where's the present?”

“Oh, well, the thing about that is....” After a moment, Niav smiled. “Let's just say it's not a physical present. We're taking him on a trip.”

“Good! No chance of overlap.” Lance winked, and then sniffed. “I smell... chocolate? I thought he didn't like chocolate.”

“Kid's gotta try new things, shortstuff.”

“Fair enough, I guess.”

They smiled at Arthur as, finally, he finished unwrapping the box without a single tear in the paper. “Oh, wow,” he said with a look of disbelief, looking at his gift. “What is this?”

“Well,” Lance said, stepping forward, “I've seen you always fiddling with spare parts when you're over at my shop, trying to make stuff. You're a smart kid, and I thought, what's a good gift for smart kids who like making stuff? But then I realized you wouldn't have anywhere to put a spare engine—” he laughed, because this joke was hilarious “—so here's the next best thing!”

Lance drew a finger along the name on the box: “Bionicle! It's like Legos except with joints and axles and motors and stuff, and you can make your own action figures, or vehicles, or whatever you want!” He pointed out a bunch of the examples on the box, and it seemed like Arthur's eyes were literally shining.

“Ooh.” Wayne had come in from the kitchen with oven mitts. “Arthur, now make sure you don't leave those out in the hallway where someone could step on them. Remember to be responsible.”

“Oh, okay,” Arthur said. The light in his eyes died away a bit.

“Shaddup, Wayne, you're ruining his birthday.” Lance put an arm around Arthur, squeezing him close. “So, what do you wanna do while I'm here? Build those action figures? Watch TV? Try booze?”

“Lance!” Niav blurted out.

“Kidding! But seriously, don't listen to these mopers—what do you wanna do, and we'll do it! I'm the fun-uncle. The funcle.”

Arthur hesitated, then leaned in close. “Could we watch,” he whispered, and then hesitated some more, and finally managed to hiss out, “wrestling?”

Lance wiggled his eyebrows. “That's pretty violent, kid. Sure you're up for it?”

Arthur blinked, then shied away. “No, you're right, I shouldn't—”

“I'm kidding, ya big goof! Come on, let's watch some wrestling! Where's the dang remote around here?”

“Lance,” Niav whined again, but Lance ignored her and grabbed the remote from the coffee table. In about half a minute, he found the wrestling channel, and broke into a grin when he saw who was on it.

“Sit down, kid!” he said, and Arthur did with barely restrained eagerness, and heavy rock and roll blasted out from the TV. “This is one of the greatest wrestling legends of all time you're looking at: Hulk Hogan! I'm so glad they got him back.”

“I didn't mean to take up your sweet time,” drawled the barely-tonal voice of Jimi Hendrix as Hogan postured in front of a roaring crowd. “I'll give it right back to ya one of these days.”

“He always wins, isn't that the great thing?” Lance said excitedly as Hogan approached his challenger. “No matter how tight a jam he's in, he always comes out ahead! And the crowd loves him!”

“Everyone loves him!” Arthur replied.

“Damn right they do!”

Lance walked up to the door and knocked three times, his other arm behind his back. After several seconds, it opened to reveal Wayne behind it. He looked forward, then looked down and started. “Oh, Lance! Didn't see you there. How have you been?”

“Pretty well,” Lance said. “Where's Art?”

Wayne frowned. “Why do you ask?”

“Well, I haven't even seen the kid since his birthday, it's been a couple months, and I was thinking I'd check in on how he's enjoying his uncle gift—”

Wayne flinched. Lance squinted, but continued on. “Anyway, I was also thinking, since he liked watching the wrestling so much... ta-dah!” With a flourish he revealed the tickets he'd had behind his back. “Two seats, next Saturday. Not exactly ringside, I don't have that kinda cash, but....”

Oh, now Wayne was definitely wincing. Lance shut up for a few seconds, and then, when Wayne wasn't talking, he said, “What's up with Art?”

“Well, the thing is... he's grounded.”

“Grounded?” Lance's eyebrows flew up his face. “He's a good kid! What'd he get grounded for?”

“Leaving a mess everywhere. It's all month, and that's the same time as your tickets... sorry you wasted the money.”

“Oh. Can I at least chat with—”

Lance tried to step forward, but Wayne held out an arm. It was actually higher than Lance's head, and he could have squeezed under it, but he stopped anyway. “Sorry,” Wayne said, “but he's grounded.”

Lance made a “tch” noise. “You guys are too hard on him, y'know that?”

Wayne sighed. “It's part of raising a responsible kid. You'd know that if you were a parent.”

“Maybe, maybe.... I hope he at least had fun on his birthday trip.”

The look on Wayne's face suggested that Lance had suddenly broken into Klingon, or something. “The birthday trip?” Lance added, prodding. “The one that he got for his birthday from you guys rather than, like, a computer game or something?”

“Huh? Oh, yeah, that. He had a blast. See you later.”

Without further ceremony, the door was closed in Lance's face. He almost sputtered with indignation, but took a deep breath and turned around instead, and started walking off their front steps back to his pickup. I only see the kid some of the time, they have to live with him—maybe they know something I don't?

But how bad a mess could one kid make, to get grounded?

And then Lance was grounded, too, because lost as thought as he was, he didn't notice he was walking straight into Wayne and Niav's trash cans. He stumbled to the ground as the trash can fell over, vomiting its contents onto the grass.

Lance grunted in indignation and pushed himself up; then he started picking up stuff from the ground, and putting it back into the trash can. One big bag with tomato sauce, one filled with paper, one box of Bionicles—

Lance stopped and stared. Then he took the box, which had been taped shut, and ripped it open. It was bulging in places, which were revealed to be where various creations on the inside pressed against the cardboard.

He squinted: these were really creative designs. Arthur had clearly put a lot of time into them. Who had thrown them out?

It had been another six months, the next time Lance knocked on that door. This time he wasn't alone.

Niav opened up, and first looked at the fellow next to Lance, and asked, “Who are you?” Then she noticed Lance, a bit further down, and her face broke into a smile. “Oh, hi, Lance!”

“Hi there! How's my least favorite sister doing?” Lance smiled. Well, his teeth were visible, at least.

“Ugh, this again,” Niav groaned.

“And since you asked, might I introduce my buddy Paul Irmand? We're drinking buddies after work.”

Paul nodded respectfully. “Good to meet you, Mrs. Kingsman. Might we come in?”

“What are you, a PI?” Niav asked it, and then giggled. “You know, because your initials....”

“Well, I will admit I'm dressed for the part,” Paul said, glancing down at his dress shirt, tie, and slacks—and the briefcase in his hand. “So people do tend to assume that. And you know what?” He winked. “They're right. P.I. the private eye.”

Niav laughed. “You're not here to see Arthur, are you? He's not back from school—”

“Nah, we're not here to see Arthur, yet.” Lance pushed past her into the house, and sprawled on the couch. “Can you get Wayne? We've got a yarn to spin, we know you'll both love it.”

String them along, he thought, feeling his shaking muscles and willing them to calm down. It was like he was filled with electricity, desperate for a chance to ground itself.

“Lance, is that your voice I hear?” said Wayne from the kitchen. He walked in wearing oven mitts. “There's a quiche in the oven, but it won't be ready for who is that?” he blurted, pointing his whole mitted hand at Paul.

Paul inclined his head. “Paul Irmand, PI. Profession and initials. Your wife loved that joke. May I sit down?” He'd been respectfully standing next to one of the chairs. Once Wayne nodded, he took a seat.

“Anyway,” Wayne said, “what's the visit for? It's a bit out of the blue.”

“Well, I thought I could introduce some of my favorite people to each other! Just never got the chance because, well, work.” Lance laughed and clapped Niav on the shoulder—she'd sat next to him on the sofa, with Wayne opposite the coffee table from Paul. “Not even my work so much as his! Do you know how many hours this guy puts in?”

“Hours and hours,” Paul answered, nodding solemnly. “This one case has been taking up a lot of my time, these past six months.”

“Right, right!” Lance said, waving his arm in vague recognition, as if he didn't immediately know what Paul was talking about. “That, uh, that kid, right?”

“The kid.” Paul frowned. “Someone gave me a tip that said they thought a kid they knew was being abused. He wasn't sure, and he said that in the best case scenario the child would be fine and he'd look like a fool. But he had to make sure. So he offered to pay full price for my services, or even more, but of course, I gave him a discount.”

“Ah, shouldn't do that, Paul! It's bad business!” Lance laughed again, a bit louder than necessary. “Anyway, tell em what happened.”

“What I did was, I set up a stakeout. Got some cameras going. All legal, though it's a bit hard to make sure sometimes—you've got to know the law quite thoroughly as a private eye. And, lady and gentlemen, I'm sorry to announce,” Paul said, his voice growing solemn, “that there was bad stuff going on in that household. Things no kid should go through.”

Niav shivered. “Oh, we would never do that to our Arthur.”

“Who said anything about Arthur?” Lance felt his facial expression blurring the line between grin and grimace.

“So what happened?” Wayne said, leaning forward. “Did you get the kid out?”

Paul shook his head. “Actually, that case is still ongoing. But I hope to get it resolved very soon. Would you like to see some of the photos?”

“Isn't that illegal or something?” Niav asked with an uneasy frown. “I don't think we should....”

“Oh, I insist.” With utterly calm motions—Lance had always admired his friend's cool head—Paul opened his briefcase, pulled out a folder, and opened it quite deliberately. Like Arthur with his present, Lance thought, and suppressed and uncalled-for laugh.

Finally, he pulled out the first photo. It was a very specific house.

Wayne stared at it for several seconds before comprehension started dawning in his eyes. “Wait a second. This is our house.”

Paul kept on pulling out pictures, taken surreptitiously through windows and open doors. A child with shockingly orange hair, sitting in his room for what seemed to be days at a time. That same child, crying in a corner of the living room, as Wayne taped up a box of his toys to throw out.

“And this one,” Paul said, pulling out the last photo, “is from when you two went on vacation and left him alone in the house over a long weekend.  Alone with no babysitter, and debatably enough food.”

He looked up at the two of them, as they stared motionless at the array of photographic evidence laid down on the coffee table. It was as if he'd been pulling out the head of Medusa, and they'd been turned to stone. “Did you know that it is illegal to leave a child alone for that long, and what the maximum prison sentence is?”

They didn't answer, and just continued gaping. For the first time, Paul's expression erred from one of respectful politeness—just a slight inclination of the eyebrows. “Did you even realize that what you were doing was wrong?”

Finally Niav found a voice. “But—but—are you kidding me!? This isn't abuse, this is—this is parenting, you jackass!” She snatched up the photos, as if to steal them—as if there weren't copies back at Paul's office. “This is teaching him to be a responsible kid!”

Lance found his arm shaking. “Responsible,” he repeated. “You neglect your kid and you call it responsible.” With difficulty, he took a deep breath. “Niav, you're my sister, and I used to love you. So here's my final act of brotherly consideration. We've made it easy for you.”

Paul withdrew another folder from his briefcase, this one labeled Legal Documents. “What we've brought,” Lance said, as Paul pulled out the documents in question, “are all the forms you need to sign to give up custody of Arthur to me. It'll take you five minutes, and the kid you clearly don't want is gonna be out of your life. You can get back to... cooking, or partying, or whatever the hell it is you do while you're neglecting him.”

Lance took another deep breath. “That's the easy way. The hard way is, we take this to the cops. We have a long court battle, which you're gonna lose, and you go to prison for a good long time. You know how most prisoners aren't fond of people who mess with kids?”

“You assholes!” Niav stood up, her face enraged. “You think you can just walk into my house and take my kid?”

She swung at Lance. This was a mistake.

Lance moved automatically, grabbing her arm and kicking her leg, slamming her down into the coffee table. “Give me another reason,” he hissed, pinning her back with his other arm, using leverage to keep her immobile even with his much lighter weight. “Give me another reason because Christ help me, I've been looking for one.”

Niav laughed without humor. “You think you'll be any better a parent than we are, short stuff?” She struggled under his grip, but he held firm. “Think you're any better at holding together a family after what happened with Vera, you midget hypocrite?”

Before Lance could react—or rather, before his body could, as Lance wasn't sure any conscious thought would be involved—he felt Paul's hand on his shoulder. “Don't, Lance,” he said firmly. “What you're doing here is self-defense. She attacked first, that's fine. If you take it any further... don't give her a leg to stand on in court. That's all she wants.”

Niav spat into the documents her face was pressed against.

Lance let her go. “So, what do you say, least favorite sister? How do you want to do this?”

The forms were signed by three o'clock, at which point the door creaked open.

“I'm home,” Arthur called out at half-volume, and then he saw the four of them seated around the coffee table. His eyes widened. The kid wasn't stupid, and the air here was so thick with tension you could crash a car into it. He knew something was wrong.

“Uncle Lance,” he mumbled. “What are you doing here? And who's he?”

Paul smiled, and crouched down to Arthur's eye level. “Paul Irmand. I'm a friend of Lance's. Nice to meet you.” He put his hand out, which Arthur shook uncertainly.

“So,” Arthur said, “what are you doing... here?” He almost swallowed the last word.

Lance felt himself in a similar predicament, with his words stuck in his throat. Breaking the news to his... to Niav, that had been one thing. How to break this to someone he cared about?

Unfortunately, he took too long. “We were talking, your uncle and I,” Niav said sweetly, “and we decided that you should live with him now. Because you're too much trouble around here.” Her sweetness was like one of those candies from urban legends about Halloween—a sweet with a razor blade hidden inside.

Arthur looked down, punctured. “Um... okay? Okay.”

Lance felt Paul's hand on his shoulder again. He didn't need the reminder. Provocation. “Arthur,” he said, “go to your room and gather all your things. I'll help you carry them out. Okay?”

Arthur nodded and walked, dumbly, to his room—like a robot, told to obey without really understanding the instruction. It had to be a lot to process.

Lance glared venom at his sister, who smiled back. “You're not even trying to hurt him anymore, are you?” he spat. “You don't even care that much about Art. You're just using the child as some kind of voodoo doll, because you know I care.”

Niav winked. “Have fun with family life, short stuff.”

By the time Lance was done seething, they'd gathered all of Arthur's things in a bunch of boxes Lance had brought, and he and Paul had hauled them to the bed of his pickup. Paul shook Arthur's hand again before leaving in his own car, leaving Lance and Arthur together.

Not for the first time, Lance wished he was taller. It was harder to physically comfort someone who, well, dwarfed him, but he gave the tightest hug he could to Arthur anyway. “Uncle Lance,” Arthur asked, not hugging back. “What are you doing?”

“Arthur, listen to me,” he said. “You're a genius. You're better than both of those scumbags. And you are gonna have a great life.”

“Um... okay?” Arthur awkwardly patted him on the back.

“And one more thing,” he said, reaching up to his car door. “Because the last time I tried this, it got messed up, so....”

He yanked open his car door. Inside was the box of Bionicles that had been in the trash. “Happy birthday, Art.”

Arthur froze for a few seconds. Then he ran forward and grabbed the box, and tore open the cardboard, and pulled out all the things he’d created. Clutching two of them, he looked up at Lance, tears forming in his eyes.

Arthur looked at the car underside, situated four inches from his face, and tried not to imagine what would happen if he licked it. Nevertheless, the taste and texture crawled onto his tongue, into his head. He scraped his tongue with his teeth, as if he'd actually done it.

You said I forgave you, and you were wrong. But you’ve said, over and over, that you were sorry. And now I think that’s wrong too.

He chuckled: the intrusive thoughts were getting so crowded up in his belfry, he'd need to institute some sort of number system like at the DMV. He kept working as Lewis's voice echoed in his head, pretending he didn't hear—like he'd pretended these past several days.

And I wish I knew how to show you that you don’t have to be sorry, that you deserve better. But if you’ve done anything this past year to hurt me, to hurt anyone? Then I forgive you.

“Why,” Arthur mouthed, as his raised arm sagged from the car.

Because... it hurts. You see your own hands, hurting the people you love…. I just want it to stop hurting.

That was the fun thing about replaying conversations in your head, over and over and over. You got to come up with the perfect comeback.

But you're wrong, he thought, watching Lewis reunite with his family through the lens of a car-bottom. You don't understand, because when your hands were gonna hurt them... you stopped it.

“Art?” said Lance's voice from somewhere behind and above him.

He lifted up his metal arm and examined it, noticing the scratches and scuffs with disinterest.

“Earth to Art, you awake?”

He blinked and, for just the space of a moment—the moment his eyes were closed—it turned fleshy, and dark green.

“Dammit, Art, are you listening or not? This is important!”

Arthur jumped, or at least he jumped as much as a prone man could. He's catching on.

It had been a few days since Arthur's confessions about Lewis's return, and Lance had looked increasingly troubled each day. Arthur could guess what was bothering him: Arthur himself. Goodness knew he'd been acting unfairly morose, and Lance would probably prefer having him around if he were more chipper.

“Come on, I know you can hear me.”

“Yeah, Lance?” he replied, injecting an emergency supply of energy into his voice. His eyes didn't waver from the car-guts above him, or the metal hand in front of them.

Whose car was this, even? Somewhere in the last few days, he'd lost count. Did a robotic arm on an assembly line keep track of which car it was working on? His certainly hadn't.

“Good, you can hear me. Well, I've got a job for you.”

“Really? Sure, let me—”

“But first, well, uh....” Arthur heard what sounded like Lance scratching his brow. “I've got a confession to make.”

“Oh? Neat!” He picked up a wrench and tried loosening a nut above him, hoping this sounded like an eager silence instead of a disinterested one. How did you make a silence sound different, anyway?

“Y'know,” Lance finally said, after maybe ten seconds, “this is usually the point where you say something like, 'Oh, Lance, you finally admit you're secretly a wrestler', or something.”

Arthur forced a laugh. “Yeah, eh. I just kinda felt the joke was getting old. Beating a dead horse, you know? Not very funny any—”

The creeper he was lying on got yanked out from beneath the car, and Arthur stared up at his uncle.

His uncle, dressed in shiny yellow spandex.