#and like half of the driving could theoretically be avoided

[victory-cookies]

everyone in my life just needs me for my car :(

[arthur-r]

going to sleep at eleven being already late for sleeping enough tonight and then getting up when my mom gets up and talking for an hour and now it’s a complete lost cause

[reflective-leaf]

The Climate Movement Needs Your Creativity, Not Your Guilt

(This is an annotated transcript of the TEDx talk I gave in April 2023. It’s 10 minutes long. I’d suggest watching it first and then coming here for supporting materials.)

Does climate action feel impossible?

When I was a kid, I was interested in everything. I’d need about 10 careers to do it all. So I got out my green and blue markers and made a calendar to keep track of which job I’d have on which day of the week. On Monday, I’d be a scientist, on Tuesday, a painter. Friday — some kind of explorer, because I loved nature documentaries. I related to how animals seemed fascinated by whatever was right in front of them.

Every documentary ended with a reminder that these animals needed our help, and all the ways they were threatened by human activity. I couldn’t believe no one had managed to do something about this. But I figured I would know how when I grew up.

So, though I kept changing my mind about what I would be, the one constant was that it would have something to do with climate and conservation.

Years later, I was working as an engineer and plugging away at my art and writing. I didn’t tell anyone about my master plan to connect it all to climate, but I hadn’t forgotten it. I kept looking for ways to make my engineering work overlap with climate science or renewables.

Still, I avoided climate news. I didn’t need to hear over and over that climate change REALLY WAS real to motivate me to take action. I didn’t need to see a picture of an animal choking on plastic; I already had the master plan. Meanwhile, I kept circling climate action from a distance without taking the plunge.

But that changed in 2020. The United Nations issued a report giving us a deadline of 2030 to make steep emissions cuts.

Taking action couldn’t stay theoretical and future tense any longer. So I dove into the research to catch up on what I had missed. And I started — tentatively — talking to people about climate change and my intentions.

And I got wave after wave of bad news. It wasn’t just the tight deadlines, scale of changes needed, and years of deadlock.

It was also the confusing responses I was getting in my conversations about climate change. I’d bring up something I found fascinating, people’s faces would drop. The’d say “Yeah… I should be doing more.” And the conversation stopped there.

We’d all finally grown up! and I was ready to jump into the master plan, but I hadn’t factored in when I was 10 that no one would want to jump with me.

And it was 2020, and the air in California was full of wildfire smoke — a constant reminder of what was at stake.

Defeatism had hijacked the climate conversation and it was everywhere.

Eventually, the gloom shifted just enough for me to start wondering. Maybe we were all so bummed because we couldn’t see through the haze. We’ve all been peppered with directives — reduce, reuse, recycle. Drive less. Fly less. Turn off lights. Don’t buy plastic.

And we try, pushing against a system that wasn’t set up for any of that. But we don’t have a clear picture of how this helps.

We may have a vague idea of our individual reductions adding up to collective reductions — but then, every single one of us would have to cut our individual emissions by over half, and then to zero. We can’t imagine the effort it would take to scale up our reductions by that much. And convincing every single human to do the same? Impossible.

This picture doesn’t add up because it requires us all to be perfect. And worse, it makes us feel like we are failing, every single day.

But let me paint you a different picture. If change could only happen with 100% participation and perfection, change would never happen. But I think we can all agree that sometimes change does happen, even positive change. So — how?

For one thing, you can move society in a positive direction without being perfect. Think of it like electric current. We are the electrons.

When we imagine current flowing through a wire, we might imagine an orderly stream of electrons all moving in the same direction.

But actually, even before the current starts, the electrons are moving — randomly, at high speeds, in all directions.

And when we apply a voltage to create current, it still looks like they’re moving at random, except there’s a change you can only see when you look at the wire as a whole.

Each electron shifts its velocity a tiny bit, all in the same direction. You don’t need perfect electrons to create current.

Society is a bit more complicated than electric current. Still, it doesn’t matter that we aren’t each moving in a perfectly sustainable direction as long as our changes line up. And more importantly, pick up speed.

So what’s the voltage that directs us? I called it “the system,” and what I mean is the way all the organizations that touch our lives are set up — what they prioritize and where they get their materials.

We are constantly pushing against the system while trying to influence “our” consumption. What if we tried influencing the system instead?

So how do systems change? I found the answer in one of my math textbooks. Transformation builds under the surface as ideas brew, minds change, and small clusters of supporters gather — all while progress appears to be slow or non-existent, until suddenly, the support reaches a critical mass, and the system transforms rapidly in an emergent process.

Nearly every social movement that succeeded followed this pattern of slow, then all at once. To get to that point, a certain percentage of people need to participate (estimated variously as 3.5%, to 25%), but importantly, it’s not 100%.

So don’t think of the climate movement as something you’re guilted into. You can choose to be one of the 25% who become early adopters of change.

And you don’t have to worry about the people you can’t convince. They will change when the system changes because that comes first.

Changing the system requires creativity. The first act of creativity is to imagine the possible paths to transformation.

The second act of creativity is to imagine where you can fit into that picture. Old ideas need to be replaced by new ones — about everything from technology to our day-to-day lives. The new ideas spread through you.

To make that happen, ask yourself these three questions.

One. What is a movement you want to throw your weight behind? Pick a trend or organization that’s already building, and that you can help accelerate. You can be another piece of its critical mass.

Two. What’s a practical obstacle that’s been keeping you from participating? Anything from not knowing what a word means, to having trouble deciding where to volunteer.

If you have this obstacle, others do too. So brainstorming a solution will help more than just you. That obstacle doesn’t stand a chance against your formidable skills at creative problem solving!

Question Three. What social circles that you’re already a part of, can you share your solutions and experiences with? Sharing in the circles where you can be heard is how your solutions amplify and ripple outward.

We’re facing unprecedented challenges, so our imaginations need to be nimble — zipping like a hummingbird — from the big picture, to our immediate surroundings. From where we’re starting from — to where we want to get to.

We can’t be nimble like this if we’re stuck in guilt and perfectionism, and gazing endlessly within our own homes and wallets at all the things we’re doing wrong.

No movement in history has been made up of perfect people, so stop worrying about the ways you’re not perfect. Perfect people are not required.

Instead, think of all the ways your creativity could accelerate us in the right direction.

If you haven’t already, check out the recording of my TEDx talk! And you can hit ‘like’ on the video if you want to help get the YouTube algorithm to distribute it.

[barbiewritesstuff]

Bob x reader secret relationship! They’re both pilots and the Tgm team finds them in a compromising position :) smut is def welcome!

-- Thank you so much for your request :)

tw. Kinda sexy not full smut --

You and Bob had decided to keep the relationship secret, you knew your friends would be supportive but it was a fairly new relationship and you both wanted time to discover yourselves before making it public. It was fun, the secret glances, sneaking around on dates and the stolen glances made it all so exciting. It made you feel like teenagers again.

There were downsides to hiding your relationship obviously. When you were together in public Bob had a very hard time keeping his hands off of you. Not necessarily in a sexual way, although he did put those hands to good use then too, but when you were alone he just had to touch you. A reassuring hand when watching scary movies, an arm over your shoulder during your morning beach walks, and kissing the top of your head whenever he passed by the sofa you were sitting on were all things he did to show you he loved you. Well, aside from telling you he loved you every chance he got.

He couldn't help it, he was just so in love with you. And he could tell how much you loved him too. You always made sure to sit next to him, to defend him, you picked his team for dogfight football and always kept the snacks he liked in your bag for when he was hungry, even though he'd never explicitly told you he liked those snacks. 

Another downside to hiding a relationship is that you had to be discreet when it came to sex. You couldn't leave the bar at the same time without raising suspicions and sneaking into each other's rooms was harder than you'd think with the team around. And with the training for the mission, you hadn't had much private time together. It was driving you both crazy. And it didn't help that the team possessed some of the worst timing ever (that or they were doing it on purpose, which you doubted) and kept interrupting when you were both working up to some long-needed alone time.

Finally though, you had managed to find an excuse to spend some time together. Maverick had  been training them on various theoretical aspects of the mission and he had announced that morning that they would be tested at some random point in the week. You and Bob had immediately formed a 'study group' while the rest opted to study alone. 

To hopefully avoid any interruption, you had retreated to your dorm room.

You were too eager for your own good and jumped on your boyfriend almost as soon as the door closed.

Your lips collided with a force that knocked him back against the wall. His hands came up to cup your face while your fought to unbuckle his belt, desperate to get a hand on the member that was straining so hard against the fabric of his trousers. You palmed it teasingly for a few seconds before he slapped your hand away and pushed you onto the bed and climbed in top of you.

You kissed for a few more seconds before he trailed his kisses down your clothed body. He stopped at your trousers and tapped your side slightly to ask you to lift your waist up so he could take off your jeans. He slid them down your legs and let them fall on the floor. Bob looked appreciatively at the scene in front of him. You were sprawled over the bed, in nothing but a shirt and underwear. 

He smiled, placing both his hands on your panties, grabbing the band and ripping it in half in one swift motion. You gasped.

The tear had masked the sound of your dorm room opening and Fanboy walking in, wyes glued to his book.

"Hey guys, I don't understand any of this, can I study with you?" He asked before looking up and seeing you both.

"Nope, you need to leave now. I have been waiting to have time with my girlfriend for two weeks, so you turn around and walk out." Bob said, jumping off of the bed and walking towards his team mate.

"Girlfriend? What --" Fanboy tried to ask, but he had already shut the door in his face. You stiffled a giggle.

"Non, where were we?" Bob asked, kneeling between your legs

[solomonish]

We are both crying over the event spamming. I was hoping. Praying. And I see there is no hope to avoid events lasting forever.

~Naomi

I KNOWWWWW NAOMI AHHHHHH i was hoping so hard. i was hoping that the constant events in og obey me would be to keep the app alive for those who wanted it and that nightbringer would focus on the story. but??? now there's no point to keeping og obm up if they both have the same events at the same time?? and how are we supposed to focus on the story if they release new chapters on the same day events start??

it feels like they were aware that their clunky writing, insane difficulty spike and constant barrage of events killed og obm and chased people away, and they acknowledged that by scrapping the whole thing and retconning everything so they could have a fresh start (which is a sucky way of doing things but i was willing to let bygones be bygones!!! we were willing to look past that!!), AND THEN they insulted us by doing the exact same thing right out the gate with NB. at least if you get stuck on lessons before you can level up your cards, you can skill your way to barely getting a C with a big enough combo....

god. GOD. I'm going to stick around for a little bit and see what happens but i've gotta be honest this is not sparking any joy

and i HATE to be like this. i don't wanna just complain all the time. i missed solomon and lucifer and belphie (and everyone else but those are my main three) SO MUCH. i had so much genuine fun with obey me and i was so interested and passionate in the characters. but the constant content STRESSES ME OUT. like. i understand games need to make money and they need something to drive microtransactions, but we've been saying for years (i think) how obey me is pushing out too much too fast and too low a quality. and they're still doing it!!!!!!

and somebody pointed this out in the tags of my post i think but without otaku boot camp or solomon's summoning sale it's...kinda hard to level up cards. and what are they going to do about the harder lessons if half the devil's tree is locked behind skill levels and they're so stingy with their UR+ jokers? i'd understand making them RARE but there should at least be a slightly easier way to get them. or more raven given out so you actually have a chance at buying them.

obey me has done this thing where it stops just shy of punishing you for not paying money to play the game. like yeah you can play and get enjoyment out of the game for free, but good luck getting a single UR fully levelled up ever. have fun ever getting beyond the 7,000 mark in events. in the very first NB event, the top place got 7 MILLION points. I had a cheat card and played as many levels as i could every day and only got to around 13,000. plus, their fanbase is theoretically bigger than ever! their whole placing system is not fit for a fandom of this caliber. I'm not saying they should make it easier to get first place, but like. it's ridiculous how impossible it is to do anything 100% unless you cough up some cash.

anyway. i went on a way longer rant then i meant to. i'm so disheartened tbh like i didn't expect MUCH but i was hoping they were using this as a learning experience. now i know they were just hoping to get some people to pay two VIP fees for the price of keeping a single app up to date.

[mattbrittonnyc]

AI in Vehicles: Proactive Safety with Expert Matt Britton

In the rapidly evolving landscape of artificial intelligence (AI), its integration into vehicle safety is a topic garnering significant interest. As AI technologies advance, they promise not only to enhance vehicle safety but also to transform how consumers interact with their vehicles, paving the way for a safer and more efficient driving experience. Enter Matt Britton, a renowned AI expert and international keynote speaker, whose insights could profoundly impact our understanding and adoption of these technologies.

Matt Britton, the Founder & CEO of the consumer research platform Suzy, has a well-established reputation in identifying and leveraging the latest consumer trends. His expertise is not limited to consumer insights; it extends into how these insights can be integrated with cutting-edge technologies such as AI. Having consulted for over half of the Fortune 500 companies, Matt brings a rich reservoir of knowledge and experience which makes him an ideal candidate to discuss the nuanced impacts of AI on vehicle safety.

The Role of AI in Vehicle Safety: A Glimpse into the Future

To understand the potential of AI in enhancing vehicle safety, one must first look at the current challenges and limitations of vehicle safety features. Traditional systems rely heavily on human input and are bounded by human reaction times and perceptual abilities. AI, with its ability to process vast amounts of data at incredible speeds, offers a significant leap forward. It can predict and react to potential hazards faster than any human, thereby reducing the risk of accidents.

Matt Britton: Bridging AI Expertise with Consumer Insights

As an AI keynote speaker, Matt Britton stands out. His approach involves not just a theoretical overview of AI technologies but a deep dive into how these technologies can be tailored to meet consumer needs and expectations. His best-selling book, YouthNation, building a remarkable brand in a youth-driven culture, showcases his ability to tap into emerging trends and understand the marketplace's future trajectory. This capability makes him particularly adept at discussing AI applications in industries where consumer safety and product usability are paramount, such as automotive.

Consumer Benefits of AI-Enhanced Vehicle Safety

When Matt discusses AI and vehicle safety, he doesn't just talk about the technology; he highlights the real-world benefits for consumers. These include enhanced predictive capabilities, which allow vehicles to anticipate and mitigate potential accidents before they occur. AI systems can also adapt to individual driving patterns, offering a customized safety mechanism that improves over time through machine learning.

Proactive Safety Measures: The Heart of AI Integration in Vehicles

One of Matt’s key discussion points as an AI expert speaker involves the proactive measures AI can facilitate. Unlike reactive systems that activate once a potential hazard is detected, AI enables vehicles to continuously learn from the environment and driver behavior, leading to anticipatory safety measures. This could mean adjusting vehicle speed based on road conditions and traffic patterns or automatic rerouting to avoid hazardous situations.

The Impact of Consumer Trends on Vehicle Safety Innovations

As a consumer trend expert, Matt uniquely understands how generational shifts influence product development and adoption. With Generation Z coming of age in an era where technology is omnipresent, their expectations for vehicle safety are significantly higher. They are more likely to embrace AI-driven safety features that are seamlessly integrated and offer connectivity and real-time data.

Why Matt Britton is Among the Top Keynote Speakers for Your Next Conference

Choosing Matt Britton as a keynote speaker for your conference, especially one focused on innovation in vehicle safety, ensures that the content delivered is not only of high caliber but also highly relevant. His presentations are known for their engaging delivery and ability to provoke thought, driving home the importance of innovation and safety in the automotive industry.

Conclusion: A Visionary’s Take on AI and Vehicle Safety

In conclusion, having Matt Britton speak at your event about AI and vehicle safety is more than just an educational opportunity; it's a chance to glimpse the future of automotive technology through the lens of a seasoned expert. His insights provide a bridge between cutting-edge technology and consumer-centric solutions, making him one of the top conference speakers in the realm of AI and innovation.

By tapping into his extensive experience and profound understanding of both consumer behavior and technological advancements, attendees are guaranteed to leave with a comprehensive understanding of how AI is reshaping the landscape of vehicle safety for the better. This is not just about adapting to new technologies but about moving forward with them proactively for the greater benefit of all road users.

[kendrixtermina]

(technofilth)

I am so sorry for the grimes

I beg your pardon for the antiseptic

an impolite existence, oh I am sure:

Forgive me for taunting you as a while outline from beyond the fog,

for burning widely-visible all the way up in the air.

My apologies for existing just beyond the precipice,

for you to look out on, though the ground gives out before your feet

could safely be carried there, not without a price

It truly wasn’t my intention, you see.

It’s just that

there was this grand glass-front, sharp-shaped structure,

and a lone figure looking on down from behind its many windows

there was a long wide alchemical instrument of distillation,

with many chambers, like a digestive tract.

It’s just that there was this sensual steampunk device,

so many cables that the hard marble of old Galathea could not connect with,

be she though your wish

If it weren’t for the cracked mirrors,

showing pitch-caked ruins,

tangled insect limbs and members, around the lower piping of the city,

and the most archetypical dweller in the metropolis,

neon-lamp-woman wrapped in cables,

looking on with her disturbed, half-living eyes

at an ever-tarnished, gas-mask summer, in dresses and in uniform,

tears of face pressing through the ridges in the warehouse.

My curious, hunngry gazes peering out from within my eyeballs,

discerning machinery posed above concrete,

ever ready to descend.

And if that happens to you, well, then,

you come to wish for the six-limb of an insect,

for gecko-feet ready to conquer any terrain.

You feel the sharpness and the undulating of rock and conception,

the surreal three-dimensionality, the many chambers in the rock,

pointing up like onion spires,

like model universes in theoretical physics diagrams

surreal, open’d world-lines,

cesarian bellies now stiched back together

yet bursting with tentacle and bizarre creative assemblies from doll-limbs

universes, in the potential,

like long dead urns,

like hedgehog beings,

made of pure hate, repulsive the sting into every direction.

You could not kiss without cutting yourself.

The cable-laden thing crawling forgotten on the lab-floor,

the uniform’d watcher holding the switches

and the metal walls themselves,

it all becomes me.

All becomes held within me.

Waiting and sitting in this surreal void here.

And if that happens to you, well then,

all the green glow of the workshop can’t saved you.

I never asked to be like this.

I never asked to look down and find these blackened hands.

Yet, when your soul does that,

it becomes the soul of a monster, rotten and wicked

repulsive and rejected, marked by the sign

that there is something in here that ought to be avoided.

That you should not draw near:

I beckoned you only with insect’s claws,

to soil a lilly white abdomen with insectiod juices,

I called in your USB drive, vanishing amid a tangle of cables,

when a computer virus still meant something potential and romantic

and not just this endless stream of malware.

I lured with the bacon smell of something that isn’t piglet upon this pike,

ready for you to rend and take.

You let me. I let you.

Devastate me.

The bits representing our hearts hung upon long wires in the art installation

dumbly clacking together

past exposed ribcages.

The animatronic peeled nude like a banana,

for the mechanics to work its oily insides.

I’m saying cut me.

Look inside of me.

Slice right in and taste the void.

Can you see my uglyness?

Do you like my inner emptiness?

Will you suck and lick the juices and go lapping them all the way up.

Blood and semen.

Wound secretions soaking through.

I’m asking will you come close and be soaked in my grunge?

[thecarnivorousmuffinmeta]

Oooooo I’ve got one. What if Bella’s scent trigged actual lust instead of blood lust. I’m thinking the logical answers gonna be that Edward screams WHORE and skedaddles off to Alaska and whines about how he’ll never find a mate but what if he stayed y’know

I can't believe we've already answered this.

Well, sort of.

Alright, Bella, you've been demoted to sex pollen, I hope you're proud of yourself and the many porn fanfics you could inspire in some other universe.

Bella the Sex Pollen: Teenage Nightmare

Bella arrives in Forks and Forks is weirder than she expected. Everyone keeps awkwardly squirming whenever they're close to her and she's pretty sure she spots guys' hands wandering towards their pants. There's even been a few tents there.

Bella doesn't want to know.

Forks is officially filled with gross hicks.

Bella goes to Biology, she has high hopes for beautiful Edward Cullen. Her hopes are--not quite dashed when Edward excuses himself to the restroom two seconds in. Bella feels like the world's ugliest loser and has herself a good cry when she gets home.

Edward, on his own end, has no idea what just happened. He theoretically knows what lust is, he's seen lustful thoughts from others, but he's not an empath and he's not all that much of a sexual creature himself. Sudden onslaught of horniness is not something Edward typically deals with.

As a result he has no idea what the fuck is going on.

He just knows that he suddenly has an erection in the bathroom. He stays there and wills it to go away (which eventually it does). He doesn't relate it to Bella Swan's scent, she's not even on his radar right now.

As a result, Edward doesn't flee to Alaska. Instead, Carlisle wishes he could flee to Alaska as Edward and he have the "So, you had an erection in the middle of class and fled to the bathroom and now you want advice on how to surreptitiously masturbate/keep the tent in your pants down" talk.

Edward is filled with confidence after this talk. This was a fluke, a fluke called Edward finally growing into a man, and if it does happen again he now has lots of useful advice from the various men of the household on how to handle such urges (yes, I'm sure this was as terrible as we're all imagining).

Edward is prepared.

Edward is not prepared.

Everything's fine until Biology and Bella Swan, and then, right on cue, Edward is filled with SUDDEN LUST.

He flees.

Bella is resigning herself to her fate (school was not better day two and it seems that half the school is avoiding her and the other half of the school is trying to sit weirdly close to her with these gross looks on their faces). Edward fleeing, she just accepts it at this point, it's just par for the course. Bella must suffer in silence.

Well, now Edward's freaking out. There's clearly something very wrong with him. He's not simply a man but a lustful wretch perhaps not too different from those he hunted.

You can guess where this is going...

Edward never finds out that Bella is the source of SUDDEN LUST. Edward instead concludes that he has a very powerful sex drive and I imagine shortly goes to the Denali to learn the ways of sleeping around with willing participants and fulfilling his urges.

This may or may not result in some poor girl getting pregnant.

You ask what would happen if he stuck around but I... really don't think he would. He'd never connect this with Bella Swan and would think something instead was wrong with him. Even if he stayed in Forks, I imagine he'd become a hopeless NEET who would descend into searching for the perfect Waifu to help with his sudden burst of sexuality as he cannot be seen in broad daylight.

[winterscaptain]

take the day.

Aaron Hotchner x Fem!Reader a joyful future fic

a/n: a treat for the grown-ups in the room! this was inspired by an ask from many moons ago, and a couple of ideas submitted in the form. i hope you all enjoy, and as always, tell me what you think (and practice safe sex)! this fic contains explicit content and is 18+. minors do not interact or prepare to be blocked! also some tags aren’t working - please double check your urls below!

words: 2.8k warnings: smut (p in v penetration, [consentual & monogamous] unprotected sex, creampie, counter sex, floor sex, oral [reader receiving], very light soft dom!aaron),language, food mention

summary: “if you can’t laugh with your partner during sex, break up.” - my sister-in-law. au!november 2021.

masterlist | a joyful future masterlist | ajf faq | taglist | what do you want to see next?

“Take the day. Nothing’s going on here and we don’t have any cases for once.” 

You tuck the phone under your chin as you pack the last of the kids’ lunches. “Really?”

Emily’s smile is audible through the phone. “Really. It’s Friday, and isn’t Hotch out today?” 

“Yeah, but mostly just to avoid the meetings with -” 

Just then, Jack rockets down the stairs, throws his backpack over his shoulder, and grabs his lunch off the counter. With a kiss to your cheek, he jets out the door with a quick, “Bye, Mom!” 

You blink rapidly, kind of taken aback by the abrupt nature of his departure. He can drive himself to school now, but he doesn’t always take advantage of it. 

“Sorry, Em. Jack just left for school like a damn tornado and I gotta get Isaac out of bed.”

She laughs. “No worries. Swing by my office when you drop the girls at preschool. I’ve got a couple of things for Aaron.” 

+++

When you return, the house is eerily quiet. 

You toe off your shoes and round the corner to the office with an armful of files in your hand. 

Unceremoniously, you drop them on his desk. “These are from Emily.” 

He huffs a laugh through his nose without looking up. “Thanks.” 

With a sly little smile, you leave him to his work. 

Padding across the hall to the master bedroom, you light the fireplace and replace your winter clothes with one of his dress shirts, two buttons holding it closed over the middle of your abdomen, and a pair of fuzzy socks. 

You’re grateful for the central heating in the house. You’d never be able to pull this off without it. 

After you sneak into the kitchen for a glass of water (you know - the ruse of usefulness), you return to him and place the water next to his left hand. He hardly looks up but mutters his thanks under his breath. 

You take your time leaving the office, just reaching the door when you hear, “Wait, hey. Whoa. Back up.” 

You don’t follow instructions, walking out of his office and into the kitchen, making play at putting lunch together. 

A pair of familiar hands slide up your thighs and underneath the shirt.

“Is this mine?” 

You hum in the affirmative. “Thought you’d like it. It looks good on you so I figured it would look alright on me.” 

“Uh huh. Yeah, well, if those were the rules I’d have to hand over my entire wardrobe.” Aaron spins you and presses you back into the island, your back arching as he crowds closer to you, his mouth hovering over your neck. “You look better in my clothes than I do.” 

You hum again, but your brain is too fuzzy to come up with a retort. He laves kisses over your neck, dropping to your collarbone and brushing his shirt off your shoulder. You decide in that moment to let go, relaxing back into the counter and giving him implicit permission to have his way with you. 

“Yeah?” He asks, feeling you sink back. 

You nod, bringing your hand to his hair and pulling him to your lips. “Yeah.” 

With a dark laugh, he turns you around again and snags your hands, pressing them to the cold granite countertop. You’re stretched taut, your legs already shaking with anticipation. 

His hands slide up your arms and over your back, the starched fabric of his dress shirt a delicious texture over your skin. He reaches your hips, his hands wandering under the hem of his shirt and hooking his fingers in the fabric of your underwear, practically tearing them over your ass and down your legs. You step out of them and he nudges them out of the way. 

He kicks your feet apart at the ankles, spreading your legs and forcing your back into a gentle arch. 

A perk of law enforcement training - some moves translate well in the bedroom. 

Or the kitchen. 

You hear him unbutton his jeans and free himself, not even pretending the last half-hour hasn’t been its own kind of foreplay. An empty house is practically an open invitation at this point. 

He runs the head of his cock through your folds, pressing against your clit with every pass. You drop your forehead to the countertop with a whine, letting the cool temperature soothe your heated skin. 

Aaron doesn’t quit rutting against your wetness, only just teasing your entrance before sliding up to your clit again. From experience, you know he could theoretically do this for hours, waiting for you to get desperate, squirmy, and whiney.

It’s working. You wiggle back against him, but his hands cover yours with a smack as he shushes you, his hips pressing yours flush against the edge of the counter. You’re sure the granite against you would hurt if it wasn’t so hot. 

“What do you think you’re doing?” He asks, low and soft in your ear. 

You swallow as his lips wander over your neck and shoulder. “I want you.” 

He hums in understanding, sucking bruises along the line of your shoulder blade. “Do you trust me?”

“Yes.” Your answer is breathless, and you shove your fingers between his from underneath, holding on as best you can. 

“Do you know how good you look in my shirt and nothing else?”

You nod. 

“Do you know what it does to me when you look like that? My wife in my clothes?”

You don’t answer, knowing it’ll only pay off for you. He lets go of your hands and grips your hips, yanking you back toward him. It’s only an inch or so, but you can feel his cock pressed against you, the cold metal buttons against your ass, the coarse feeling of his jeans against the skin of your thighs. 

“Do you want me to show you what it does to me? What you do to me?” 

You swallow and nod, pressing your chest into the counter, bracing yourself. “Yes.”

He lines himself up with your entrance, plenty slick with your arousal - you’re practically dripping, soaking your thighs and the apex of your legs. 

Aaron slams into your heat, all the way to your cervix, with a searing kiss pressed to the middle of your back to smother his groan. You cry out from deep in your chest, drawing it out as he pulls back, dragging against your walls before filling you again, his hips audibly making contact with your ass. 

It’s rare you get a chance like this. Even at night, with the kids’ rooms upstairs, you have to be relatively quiet. Aaron, when he really lets go, can get loud, and so can you, with his encouragement. So, needless to say, your opportunities are few and far between. 

A steady stream of curses leave him through gritted teeth, watching his own hands pull you onto and push you off of his cock, bottoming out every time. 

You’re not even sure what noises you’re making, but there are a lot of them. You unstick your palms from the granite, reaching around to press your fingertips into the part of Aaron’s hip you can find. 

He leaves you then, falling out of your reach as he pulls out and turns you around again. 

Suddenly, you’re over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry. 

How does he do that?

The smell of his body wash from his morning shower lingers in the air as he brings you into the bedroom, dropping to his knees on the soft rug in front of the lit fireplace. 

He supports your shoulders as he tips you backwards, sealing your lips in a searing kiss. Your hands are in his hair, more for the feeling of it than for support. 

The plush rug is warm from the fire, a stark contrast to the cool kitchen island. His weight on top of you seems to sink right into your bones, a feeling of safety and love soaking into your skin. 

Much to your chagrin, he’s still fully clothed, his pants loose around his hips and his shirt hiked up to his ribs. You find the hem and separate yourself from his mouth only long enough to yank it over his head and throw it toward the bed. 

He laughs into his next kisses, but it turns into a sigh as your hands run over his sides, pressing firmly into his waist, before dragging up his back and back into his hair. 

“Are you gonna let me go?” He asks against your mouth. 

You shake your head. “Don’t wanna.” 

He laughs, tipping your head back and peppering kisses to your jaw and neck. “Fine.” 

His kisses meander down, nosing a path past the collar and buttons of his shirt on his way to your chest. He pauses at your breasts, drawing patterns with his tongue until you’re taut and puckered under his touch. 

His hands follow his mouth, unbuttoning the two buttons you’d done up to play at modesty, soothing circles into your skin with his thumbs. He reaches your hips and scoops your legs onto his shoulders, kissing a path down the creases of your thighs. 

When he finally wraps his lips around your clit, your hips buck into him. He laughs, sending a buzz up your spine, and locks your hips in his hands, holding you securely to his mouth. 

You resist the urge to bring your hand to your face, letting your whimpers and groans leave you at full volume. One hand finds a home in his hair while the other claws at the carpet. He could probably eat you out in his sleep at this point, what with the way he knows the pace, the pattern, the pressure you like. He’s consistent but never boring, always managing to lull you into a dull hum of pleasure, your legs shaking under his hands, before pulling something that makes you jump and whine. 

His warm breath fans across your lower belly, keeping him centered as he flicks his tongue against your clit, dipping lower to your entrance, sliding back. He sucks your inner lips into his mouth, letting them go with obscene, wet pop before pulling your clit back into his mouth, feasting on you like a man starved. 

You clench around nothing, desperate for him to fill you with anything, anything to ease the want that courses through you. There might be a moment when you ask for something, but you’re not entirely sure. 

He chuckles, a dark and smug sound, but only continues until your center starts to throb, shocking your body with pleasure all the way to your fingertips. Aaron can feel it too, running his hand up your abdomen, reminding you to relax. 

You take the note, slowing your breath and relaxing into the floor. Your grip in Aaron’s hair doesn’t budge, tight and close to the root. 

He’s determined to get you off with his mouth alone, his fingers digging deeper into your hips to keep himself on track. 

The pulse of your walls continues until the tension crawls into the rest of your body. Your shoulders pull away from the rug as your body curls forward, your hips stuttering even under Aaron’s firm grip. Both of your hands wind into his hair and you fall over the edge, chanting his name. 

Your upper body twists, your cheek against the plush carpet as you convulse under his continuing ministrations. Your hips are still locked to the floor under his hands, braced by his shoulders and held by his mouth. You can feel his smile as he rides it out with you, backing off on the pressure as pleasure rolls through you in violent, overwhelming waves. 

Your jaw seems to be stuck open, your eyes wide as you stare into nothing. Aaron slows, the strokes of his tongue long and drawn-out against the length of your sex, before stopping entirely, pressing a kiss right above your clit. 

He crawls up your body, keeping some of his weight on you as he finds your lips again. You’re still boneless, catching your breath, shaking, and experiencing little shockwaves that irregularly catch your abs.

With that in mind, you can hardly kiss him back - instead, passively letting him smother you in affection, vaguely processing the fact you can taste yourself on his tongue. You wrap your ankles around his lower back, and he finally sheds his jeans and boxer briefs. 

“You good?” He asks. 

You nod. “Mhmm.” You reach between your bodies and stroke him a couple of times. “Gimme.” 

He laughs out loud then, kissing you soundly as he slides home. 

You whimper into his mouth, your overheated flesh alive with sensation as he rocks into you, nearly frictionless. He holds you tight, his hand splayed across your shoulders underneath the shirt you’re still (somehow) wearing. 

You let your mind wander a little, combing through Aaron’s hair with your fingers and tucking your face into his neck. 

It’s been ten years with him, almost exactly. You’re a far cry from the person you were then, and you think maybe Aaron is a different man, too. 

Not where it counts though. He’ll always be that chronically-stressed, endlessly-dedicated tightass who thinks too much and speaks too little. If anyone asked, he’s still the smartest, warmest man you know. Privately, you know he’s also the dumbest invulnerable moron who ever drew breath. 

That makes you laugh, and you wrap your arms further around him. He doesn’t stop, but cranes his neck to look at you. 

“What?”

You shake your head, bringing your hands to the sides of his face, pressing a kiss to his lips. “Just thinking about you.”

He laughs a little breathlessly, his head tilting sardonically to the side as he snaps his hips to yours, making you jump and clench around him. “I’d hope so.”

Flipping onto his back, he pulls you on top of him and has the audacity to wink at you. 

The pair of you giggle and laugh your way to your destination. His laughing smothers his curses as he cums, fucking up into you and holding you flush to him by the hips. You follow him by scant seconds, bracing yourself on his chest as you drag out your orgasm, enjoying the rush and the laughter and just being together. 

When you both completely run out of steam, you lift yourself off of him and tip sideways, landing flat on your back out on the rug. 

This poor thing has seen more use today than in its entire lifetime. 

You roll over after a second, propping your head on your elbow. Aaron mirrors you, meeting your eyes. 

“That was fun,” he says. 

You nod, bringing your hand to the graying hair at his temple. “Don’t get too many chances for this kind of fun anymore, huh?”

He sighs and pulls your hand from his hair, kissing your palm and folding your hand in his. “No, we don’t, but it’s…” He thinks for a moment. “It’s nice to appreciate it more than we used to.”

“Yeah.”

+++

You twist back and forth on the barstool, watching Aaron slice an apple and some strawberries. You both did away with the lunch idea, deciding it was too much work to put something together. 

It feels awfully like your first weekend together, the only differences are in the scenery. Even the wardrobe is similar. You’re in the shirt he started in, not much else, and he’s in his jeans, shirtless and barefoot. 

It’s nice to see him wandering around with a kind of carelessness. You’re not sure any of the little ones have seen him without a shirt, not for any real length of time that they would remember. He told you once that he doesn’t want to scare them. 

You reminded him that this is their normal, too. They’ve never known him without the scars so they’ll always know him with them. The little ones don’t know to be scared. 

Still, he’s careful. 

It’s a work in progress. 

“What were you thinking about before?” He asks, rounding the island. He goes to lean on it, but hesitates. “We have to wipe down the counter.”

You snort and take the plate from him, headed for the living room. “It’s been ten years and you’ve never changed.”

He rolls his eyes and follows you, sitting down in his chair so you can sit in his lap, the plate of fruit on the coffee table. “Is predictable so bad?”

“No,” you reply, your eyebrows raised. “I was just answering your question.”

He huffs a laugh down his nose. “You haven’t changed, either, for the record.”

“Is that a good thing?”

With a smile, he pulls you gently by the side of the head, tucking you under his chin. “It’s a very good thing.” Then, almost inaudibly -

“A great thing.”

+++

tagging: @writefasttalkevenfaster @arganfics @angelsbabey @venusbarnes @quillvine @stxrrywildflower @criminalsmarts @genevievedarcygranger @ssaic-jareau @hotchslatte @avengersbau @ssareidbby @qvid-pro-qvo @joanofarkansass @popped-weasels @reidtomestyles @crazyshannonigans @iconicc @deagibs @starsandasteroids @unicorn-bitch @ambicaos @bwbatta @lotties-journey-abroad @ssahotchnerr @unicorn-bitch @capricorngf @zizzlekwum @cevanswhre @this-broken-band-girl @word-scribbless @averyhotchner @reidingmelodies @shesbiochem4 @violet-amxthyst @kelstark@mandylove1000 @sunshine-em @starsandasteroids @roses-and-grasses @ssworldofsw @sunflowersandotherthings @little-blue-fishie @happyvol7 @ssa-holmes @ssahotchner99 @triangularroses @vagabond-ing @itsmytimetoodream  @magic_in_the_eyes_of_the_beholder

[smallmediumproblems]

My Soul to Keep

“You know you shouldn’t stay,” said Jon. Callum Brody slouched resolutely before him in the middle of Night Street. His arms were wrapped around his middle, and his face was dominated by a truly world-class pout. Jon knelt down in spite of his protesting knees. “The Dark will have to chase something. As soon as we leave, you’re all it has left.”

“Don’t think so,” said Callum. His eyes fixed on a nearby stub of grass that had grown all the way up through the concrete only to wither in the darkness. “You’ve been out there, yeah? Past the end of the street? There’s still people, right? I can use them.”

“There are,” said Jon. “Some might even consider it a welcome distraction.”

“Long as it’s not me, that’s fine,” Callum shrugged. “Maybe fun, even. This place was getting boring.”

Jon studied him for a long moment. He’d expected him to be angry when they started their work. He had been fully prepared to fend off a supernatural tantrum. Instead, Callum had gone immediately to sulking. Jon could Know why, of course, if he really wanted to.

But it never hurt to ask, first.

“Do you think you’ll be alright?”

Callum finally met his gaze. He finally looked upset, and frightened and hurt, and all of the other things that he’d managed not to be in front of the other children. “Are you stupid? No. Nothing’s alright. Not anymore.”

“I know that,” Jon said softly. “I just… You shouldn’t have to do this alone. If there’s any way we can help, I-”

“Get out.”

Jon made no move to get up.

“I said get out, we’re done here,” Callum repeated, louder, as if perhaps Jon hadn’t heard. “I’m not coming with you. You want to help, let me have this. It’s all I’ve got.”

“Alright.” Jon stood slowly. “Alright. I wish I could promise that we were coming back,” he said.

Callum’s expression softened. It occurred to Jon that he probably hadn’t considered his unlikely guests being in danger; either because he didn’t care, or because he tried not to think of the world outside of his domain.

“Thanks,” said Callum. To Jon’s surprise, it sounded like he meant it. “Um. Don’t die, I guess. Or, whatever happens to people now.”

Jon laughed slightly. “You too. I guess.”

They both turned on their heels and paced back to their respective parties. Callum went into the darkness, unflinching at the hungry shadows that followed him. Jon retreated into the light.

“Did he change his mind?” asked Martin. He took a second to shift the weight of the bodies in his arms. Marnie had gone sleepily boneless in the soft expanse of his jumper, but Gavin still clung to his shoulder like an especially squirmy bandolier.

“No,” said Jon. He glanced down in surprise as little Jeremy took his hand, but didn’t pull away. “No, this… It’s best for all of them, him included. He understood that.”

“D’you think he wanted to come?” Martin asked.

“I don’t know,” said Jon, “I don’t think he would have admitted it. I certainly wasn’t about to make him tell me.”

Martin nodded, running a hand over Gavin’s back idly. “Kay. So, what now?”

“Now, we go back,” said Jon, loud enough so that some of the crowd around them could hear. “Back to the Lonely. I can get us there faster, now that we’ve already been. If that makes sense?”

“Nope!” Martin said brightly. “Never does. I’m dead certain you’re just making this stuff up half the time. But if it works, does it reeeeally matter?”

“I suppose not,” said Jon.

“What’s the Lonely?” asked a small voice from his side. He looked down to see Katya keeping pace with Jeremy, still eyeing Jon suspiciously. She wasn’t in the business of trusting strange adults.

“It’s like a big, awful haunted house,” Martin explained. “But instead of fun and cool, it’s sad and the worst. There’s still fog, though, so it’s got that in common.”

“Is my mum there?” asked Kayla.

“Yes,” Jon assured her, “In fact, I think… both of them, yes. That’s why we’re going. There are a lot of mums there, and I expect they’re missing you very badly right now.”

The first thing they’d learned about Night Street was that none of the parents were real. Their fear was far too valuable to let them waste away here until their children were of age.  Instead, the houses were populated with crude fabrications, stitched together from flickering television light and the muffled vibrations of shouting behind closed doors. They just needed to be hostile and sharp enough to drive “their” children away, into the arms of the Dark. Nothing more complicated or less horrible than that.

Accordingly, that was the first thing they’d explained to Michelle when they finally caught her. She was not easy to catch. She was faster than should have been possible, and ran from what she thought were two new spectors sent to torment her. Her downfall was that she preferred to hide. Not even the Dark could keep her from the Archivist’s sight. Unlike the shadows that prowled her house, Jon and Martin had every intention of actually catching her, not just letting her run and find a new place to simmer in her fear. When she darted to avoid Martin, she was caught up in the tangle of Jon’s arms, and the constant, quiet stream of words that spilled from him the moment he held her.

It’s alright. This is safe. They won’t get you. They can’t hurt you with me here.

Michelle screamed and cried and begged to be let go, but with each word, she knew more closely that he wasn’t lying.

It’s okay. You don’t have to be scared. We won’t hurt you, and neither will anything else, I won’t let them.

Michelle cried more softly, and pleaded for him not to leave.

I’m right here. You’re alright.

We’re not leaving without you.

Michelle knew that they wouldn’t.

She asked if they could help wake her father. Every now and then, she was able to dart across the house into his bedroom while the monsters weren’t looking, but he never gave her more than a mumble of annoyance for her efforts. Jon told her that no, that wasn’t her father at all- he could even show her the empty bed, the supposed bulge under the covers just a trick of the light, the muttering a creak of the floorboards. Her father was somewhere else entirely. (Jon had to look first, because he wasn’t sure if he was going to be able to tell her what he found). He was in the Lonely. He was there because he was looking for her.

This discovery brought a new layer into their plan. In some ways, it actually made things simpler. The proof of concept was the important bit - if they could rescue one child, it was theoretically possible for them to rescue the rest, that was just maths and a matter of time, so very much time - but they had always gotten stuck on what to do with them. They couldn't take them all the way to the tower. The other Fear domains were arguably much more dangerous. Jon could keep a watchful eye on them all, but protecting them was another matter. Using the children to rescue their parents didn’t just free more people. It would provide shepherds who were uniquely willing and able to care for their newly acquired flock. Some children had parents in other domains. Some didn’t have parents left to find at all. But the overwhelming majority were in the Lonely, and it was such a number that all of them combined could hang on to the lost children until a more permanent solution was found.

So they told Michelle that they would get her to her parents.

Then, they told Sam.

And Chris.

And Briana.

And they did not stop until there was no one left to tell.

“I miss my mum,” said Ron, who was trailing close behind Martin. He yawned over an envious look up at Marnie. “When can I have a turn?”

“Ten minutes,” Martin said sternly, “That’s what we negotiated. Except that time doesn’t work, so, um, whenever Mr. Sims says so.”

“Excu- don’t bring me into this,” said Jon. “I will not be made into a hug trafficker.”

“I thought you were Mr. Sims,” Ron said faintly to Martin. Martin went very red, and Jon arched an eyebrow.

“Is that so?” asked Jon.

“Hmm,” Martin made an interested noise, like Ron had just shared a new and exciting fact about an obscure topic. What he did not do was offer any correction to Ron’s statement. Jon raised the other eyebrow to match.

“I wonder where you got that idea?” Jon pressed.

“Julia said that Mark said that you two kissed,” said Ron.

“Gross,” Jeremy commented. “Kisses are gross.”

“It wasn’t a gross kiss, it was nice,” Ron argued. “Like on the cheek, and then the other person smiles a lot.”

“All kisses are gross,” Jeremy repeated adamantly.

“Here, I’ll show you-”

“Ah-ah-ah, absolutely no kissing without permission,” Martin yelped. “Here. Jon?”

“I mean, as long as it’s not gross,” said Jon, struggling very hard to keep a straight face. Martin rolled his eyes.

He kissed Jon on the cheek.

Jon smiled quite a lot.

[do-y0u-have-to-let-it-linger]

Hi! Can I get a ship? I'm an INFP, straight girl with social anxiety. I listen to music all the time. (mostly rock) I never leave the house without my earphones. I enjoy movie nights, reading books (romance and mystery are my favourite genres), playing videogames, goofing around with my friends. My friends would describe me as kind, helpful and loyal. I'm really into photography. I wanted to be a photographer as a kid, but it's just a hobby nowadays. I'm a hopeless romantic and a night owl. It takes time for me to open up to people, but once I'm there I can be pretty talkative. I'm 5'8" tall, I have half long brown hair, dark brown eyes and I wear glasses. If I have to describe my style it would be somewhat 80s grunge. Thank you!

(tw: swearing and eating)

I ship you with Scott Summers!

You never got along very well with Scott Summers.

He always came across as a bit of a preppy asshole. Not that his preppy-ness was necessarily correlated to his asshole-ness, but it did seem to enhance it.

You may think that not getting along perfectly with some random boy who happened to live in the (large) building you live in is not much of a problem, but you are incorrect.

When your best friend (and dorm-mate) of ten years, Jean, is on a so-called "superhero team" with and is good friends with said boy, it is not exactly easy to avoid him.

Since Jean's biological family was not around, she made her own.

The first member of her so-called found family was you, who arrived just a day before she did. When she first entered your dorm, you were adjusting all of your newly unpacked trinkets. You were both young enough to immediately become friends, no questions asked, and your friendship stuck. You two tended to keep to yourselves and each other, until you two were older.

When Jean was invited to join the X-Men with some of her friends, you couldn’t have been prouder. The problem was that when you met this other part of her found family, it did not go well. None of you clicked whenever in the same room, and Scott immediately made fun of you the moment he met you. You ultimately decided to avoid her other friends, but be supportive of them. Not because you couldn’t handle Scott, but because you didn’t want to put Jean in a position where she had to choose between you and them. Overall, this just made Jean desperately want you and her other friends to get along.

"Come on, just sneak out with us this one time!" Jean was sitting on the edge of your bed, making puppy dog eyes at you and clasping her hands together.

She always tried to convince you to hang out with her friend group. Even if that meant, in this case, convincing you to break (very reasonable) rules with them.

"No. Absolutely not. Jubilee is going to try to 'catch me a man', and Scott's going to try to be funny but just end up making fun of me. Besides, why would I break school rules and steal a car for a trip to the mall?"

"Because you haven't seen Empire Strikes Back yet, and I bought you a ticket for 1:00 PM today."

"Shit. You're evil, you know that? This is unfair. You know me too well."

Jean beamed at you. "Thank you, I try. Now, get dressed, you're going to love this."

"I am dressed, and you can’t make demands. I’m the one being convinced here!"

"I will not be pestered by Jubilee's pleas to let her give you a makeover! Just throw on jeans instead of your sweatpants or something! Now chop, chop! We're leaving in 10 minutes!"

"I'm sorry, 10 minutes?"

"I knew if you had more than 15, you would change your mind. Meet me by the front door when you're ready to go!"

After Jean left your shared room, you threw on some different clothes and hastily grabbed everything you needed to go. With your sneakers in your hands, you ran into the school's kitchen and shoved a granola bar in your mouth. As you were hopping, trying to force your shoes on your feet, someone spoke from behind you.

"Well, you look elegant as ever."

You froze, squinted your eyes, and clenched your jaw. Well, as much as you could with the previously mentioned granola bar in your mouth.

Scott Summers.

You swallowed and turned around, plastering on a smile in preparation to respond to his sarcasm.

"Well, you know me, unwaveringly ethereal."

Once you finished your attempt to keep the peace, your grin dropped off your face and you went to tie on your shoes, occasionally having to push your glasses back up your nose as you did so.

Jean then started talking to you while making her way into the kitchen.

"Come on, we need to go before Charles's class ends- well, well, well, look at you two!" she spoke in a sing-song tone at the end.

"Trust me, there's no 'you two' here." Scott hissed at her. Hissed! The audacity, would it be so terrible for him to be theoretical friends with you?

"Calm down, I just mean that I'm glad you two are talking," Jean said. "But we need to go. Like- now."

Jean then grabbed you by the arm and started to pull you out of the room, wiggling her eyebrows at Scott on the way out. Scott got up to trail behind you two, if he could glare at people with the glasses he wore, then he would have been glaring at her.

You elbowed Jean in the side and whisper shouted at her.

"What was that? What was the purpose of the eyebrow wiggle?"

"What eyebrow wiggle? I have no idea what you're talking about."

"You're a menace to society, you know that?"

"I am aware that you don't actually think I'm a menace, but I appreciate the compliment." She leaned down and messed up your hair. "Now let's move it!"

When you got to the minivan you were all "borrowing" from Charles, most everyone was already there. Kurt, Jubilee, and Peter took the back seats, and Ororo was sitting in the driver's seat.

You walked to sit shotgun, but Jean sped up to beat you to the seat.

Suspicious.

Squinting at her, you went to sit in the middle row, where Scott also made to sit.

It was silent for the first minute of the drive until Jubilee tried to strike up a conversation.

"So! Y/N, I'm so glad you decided to hang out with us! I love your outfit. Ooh! Peter, hand me my bag! I have a scrunchie that will match perfectly."

Peter looked at her with mock disbelief. "Yeah. dude, make me reach behind my seat and into the trunk of the car."

Kurt clearly did not want to be part of this conflict.

Jubilee smiled sweetly at Peter. "Shut up and grab me my bag, please?"

Peter sighed half-sarcastically. "Yes ma'am."

Well, Jean's friends were just as you remember (aka slightly crazy).

You heard Jean's voice in your mind "If you don't wear that scrunchie it will genuinely hurt Jubilee's feelings, and I will never forgive you."

You looked at her through the mirror and raised your eyebrows.

Jubilee's voice took back your attention. "Here it is! Scotty, I can't reach. Can you hand this to her?"

Scott visibly winced at the nickname "Scotty" but handed you the scrunchie anyway. After trying to hide your amusement at the use of "Scotty", you attempted to put your hair up with the scrunchie, and you saw Jean smile. You were determined to make friends with these people for Jean.

"Thanks, Jubilee," You smiled at her. "So, how do I look?"

Scott chimed in immediately. "Like you're twelve."

"Ok, shut up Scott. You look cool, Y/N." Ororo gave you a thumbs up from the front seat. They were all clearly told to make friends with you by Jean in the same way you were. Well... told or threatened. Who's to say.

The car ride was awkward, to say the least. When you finally arrived at the mall and exited the car, you felt like you could finally breathe. You spoke first while you were all walking into the mall.

"So, how are we planning on killing time before Empire?"

"Well, Jubilee wanted to pick up some more eyeshadow with me, and Peter, Kurt, and Ororo are probably going to buy even more colored leather jackets," Jean said.

"Where does that leave me and your wallflower?" Scott asked Jean. You turned to look at him, attempting to make your lack of amusement clear. "What?" He shrugged, "It's true!"

"Ok, first of all, she's not actually that shy, you're just mean. Second of all, I was hoping you two could go into the book shop together until we're done."

Your eyes widened as you turned to Jean, silently begging her not to leave you and Scott alone.

"What? Why are you looking at me like I'm crazy? Maybe I thought you would try to get along because you both love me and I want you to be friends!"

Scott responded first. "You're totally guilt-tripping us right now."

"Yes!" Jean responded. "Yes I am, and you better be feeling guilty. Now, we're all going inside, and you are going into that bookstore together, you are going to bond over your cheesy dreams about falling in love, and, Scott, you are going to be kind! Or I will be very upset!"

You and Scott looked at each other (slightly afraid) before you turned to Jean and nodded your head at her.

"Ok. Let's go, Scott." You looked at him and he nodded at you both of you then started to head to the bookstore.

In the door of the shop, you glanced at him awkwardly. "So... is there a specific section you want to visit? Or-"

"Uh, I usually just... wander." He was bouncing on his heels.

"Oh! Ok, uh... where you lead I will follow!"

He spun around and started to walk aimlessly, actually trying to make conversation.

"So- you take photos?"

"...How did you know that?"

"I've seen you. That sounds creepy, I just mean that I saw you with a camera once when you walked Jean to training. It seemed nice. Only a dumbass would own a nice camera and not use it."

"How kind of you to not see me as a dumbass," you mumbled as you ran your hand across the book binds. "Do you have any hobbies?"

"Not really to be honest. Well, actually- I like... cars."

"...Cars. Huh. Elaborate."

"My brother, his name is Alex, taught me how to fix up cars when I was younger. Ooh- recently we found this beautiful 1962 AMC Rambler- I mean, it was basically a pile of garbage, but we're fixing it up."

"What's a Rambler?"

"W- 'What's a Rambler?'" He looked at you like you were speaking another language. "A 1962 AMC Rambler is only the car of my dreams!"

"The 'car of your dreams'?"

"Uh, yeah. What- do you not have a dream car?"

You laughed at him, "No? I don’t know that much about cars."

"You don’t have to know shit about cars to have a dream car! Come on, you don't have any car you would want to drive?"

"A school bus."

"...What do you mean."

"I mean- I bet I could live in a school bus. It's big, has a lot of windows, it's yellow." Scott was surprisingly easy to talk to.

"A school bus. Huh."

"I thought of that on the spot, it's not a long-term dream of mine."

"No, I see the appeal. I do think it's weird that you listed it being yellow as one of its positive attributes though."

"Holy shit. Holy shit!"

"What? What's the problem?"

You grabbed the book you spotted and held it out to him with your arms fully outstretched, it almost hit his nose. "Do you know what this is?"

Scott's hands appeared at the top of the book, and he pushed it down so you could see his confused expression. "A... book?"

"Very funny, Scotty, but no this is not just a book. This is a sequel."

He crossed his arms across his chest. "... 'Scotty'? I'm gonna kill Lee."

"Who's Lee?"

"Jubilee."

"If you can call her 'Lee' why can’t she call you 'Scotty'?"

"Because 'Scotty' makes me sound like I'm twelve!"

"Well, according to you, this scrunchie makes me look twelve. So I guess we're even, Scotty."

"I see why you and Jean are friends. You’re both evil."

"I called her evil not 10 minutes ago! Look at us, 'bonding' and all."

"Speaking of a 10 minutes ago, and that whole 'twelve' thing, I'm sorry."

"What do you mean?"

"Sorry for calling you twelve... and a wallflower. You seem... neat."

"Thanks... I think."

"Neat is a good thing."

"I'm kinda messy actually."

"I meant neat as in like- cool. Plus, you’re the first friend-ish person I've had that also wears glasses!"

You smiled at each other for a moment.

This was amusing.

He was amusing.

Unfortunately, someone popped the bubble encasing you and Scott. "Wow, 'friendish'? That's an upgrade from them low-key hating each other."

You whipped your head around to see Peter and Jean standing on the other side of the aisle, clearly having been observing and talking about you.

Scott spoke first. "How long have you two been standing there?"

"Long enough," Jean smiled. "You two get along."

"...So?" Scott asked.

"So, about an hour ago that seemed completely impossible."

An hour? That couldn’t be possible. "Wait, what time is it?"

Jean responded. "12:45, you’ve sure been chatting for a long time."

Scott cleared his throat and turned to you, "So, uh, you should buy that book, and then we should head to the movie theater room thingie."

You looked back at him. "Yeah! Ok, so... yeah."

After you and Scott walked away, Peter leaned over to whisper to Jean. "Well, that was a long glance. We've really gotta lock 'em in a closet together or something."

Jean shoved Peter, and you all went about your mall trip as you did before, except that now you might have a new friend... ish.

[uglymanchronicles]

Ugly Man Chronicles Reignition Book 2 Chapter 2: My Breakfast With Evan

Just a couple dudes getting to know each other.

“If you must know,” Evan sighed, spearing a glistening sausage on the end of a flimsy plastic fork, “my jackass older sister thought it would be hilarious to give me a cupcake she'd baked with about a dozen powdered viagra for my fifteenth birthday. I wound up passing out eventually. Burst a lot of blood vessels. Damaged the erectile tissue beyond usefulness.”

Titus froze mid-coffee-sip. “Seriously? What a bitch!”

“Buddy, you don't know the half of it.”

“So... no signs of life down there?”

“Nothing for twelve years.”

“I think I would literally kill myself.”

“It's not so bad, I guess. At least I don't have to drain the blood out of it any more.”

“Eugh! Fuck! Did not need to hear that!”

“Well, maybe you shouldn't ask questions you don't want the answer to.”

“Do you get, like, blue balls all the time, then?”

“That's basically my ground state of being.”

Titus whistled flatly, avoiding looking Evan in the eye. He settled for staring at the table. There wasn't a lot of Evan's face that he felt comfortable looking at; every part seemed to at least be adjacent to some unpleasantry or another. About the only safe area was his right eye, which, as luck would have it, was directly opposite Titus's 'good' eye. Titus rallied and met Evan's gaze again. “Alright, your turn.”

They'd agreed on a sort of mutual interview process, taking turns asking questions to suss out what the other was capable or if he was worth having around. Evan took a bite out of the sausage and chewed thoughtfully for a moment.

“Who's Moreno?”

Titus hissed through his teeth. “A real piece of shit.”

“I'm going to need more than that.”

“I'm getting to it. He's basically, like... a freelance henchman? Like, sort of a mercenary criminal. Sells his services to the highest bidder.”

“And why's he matter?”

“That's another question.”

“No, it is not,” Evan said, quiet and serious. “Do not argue with me in bad faith, Titus. I have very little patience for it in the best of times.”

Titus regarded him for a long moment. The man across from him was wider than the table they sat at. His muscles were so pronounced in some points that Titus could tell when he was about to move by the way they bulged and contracted. Yet he gave the impression that he was constantly trying to pull himself inward, to make himself smaller. He spoke quietly and with a simple formality, but only hours before Titus had watched him single-handedly beat down some of the nastiest people he'd met in the past month.

Hmm.

“Fine. Moreno matters because I'm after the guy he's working for. You see, Moreno isn't just a normal scumbag. He works for people who need nasty things done. Not like regular nasty, either. How much do you actually know about magic?”

“I've got some... notes. So far I'm not able to find a lot of coherent rules. It mostly seems like it relies on things that nobody would normally do.”

Titus snapped his fingers and pointed at Evan. “Hit it right on the head. Rituals, reagents, that kind of thing... the reason—well, one of the reasons—magic doesn't just happen all the time by accident is that it's all weird little things. A lot of the more heavy magic relies on some pretty elaborate and obtuse shit to get it going.”

Evan momentarily thought back to the Book of Fate and his ritual in the woods. “So Moreno does these things for people?”

“Yeah. Thing is, though...” Titus stopped raising a forkful of eggs halfway to his mouth and set it down again, as if he'd momentarily lost his appetite. “The people who use his services generally practice some pretty vile magic. Real depraved shit. And to empower depraved magic, you need depraved rituals. Moreno is the guy you go to when...”

“I think I get it,” Evan interjected, since Titus seemed to be struggling with deciding whether to continue. “Your turn.”

Titus tapped his fingers on the table for a moment, then looked Evan in the eye. “How smart are you?”

The scars on Evan's face squirmed around as he actually smirked. “What kind of question is that?”

“Hey, we agreed no 'whys'.”

“Alright, alright. Well, there's really no objective metric for it, but... I have Master's degrees in computer science and theoretical physics, Bachelor's in those in addition to mathematics and electrical engineering, and associate's degrees and certificates in everything from EMT training to ballet. I should have my doctorate in physics, but...” he said, with a bitterness that Titus made a note of, then changed gears. “Oh, and I also speak Mandarin, Spanish, Japanese, French, and Arabic pretty fluently. I also know ASL. I can get by in German and Russian, too. I don't know if any of that is what you meant but--”

“Jesus, I get it,” Titus muttered, rubbing the side of his head. “How the fuck do you make money?”

“Software consulting, mostly. I specialize in security and processing efficiency. People pay me to break into their systems and then patch the holes, or to make their code run quicker or make their programs smaller. I've got a few patents I've licensed that bring in most of my income nowadays, though.”

“Anything I would have heard of?”

“If you've used a computer made in the last four years it probably has something I wrote integrated somewhere into it. I also helped develop a protein-sequencing program that helped develop a vaccine for this nasty SARS variant that broke out in China last year. They say if they hadn’t nipped it in the bud it could’ve spread worldwide and we’d be looking at millions of deaths by now.”

Titus scrunched up his face. “Oh yeah, just say that like it’s no big deal.”

“I’m just glad it turned out not to be one. What I'd really like to do is get my compression algorithm out there, but if I do that, somebody's going to try to hoard it all for themselves.”

“Are you talking to yourself or me?”

“Look, I... a few years ago I figured out a way to compress memory down by a exponential factor of six with zero loss. All it takes is a couple software plugins that don't take up much room themselves. Essentially, I could make a gigabyte fit in a kilobyte with very little trouble, now that the math's figured out.”

“Holy fuck, that's insane! Why haven't I heard anything about this?”

“Mainly because I don't tell people. If I put it up on the market, some ISP would buy it and bury it. If you make information smaller, you make it faster. Can you imagine what it'd do to internet access if dial-up and barebones cellular networks suddenly had the bandwidth of fiber optics? It would... maybe not revolutionize our society, but it would level a lot of playing fields. Bring a lot of underdeveloped areas of the world—hell, this country—up to modern levels with no extra cost. The telecomms would crash and burn so hard. But I don't have the means to get it out there without going through someone else. Yet,” Evan added. “So I basically work watered-down versions of the compressor into the software I make. Nothing that can be duplicated, and nowhere near its full potential, but enough to get me hailed as some kind of genius and pay the bills.”

“So why aren't you on your own private island or something somewhere instead of puttering around God's Ashtray in a shitty old Bug?”

“Hey, the Beetle is not shitty,” Evan said, defensively. “And I'm just waiting for the AC in my RV to get fixed or I'd be driving that.”

“Oh hot damn! Now that's the way to live!”

“Not the one I'd choose voluntarily, but it could be worse.”

“How come you're doing it, then?”

“I think it's my turn to ask,” Evan said, mildly.

“Fine,” Titus said grumpily, crossing his arms.

“How do you make money?”

“That's easy. I'm basically a freelance bailbondsman. I just roam around, drop my advertising around bars and courthouses.”

“You get many clients that way?” Evan asked, cocking his remaining eyebrow.

“Oh, you'd be amazed how desperate people can get,” Titus said, shrugging. “Of course, they're usually not the most responsible people, so when they bounce, I track 'em down myself, drag ‘em back to jail, get the money back. My eye usually makes it super easy. Sometimes they don't even see me before I get the cuffs on 'em.”

“Why did you feel the need to rob a bunch of drug dealers, then? The thrill of it?”

“I had a pressing need for a large amount of cash that my normal work doesn't bring in. That got me enough to hold it off for a while. My turn.”

Evan waved down a waitress for a refill of his coffee, trying not to take it personally when she gasped upon seeing his face. “Go ahead…”

“No, no, hang on.” Titus waved a hand dismissively. “I want to try something. Take your hair out of the ponytail.”

“What? Why?”

“Humor me.”

Evan groaned and reached back, removing his hair tie. After shaking his head, his hair fell over his face, obscuring everything but his nose and mouth. Titus pursed his lips and regarded him seriously for a moment.

“Can you see?”

“Yeah, I guess. Well enough to not walk into things, I think, and I could probably read if I had to.”

Titus snapped his fingers. “Good. Go with that from now on.”

“Why?”

“Because now you don’t look like God’s mistake. Now you look like a big, dumb-but-lovable goon. Like Jack Black would voice you in a cartoon.”

“And that’s a good thing?”

“Do you like seeing people contemplating their own mortality and the general cruel absurdity of the tragic farce that is human existence when they get a glimpse of your face?”

Evan felt his cheeks burn and was actually grateful his hair was covering most of his face. “…not particularly, no.”

“Then there you go. You’re welcome. Okay, question time. Uh… how did you get your powers?”

“Which one?”

“Oh, now who’s arguing in bad faith? Fucking all of them, you thick-lipped gargoyle.”

Evan had the feeling he hit a sore spot. Titus's easy-going, jocular tone had bled away from him, leaving behind the hard-edged razor-blade of a man that had ambushed him the night before. He decided not to belabor the point.

“I don't know why I can rege—why I heal so quickly. No, I'm serious, as far as I know, it just started happening sometime in the past few months. I can't remember. Don't look at me like that, I'll get to that in a minute. When I was younger I recovered from a lot of injuries a lot quicker than the doctors thought I would, so maybe it's something I was born with and it just got stronger recently for some reason.”

Evan took a sip of coffee, mainly to buy a few seconds to think of how much to explain for the next part.

“The ability to shut off powers... that's part of, well, I guess you'd call it a magic ritual, because I don't know what else to call it. I found a weird old book that said it contained the key to making someone an instrument of universal justice, or something of the sort. Since then I can see... I guess they're souls? Maybe? I can sort of move mine and when I run it into someone else's it seems like I can shut off their powers. Or... take them entirely, if they're dying.”

“Horseshit!” Titus scoffed. “That's... that's like meta-magic. I don't even know if that's real.”

“No, seriously! I don't think it's just magic powers, I think it... 'normalizes' things.” He briefly recounted his encounter with the pain monster.

“Are you kidding me? That...” Titus took off his hat and ran his hand through his hair, exhaling slowly and loudly. “Look, I don't know much, but the fact that you even ran into something like that, let alone survived... those odds are astronomical. And you say you negated not just its powers, but its whole form?”

“Yeah. Once I... reached into it, like I did with you—oh don't make that face. Grow up—I kind of disrupted what made it... different, I guess? Like I cut it off from its special qualities. Like it was...”

“Disjuncted,” Titus cut in.

“Yeah, that's a good word for it. Like the old Mordenkainen spell?”

“Fucking nerd.”

“Eat my ass. Anyway, after I killed it, I was able to reach into its... soul? Animating force? Aura? I don't know what to call it. I was able to grab something and pull it out and it just got pulled into me.”

“Not aura.”

“What?”

“Aura's a different thing,” Titus said, dismissively. “So what did you get from doing that?”

“I.. I feel pain differently. I don't flinch or get adrenaline rushes from injuries that don't actually impede my ability to function. I think I have a better sense of what is actually dangerous to my body now. It still hurts, but I don't react to pain like people normally do. It's like...hmm.” Evan drummed his fingers on the table. “Do you know anything about video games? Fighting games, specifically?”

“I used to fuck around on an old Alpha 3rd Strike cabinet when I was a kid. Why?”

“Do you know what 'super armor' is?”

“Isn't that where a move can't get stopped by being hit when you're doing it?”

“Right. I'm kind of like that now. Pain doesn't interrupt me.”

“Fucking nerd.”

Evan's fist involuntarily clenched. “I'm trying to put this in terms you can understand, you stupid reprobate. My experience with your judgment thus far hasn't given me much faith in your intellect.”

Titus burst out laughing. “So he does know how to banter! I thought you might be one of those Rainman types.”

“Oh sure, call it 'banter' to try to excuse the fact that you've been insulting me for the past half hour. Do you say you're ‘just joking’ when people get mad at you for saying stupid shit, too?”

“C'mon, lighten up! We're partners now! Tell me more about this soul thing. I still think you're full of shit.”

Evan sighed through his nose, then held up his left hand, forming his fingers into a circle and peering through them.

“Yours is... a sort of cross between a sea green and an oil slick. The tendrils of it keep reaching out and snapping back, going all over the place. It seems to keep expanding and contracting. It's almost flickering, like... it's indecisive. Very chaotic. The tendrils that aren't snapping around seem to be kept pretty close to your body, wrapping around you like... I can't tell if it's protective or restrictive.”

Titus's expression slowly became serious. “What does that mean?”

“I don't know. I have a lot of theories, but nothing solid to go on. I'm not sure if it's allegorical or a literal representation of a person's... power, maybe? Yours definitely looks a lot different than most people's.”

“I don't believe this for a second. Let me see.”

“How would I do tha—hey!”

Titus grabbed Evan's wrist and held his hand up to his eye. “Ho-lee...”

He pulled back from Evan's hand, staring at him. Then he looked around the room, mouth slack as he took in the diner's other occupants.

“Huh. Did you know it keeps working until you blink?” He said after a moment, a faraway tone to his voice.

“I didn't even know other people could do it,” Evan said, awe in his voice. “Hey, wow, you're right!”

“Jesus, yours is, like, really blue. It looks like... a bunch of steel cables. It's weird, I felt like I both could and couldn't see the edges of it...”

“I can kind of move it, but I'm not sure if I can do anything with it beyond interfering with people's powers. It's like learning to use a muscle you didn't know you had.”

“Huh.” Titus was again silent for a long moment. “Your turn.”

“Can you do anything else supernatural? Besides your time-eye?”

“Don't call it that, it sounds stupid. And... sorta. I seem to have whatever innate talent you need to actually do magic, but it's not like it's easy to find instructions. Most of the people I know who can use it just dabble with half-broken magic items—wands, amulets, charms,” he pulled the silence charm out from under his coat and bounced it at the end of its chain. “I guess I'm sort of a dabbler. I know a few tricks, I can use a lot of magic tools, I can sense magic pretty well, I can dowse... Most of the time I really never have to use anything besides the eye, though.”

“Is the eye all-or-nothing?”

“Yeah. It's not nearly as useful as you'd think, but any edge is an edge.”

“When I turned off your power and it was coming back, though, you started speeding up—or, I guess, everything else was slowing down? You were moving faster, one way or the other. You were able to touch me, and those punches hurt.”

“Huh, yeah, you're right.”

“Do you think there's a way you could learn to only partially activate it?”

“That'd be great, wouldn't it? Thing is, just using it is a huge strain, and that time spend outside of time adds up. Going by normal calendar time I'm only 26.”

“Fuck, I'm 27!” Evan laughed.

“Yeah, well, I'd rather be prematurely gray than what you've got going on. My turn. Uh... huh, I can't really think of anything else. Uh... are you gay?”

“Are you fucking serious?”

“No, but the question still counts.”

“I'm bi,” Evan mumbled, crossing his arms across his prodigious chest. “Not that it matters. And before you ask, no, you are not my type. We're done talking about this.”

“Huh. You ever sucked--”

“We. Are. Done. Talking about this.”

“Fine, God. Go.”

Evan mentally circled back to an earlier question he felt hadn't been properly answered. “Why are you after Moreno?”

To Evan's surprise, Titus didn't hesitate. “I'm actually after his current boss. He's just the best lead I have to go on.” He took a deep breath, then started talking with a rushed, deadpan pace, as if he was eager to get the words out as quickly as possible so they wouldn't be in his mouth very long.

“Moreno is working for a guy only known as the Soultaker. He has an innate supernatural ability to pull a person's soul out of their body. When that happens, the person just... shuts down, usually. No motive force behind them. Eventually they just die of dehydration, usually. I've seen some people so set in routine that they keep going without a soul, but... it's not really life.

“It seems like the extraction process takes a while, so he can't just walk past you on the street and pickpocket your entire essence. So he needs people rounded up for him, held until he can do his nasty juju. So that's where a degenerate like Moreno comes in.

“So when he pulls out a soul, it, well, it looks like this.”

Titus pulled a battered, faded Crown Royale bag out of his jacket. It bulged strangely and made a quiet clacking when he set it on the table. He pulled out what looked like a large marble, or maybe a dull pearl, and handed it to Evan.

Evan brushed his hair out of his eyes and peered into the milky depths of the sphere. After a few moments of staring, the murky clouds inside the thing seemed to clear and a face floated to the surface. A black man, maybe in his late 40s, going thin on top. His eyes were closed and he appeared to be sleeping, but his expression had a look of discomfort to it, as if he was having a bad dream.

“Jesus Christ,” Evan whispered, “I've seen this guy... Martell Calloway? I saw some news article about how his family found him tied up in his apartment and completely comatose! But he didn't have any injuries beyond being a black eye... so he's dead?”

“Life support,” Titus said, taking Mr. Calloway's soul back from Evan's unresisting fingers, “technically, he's one of the lucky ones. They found his body before it wasted away to nothing, and I was able to intercept his soul before it got to a buyer.”

“Why would someone buy something like this? What use is it? Can you fix him?”

“A human soul is a damn near exhaustible arcane battery,” Titus said gravely. In the split second between sentences, Evan noticed something—after he'd put the bag back into his jacket, Titus surreptitiously touched a pocket on the other side of his jacket, as if he was making sure something was still there.

“If you know what you're doing, you can power a lot of magic using a soul. And you can reuse them as long as you don't overdo it. If you know what you're doing, you can wring all but the last drops of essence out of a soul and let it heal or recover or whatever, and it'll eventually be back to full strength. Very resilient things,” Titus continued. “I don't think they're conscious in there, but... anyway, it's supposed to be really hard to extract a soul. But this guy was born with or spontaneously developed or somehow figured out a shortcut to the whole process. So the market is getting flooded with torture-batteries and ECUs are getting flooded with vegetables. And families are winding up with loved ones who are as good as dead, without having any idea why this happened to them. Dozens of them have been taken off life support in the past few months. Half these souls have no body to return to. And no, I can't fix it. At least not yet,” he sighed again. “I was hoping once I found him, I could somehow get the secret out of him or force him to put them back, or... maybe I thought if I killed him it'd reverse the effect. He needs killing, either way.”

Titus's eye widened as a thought struck him and he looked Evan in the eye for the first time since he'd started the story. Evan realized what he was thinking and looked down at the tattoo on his left arm, flexing his fingers.

“If you can take people's powers after they die...”

“...then we can save these people.”

Titus put a hand over his mouth and for a moment Evan thought he saw his eye well up.

“I'm in,” Evan said, a sense of righteous purpose welling in his heart. “I don't really know what the universe wants, but I doubt... I know it's not this. We'll find him, we'll stop him, and we'll save as many of these people as we can.”

“...thanks,” Titus mumbled behind his hand. He swallowed hard, then seemed to come back to himself. “We're back to square one, though.”

“You said you could dowse? Like, for real?”

“Yes, for real. I can find things and people with the pendulum method. It's handy for tracking down bounties.”

“Why don't you dowse Moreno?”

“Why didn't I think of that?!” Titus said incredulously, smacking his forehead. “Because he's warded. He's not magic himself, but he's collected enough gear through his career that my normal methods don't work.”

Evan rubbed his chin. “What if we used an abnormal method?”

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

An hour later, they were in the RV. Titus was poring over the collection of Evan's notes and the strange papers he'd bought from Delmann's shop. Evan was very carefully slicing a strip of skin from his own ankle up all the way up his leg. The Guiding Light—the Finder's Follysat on the table between them, filled with fresh blood.

“Even if this works, he's going to know we're coming,” Titus muttered, engrossed in the pages. “Remember what I said?”

“That's why we're not going to look for him,” Evan said, adjusting his grip on the potato peeler. “I don't know how we'd even write his name. Can you read that, by the way?”

“Kind of. This is... most of this is written in, like, arcane pidgin. Who compiled these notes?”

“I did, I think.”

“You think?”

“Oh yeah, I forgot to clarify on that. Apparently a couple months ago, before the ritual, I drilled a hole in my own brain to erase some kind of very dangerous memory.”

“You what.”

“That's not a metaphor or anything. Really did it. I could show you the video.”

“I'll pass. So you don't remember where this came from?” Titus shook the Book of Fate at him.

“Nope.”

“Jesus shit, do you have any idea--”

“How reckless that was? Yeah, yeah, I'm still here and I'm the answer to your fuckin' prayers, aren't I?” Evan gave a whoop as the peeling skin reached his thigh. “Got it this time!” he said cheerfully, snipping the flesh-ribbon off with scissors.

“God, that's so fucking gross. Anyway, you haven't explained how we're going to use that thing to find Moreno.”

“We don't set it to look for him. We look for somewhere he's been. Maybe the last place he slept. Do you think you can describe him well enough in that language for it to work?”

Titus looked like he might actually be impressed, but he hid it well. “Yeah, probably.”

“Good. I've got a dictionary I've put together on that tablet next to you, but I'm not sure how accurate it is. Maybe it'll help?”

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

Two hours later, they had it.

Find where a man born between the 27th and 28th north parallels during a new moon under the sign of capricorn with black hair and green eyes who has killed at least 10 people slept in the past week.

They really had to squeeze the letters in, but when Evan put a flame to the wick, it sprung to life, wavered for a moment, and then pointed east. Both men cheered. Evan threw Titus the keys.

“Drive! Drive north until I tell you otherwise!”

While Titus started the engine, Evan spread a map of the United States on the table in front of the lamp, then produced a protractor and a notebook from a drawer. “Okay, you bastard... let's see where you've been hiding...”

It took three days—one spent driving north, one spent driving back to where they'd started, and one spent driving south. While Titus drove, Evan made meticulous notes of the flame's direction, marking angles on the map. Finally he threw the pencil down triumphantly.

“He's in Salt Lake City.”

“Well, that narrows it down a little, I guess. So what, do we just go there and hope this thing points us in the right direction?”

“Too slow,” Evan called, stepping back into what used to be his bedroom and sitting at his computer. “Now I work my magic.”

After parking, Titus walked back to look over Evan's shoulder. The half-dozen monitors on the wall were flickering between rapidly-changing pictures of faces and what appeared to be CCTV footage.

“What is this?”

“This,” Evan said with dramatic pride, “is Blaccat. Facial recognition algorithms that the CIA wishesit had. I actually started working on it years ago before I thought about the implications of it, but I shelved it. I figured since I may be needing to, uh...”

“Be Batman?”

“...yeah...that I should get back to work on it. Right now it's comparing faces to the description you gave me and cycling through every damn security camera in the city looking for it.”

“How illegal is this?”

“Soooooo illegal.”

“Oh, hey, can you get into police department records?”

“Does the Pope shit in the woods?”

“See if you can get into the Las Vegas mugshots from... February 2019. Run your face-recognition thingy there.”

“Alright.... and... is that our boy?”

A handsome Latino man in his early 30s with shoulder-length jet-black hair and piercing green eyes stared at them from over a booking clipboard.

“That's him,” Titus breathed.

“Perfect! Now I just have to feed that into... wow.” Evan made a gesture and a black and white video popped up on the biggest monitor. The man in the mugshot was walking along the street, flanked by a short stocky man in bandanna and a lanky man with the ugliest white-boy dreads Evan had ever seen.

“That's him! Where is that? When is that?”

Evan grinned up at Titus. “That's live. I can track him and put us at the nearest intersection.”

Titus smiled, eye overbright, and began breathing heavily through his nose. “We got him.”

Evan met his eye and nodded. “Let's get him.”

[robininthelabyrinth]

continuation of Star Wars Wangxian AU - on ao3 or tumblr

-

The way of the Sith is the dyad, the rule of two: always two, no more, no less.

A master and an apprentice – one to represent the allure of the Dark Side of the Force, the other to serve as the baited, walking willingly into a trap. A pair of magnets, the moth and the flame; without each other, they were incomplete, unstable, and only together could they be considered complete.

Perhaps, Lan Wangji reflects, he should have considered this fundamental precept more thoroughly.

Certainly earlier.

If he had thought about it earlier, he could have taken steps, measures, something. Anything, really, as long as it wasn’t…

“Hey, Master! You’re back! Did you have a nice trip? Kill lots of people?”

…this.

“No,” Lan Wangji said, in the tones of one who knew suffering. The Dark Side rippled around him, thickening as he poured his frustration and annoyance into it – a complaint shared with the abyss, in a world where rage and despair only made the abyss stronger. “No deaths.”

The Sarlacc didn’t count.

Anyway, Wei Wuxian had been the one to kill it in the end, in order to enable them to escape. He’d almost looked like he’d felt bad about it, too.

Silly fool, Lan Wangji thought with far too much affection.

Though, speaking of silly fools...

Xue Yang grinned at him, his little tiger tooth making the otherwise vicious expression significantly less intimidating. 

Lan Wangji had observed that fact early in their acquaintance, and had resolved never to tell Xue Yang so as to let him continue to be frustrated by the apparently inexplicable fact that people never seemed to take him seriously at first glance. If Xue Yang ever figured it out and confronted him about it, he could even theoretically, at a stretch, justify it as additional Dark Side training.

“Sounds like a wasted trip, then,” he said. “I killed five.”

Lan Wangji met his gaze with a steady one of his own. “I do not recall instructing you to go on a mission.”

“Aww, but Master –”

Lan Wangji was newer to the Dark Side of the Force than Xue Yang, but he had the rigorous training of the Cloud Recesses behind him: he did not even need to reach out deliberately through the Force to oppress Xue Yang, driving him to his knees.

“It was a continuation of an earlier mission, Master! I wouldn’t disobey you intentionally –”

Lan Wangji released him. “Of course you would.”

Xue Yang looked up at him, grin back on his face. “Well, yeah. But not that obviously. I wouldn’t admit it to your face.”

He would, if he thought he could get away with it, and Lan Wangji permitted a look of skepticism to cross his face, though he did not comment aloud. 

“What mission?” he asked instead. Knowing Xue Yang as he did, there were very few missions that he had given in which murder was permissible, much less multiple murders. They were trying to keep a low profile, after all.

Xue Yang bounced to his feet. “I invaded another Hutt palace!” he announced gleefully, his eyes shining like stars. “Dressed up as a bounty hunter and everything!”

Xue Yang had once been a slave on a planet controlled by the Hutts, a dirty sandy place with little compassion for the young and none for the weak – and Xue Yang had been both. He had been bartered from one master to another until one careless owner had crushed his hand and his spirit at the same time, rendering him even more useless and condemning him to a terrible fate. No one wanted damaged goods, no one but those who wanted to break them further.

How Xue Yang went from that to being the apprentice of a self-styled Sith Lord, Lan Wangji was unsure beyond a basic understanding that Xue Yang had somehow risen up from his dire circumstances to massacre the entire clan of that particular owner. They had met only when Xue Yang was already in the midst of his training, a slightly gawky teenage delinquent who’d long ago learned that murder was the first, best, and only answer to all of his problems.

He’d tried to kill Lan Wangji, of course.

The circumstances had been admittedly been rather unusual. The Sith tradition called for dyads, a master and an apprentice in each set (though of course there could be more than one set of Sith, though rarely if ever on a level or in an area where they could challenge each other); the typical way of things for the Sith was that the apprentice struck down the master, rising to take on an apprentice of his own, or that the master tired of the apprentice and lured another promising would-be apprentice into Falling, with the typical test of a new apprentice being the slaughter of the old one.

Lan Wangji was strikingly idiosyncratic in that he had Fallen entirely on his own, without a master to guide him to the Dark Side. 

This did not mean he was without knowledge: the Lan sect, which prized learning, of course had a rich collection of treatises on what the Dark Side entailed, although they were meant to be read as warnings rather than guides. After he had had the Force vision of that terrible future, the future he would Fall to the Dark Side, had Fallen, rather than permit to take place, Lan Wangji had stolen several before departing the Cloud Recesses.

It was little surprise, then, that Xue Yang’s old master had put such effort into recruiting Lan Wangji as his own apprentice once he had discovered him.

Lan Wangji had had no patience for such nonsense. Rather than slaughter Xue Yang, who had clearly been incited against him, he had followed the traces back to their origin and killed the Sith master that Xue Yang followed instead.

Unfortunately, per the rule of two, that left Xue Yang without a master and Lan Wangji with the horrible realization that would-be Sith masters would be crawling out of the woodwork to attack him on a regular basis if he didn’t put himself in a dyad at once to prevent it. In the interest of not being harassed, and thereby distracted from his plans, he had recruited Xue Yang as his own apprentice, skipping the apprentice step entirely and becoming a master.

Perhaps that was why Wei Wuxian had called him a Sith lord, he mused. Wei Wuxian was sensitive to the Force, talented in it almost to extremes; maybe he could tell that Lan Wangji was in a position of dominance, rather than growth.

“ – it was great. Even with all the warnings from previous incidents, they were so arrogant, thinking it would never happen to them. Rotten slugs! The leader had a rancor in the dungeon under his throne, too; the thing was kept half-starved so that it’d turn on anyone that got dropped into its nest – wretched little space, I could barely move, much less a rancor –”

“I take it from your explanation that we now own a rancor,” Lan Wangji said, feeling somewhat pained.

Pained, but also gratified: he had been working on teaching Xue Yang the concept of empathy, reasoning that the truly psychopathic would never truly be able to connect with the rage, suffering, and pain that powered the Dark Side of the Force.

Only once Xue Yang understood love, understood it and lost it, could he truly understand the Dark Side as Lan Wangji did.

A pet was a good start.

“Uh, maybe? I mean, rancors are from Dathomir, which is pretty steeped in the Dark Side, so it’s almost like they’re a natural ally of the Sith –”

Rancors were semi-sentient five-meter tall reptiles that resembled boulders, with armored hides that could resist blasters and even light sabers at times, and while it was true that their home planet was rich in the Dark Side, home of assassins and Nightkin and murderers of all sorts, rancors themselves were actually quite friendly and non-combative as a general rule.

Not that Xue Yang knew that. 

“You will care for it yourself, without disturbing me,” Lan Wangji instructed, not wanting Xue Yang to dwell too long on whether or not what he had done was appropriate. Some people could only be coaxed, not coerced; Xue Yang’s former master had very nearly ruined him, teaching him all the wrong lessons about divesting oneself of emotions (the Sith way, of course: no emotions but hate) without any of the necessary context, and any future education needed to done cautiously to avoid Xue Yang becoming utterly consumed by the abyss, capable of nothing but lashing out, a rabid dog in need of being put down.

Lan Wangji was not in the market for another Sith apprentice.

Xue Yang, at least, was easy to manage: as long as he was permitted to vent his more murderous inclinations in the way he liked the most, pursuing the vile Hutt clan wherever they had set up their gangster dens full of corruption and rot, his attempts to overthrow Lan Wangji were half-hearted and disinterested, and the worst Lan Wangji would need to put up with was a bit of back talk.

“Of course,” Xue Yang said, grinning with teeth. “Wouldn’t want to keep you from your boy, would we?”

…not that the back talk wasn’t annoying.

“You are not permitted to speak of him,” Lan Wangji said coldly, but that never worked for very long. Xue Yang was an extremely disrespectful apprentice, although Lan Wangji supposed it was his own fault for rejecting the rigid hierarchy of the traditional master-apprentice relationship – of the entire concept of the Sith lord and the classist structure generally associated with it – and encouraging Xue Yang to similarly reject such things in favor of the anarchy of self-determination. “He is not yours to even think of.”

Perhaps a wiser man might refuse to let Xue Yang even know of such a weakness, but Lan Wangji was moderately sure that in an even fight – or even an uneven one – Wei Wuxian would have no difficulty putting Lan Wangji’s unruly, unwanted apprentice in his place.

“Yeah, yeah,” Xue Yang laughed. “I know: hands off, no touching. I still don’t get it. What’s so great about this one guy? The universe is full of people, even force-sensitives; if you’re so hung up on having a Jedi, why not go find one that’s a little more compromising?”

Because there is no one else like Wei Ying. There will never be anyone else for me, not ever – only him.

“One day you will meet someone who moves you,” Lan Wangji said placidly, a touch of his old talent for Force visions shimmering in his soul in confirmation of the dimly uncertain future. “And we will have this conversation again, when at last you understand.”

“Sure,” Xue Yang said, clearly disbelieving. “Whatever. Let me tell you about these two bounty hunters I met on my trip – a matched set, one in white and one in black - fuck, they were so annoying, you wouldn’t even believe –”

[ichigo-daifuku]

See No Evil, Hear No Evil, Speak No Evil [1]

Fandom: Shall We Date?: Obey Me! Pairing: Diavolo/F!Reader Genre: Soulmate AU, Fake Relationship (?), Misunderstandings, Fluff, Angst

Synopsis: During a confrontation between Diavolo and a certain witch who harbors unrequited feelings for him, he declares his intention to ask you to stand beside him in reigning over the Devildom someday. You conclude only one logical explanation for the insanity he uttered: this is his way of discouraging the witch from being so persistent. Although clueless, you play along and become ‘lovers’ with him.

Inevitably, your existing attraction for Diavolo grows, but the distinction between truth and lies, the crisscrossed lines of the right and the wrong, and the question of what’s real and what isn’t, begin to plague your mind and stir up trouble for your relationship with him with each passing day.

Entangled within the woven threads of soulmates and a royal prophecy, this is the story of the Demon Prince and his future Queen: you.

1 | 2 | 3 Chapter 1: See No Evil Word Count: 5k

A soulmark was an extreme rarity in the human world, a one in a million blessing the lucky ones were bestowed with. You knew no one who possessed one but were acquainted with many who were enamored by it and longed to receive such a privilege. A strange fascination enveloped the world whenever it was mentioned; with romance, fate, and destiny being constant subjects of both fiction and nonfiction works and media. The certainty of someone out there meant especially for you, to have and to hold, appealed to the majority. 

You were a part of the minority.

From the very first time you had learned of the idea, one thing has struck you clearly: rather than a blessing, soulmarks were a curse. To have a predetermined person you were supposed to spend the rest of your life with was the universe’s way of taking away your free will. The notion alone was suffocating. Nevertheless, while you wanted nothing to do with this system, fate had a funny and sadistic way of doing things.

On the night of your eighteenth birthday, the telltale sign of the burning sensation on your spine was all you needed to suspect a soulmark had emerged on your skin. Despite this, you convinced yourself you were wrong. It was rare, and there was no way you would be gifted with such a thing, especially since you had expressed a clear dislike for it. In an attempt to crush your worries, you marched to the vanity in the corner of your room and sat on the stool with your back on the mirror. You raised your shirt halfway and turned your head to peek. Above the hem, the tip of an ink-like marking, which hadn’t existed before, rested. The shock and horror of the sight drove your fingers to tremble and release the fabric, your eyes wide as you turned away. The exposed portion had been too little, but you were certain, imprinted on your spine was the lifelong sentence you despised—a soulmark.

You were the master of your own fate, and no soulmark could tell you otherwise. As more anger and resentment bubbled inside you, you decided that for the rest of your life, ignorance would be bliss. With this resolve, you stood, walked away, and pretended this fiasco never happened. Whatever it was that rested on your back, you vowed to never look at and considered to never exist. When somebody asked you if you had a soulmark, the prospect of the look of wonder they would give you made you want to roll your eyes and scoff, and you would smile and reply with a negative. After that night, you grew out your hair and made sure it would always be long enough to add coverage to your back whenever possible. You said goodbye to clothing that required to be zipped from behind and never once more turned to see your back’s reflection in the mirror. Sometimes, when you bathed, the soap and water running over your spine caused the curiosity you’d tried to suppress for as long as possible to spike, but each time, you fought the urge and succeeded. 

It was difficult at first, but since you had put your mind into it, time passed, and you adjusted to this lifestyle. Only reminded of the truth once in a blue moon, you did everything you could to conceal your dirty little secret from everyone else.

At present, you were an exchange student at the Royal Academy of Diavolo in the Devildom. Many things you had never thought to be possible were proven otherwise by your stay in this world. One thing, though, has never changed: your secret remained one you never dared to utter.

Everything in your life was in its rightful place until a fateful day when it all began to topple over like a house of cards.

One morning, the House of Lamentation was empty save for you. Lucifer informed you a week ago about their agenda today: to entertain a special guest, a certain illustrious witch, in the Demon Lord’s Castle. You offered your assistance in welcoming whoever she was, but Lucifer shook his head and declined readily. If you didn’t know better, you’d say he had paled, but you assumed he was tired and stressed out due to the preparations of their gathering. As the witch had requested the presence of all seven of the demon brothers, you were left home alone for the weekend.

The skirt of your white dress flowed backward as you made your way to the kitchen with a skip in your steps. To avoid sweating too much, you placed your cardigan aside, tied your hair, and donned an apron. You opened the cupboards in search of ingredients for pancakes and checked the pantry for strawberries, chocolate toppings, and a new bottle of maple syrup to replace the empty one in the kitchen. Determined, you prepared yourself to make a huge batch to share with the demon brothers, and more especially for Beelzebub, later when they returned.

The sound of the doorbell piqued your interest and led you to pause from mixing the pancake batter. Three possibilities of who could be behind the door left you guessing as you washed your hands and rushed to the entrance. Most likely, it would be the Akuzon delivery man who frequented the house due to Leviathan’s online shopping addiction. If not, it would be Mammon’s debt collector who was very persistent and difficult to drive away. Or it could also be an ‘acquaintance’ of Asmodeus looking for ‘a good time’.

To your surprise, the one who was behind the door was neither of those three.

The Prince of the Devildom stood in front of you in all his glory, dressed in a red button-down shirt and black trousers. It confused you why he would be at your door at this time of the day. The demon brothers were at the castle, and you assumed he would be there as well. “Lord Diavolo? What brings you here?”

“Good morning!” Diavolo greeted, unfazed by the surprised expression on your face. “I thought I’d drop by and say hello.”

“Hello to you, too,” you replied and gave him a shy smile. “This is a pleasant surprise. Have you had breakfast yet?”

“I had to leave quite early, so I haven’t.”

“Would you like to come in and have breakfast with me? I’m cooking some human world food.”

“You don’t mind?”

“If you’re not busy, I’d appreciate the company.”

“Then, I accept.”

“Great! Please wait for me in the dining room.”

With a nod, Diavolo passed the threshold and shut the door behind him. You spun around and stepped forward, eager to finish cooking and share a meal with him. Although you received no reply from Diavolo, his footsteps were audible as he followed you. The burning sensation of his gaze caused you to glance at him from your shoulder, proven correct as his eyes shifted from your dress to your face.

“Is something wrong?” you asked.

Diavolo smiled and shook his head. “Everything’s perfect.”

“If you say so.”

The prospect of having breakfast with Diavolo left you excited. You had always enjoyed his company, and with everyone else occupied, you had a rare moment of being alone with him. It had been a while since you last dined together, and that time had been to check up on you and ask how you were liking your life as an exchange student so far. Ever since you had met him, he had been nothing but nice and well-mannered, though he did have a mischievous side that kept you on your toes. He frequently schemed of ‘fun’ activities centered on you and the demon brothers, and now, your mind would wander to him when something was suspiciously amiss.

You couldn’t deny how his sinfully good looks left you swooning when he wasn’t looking, but you weren’t naïve enough to be unaware your silly attraction to him was one-sided. It wasn’t as if you were pining for him. Even if your status as an exchange student from the human world opened up numerous possibilities for you to admire him from up close—like now—in the theoretical sense, you were only admiring him from afar. Still, as he entered the kitchen and offered to carry the trays to the dining room despite your half-hearted protests, insisting it was the least he could do, the domesticity of your interactions made butterflies float in your stomach.

“It’s delicious,” Diavolo commented. Elegantly, he sliced another portion of the pancake and took a bite. “This takes me back to the time when you cooked human world food for us during the retreat at the castle.”

“Yes, Solomon’s cooking was certainly… memorable.”

He grimaced. “Indeed.”

You chuckled and took a sip of your coffee, feeling warmth and contentment as your conversation flowed with ease.

As you and Diavolo conversed about the topic of demons in human media, with you telling him how their kind was portrayed and him debunking their inaccuracies, the front door swung open and slammed shut.

“Oh, they’re back already?” You perked up and stood, stepping out to welcome the demon brothers. 

Diavolo shook his head with a grim look in his eyes. He followed suit and faced the entrance of the dining hall, making sure his form was hiding you from sight. “No, I’m afraid it’s someone else. Please stay back, and let me handle this.”

“What are you talking about? Who could possibly be there—”

“Diavolo,” a sultry voice called.

The click-clack of high heels filled the silence as the owner of the voice entered the vicinity. Out of curiosity, you peeked from Diavolo’s shoulder and saw an attractive woman sauntering toward him, her eyes trained on his face, and a sly smile gracing her lips. She was someone you’d never encountered before. You were sure of this fact as her voice alone was remarkable, and she was even more beautiful than any of the succubi you shared classes with.

“Maddi,” Diavolo returned.

“Is that the way to greet an old friend?”

“How are you doing? All seven of the demon brothers were present at the castle. I take it they gave you a warm welcome?”

“They did, but it wasn’t warm enough,” she replied, crossing her arms. “You weren’t there.”

You had heard of her before. She was known as The Great Witch Maddi, and apparently, she was the special guest at the Demon Lord’s Castle. If that were the case, then why was she here, and where were the demon brothers who were tasked to welcome her?

Diavolo shook his head, retaining his cordial demeanor. “I have more important matters to attend to.”

“Is that so?” she queried, her voice dripping with disdain and amusement. “Anyway, I’m curious why you chose Solomon over dear old me for the exchange program. He’s a shady one, isn’t he?”

And you’re not? You bit back the sarcastic retort and opted to step forward to defend your friend. “Solomon is a powerful wizard who has made pacts with seventy-two demons, making him a suitable candidate and choice for the exchange program.”

Maddi’s eyebrows shot up in irritation as she sent a spiteful glance your way, her lips curving into a sneer. “Oh, who might this be? A human?”

Smiling, you held your head high and opened your mouth to introduce yourself. “Yes, I am—”

“Nevermind Solomon. You chose this plain and regular human over me?” Maddi asked, pointing her index finger in your direction, her tone condescending and accusatory.

For some reason, it was evident she wasn’t referring to the exchange program exclusively any longer. Was she Diavolo’s ex-lover? From the three minutes you had spent in her presence, it was easy to see how Maddi was so used to getting her way that it upset her whenever it didn’t happen. Truthfully, you couldn’t imagine Diavolo cozying up with someone like her. Since she had arrived, Diavolo has been trying his best not to look like he swallowed something unpleasant, even if the meal you served him was anything but. You’d never seen him this way before. He disliked her, which was strange because Diavolo liked everyone; he was one of the most pleasant beings you had met among the three worlds.

“It would be best for you to watch your tone, Maddi.” Diavolo placed an arm around you and stroked your clothed skin with his thumb comfortingly. “She’s not just any human.”

“Don’t joke around, unless…” Maddi narrowed her eyes, gritting her teeth. “Don’t tell me… Is it her? The one the prophecy is talking about?”

Prophecy? What prophecy?

The atmosphere was tense. You were in the dark about what was happening, but you understood bits and pieces from their exchange. As your mind wandered with speculations, Diavolo’s response almost made you choke on your spit.

“Yes,” he confirmed proudly.

“It can’t be! It was supposed to be me!” Maddi cried out. “No, no, no!”

“There’s nothing you can do about it,” you finally spoke up, making your statement as vague as possible to conceal your cluelessness.

“Shut up!”

You snapped, “You barge in my home, talk badly about my friend, and now, you’re telling me to shut up?”

“Home? This is the House of Lamentation.”

“I know. I live here.”

Diavolo stepped forward in an attempt to keep Maddi away from you. “Maddi, stop it this instant.” 

Maddi shook her head. “Diavolo, there must be a mistake—”

“This is hardly the time and place for it, but I’ve been thinking about it for a long time, and now, I’m certain she’s the one in the prophecy,” Diavolo stated. He shot a fond smile your way and dropped the bomb on Maddi… and you. “She’s going to be the future Queen of the Devildom… if she accepts, that is.”

Eyes wide, you took a moment to steady yourself, taken aback.

What in the Devildom is he talking about?

There was only one logical conclusion for the insanity he uttered. It was obvious how Maddi had unrequited feelings for Diavolo, and this had to be his way of stopping her from being so assertive. If it would help Diavolo, of course, you’d be willing to do it, you would play along.

Sighing, you looked at him with a gentle smile and said, “Of course, I would accept.”

“You would?” Diavolo’s gaze shifted back to you, unable to mask his surprise at your agreement, hopeful. Since you had figured out his game, you caught the double meaning in his words, and you hoped he had caught yours as well.

You nodded. “Yes.”

“I won’t let you!” Maddi interjected. She stepped forward and raised her hand to your direction, a glow over the hollow of her palm as she opened her mouth to say the incantation to hex you, or worse, put a lifelong curse on you.

You shut your eyes and braced yourself for the impact, but before Maddi could do anything harmful, Diavolo encircled her outstretched wrist in a firm grasp. “I’ll think twice before doing that if I were you.”

Slowly, you opened your eyes. You were welcomed by the rare sight of Diavolo’s serious, livid expression, leaving your breath caught in your throat. 

“I hate you!” Maddi spat, her eyes full of scorn and unshed tears as she glared at you. She stormed off and slammed the door, leaving the two of you speechless.

At long last, quietness filled the room once again. In shock, you stared at the spot Maddi had occupied and processed what had happened until Diavolo tucked a stray strand of hair behind your ear and caught your attention.

He sighed. “I apologize for her behavior.”

“There’s no need for you to apologize. It’s not something you have control over.”

“I appreciate you saying that,” he replied with a small smile forming on his lips. “Did you mean it? You’re okay with this?”

You blinked. From what you had witnessed, Maddi was a handful. A possibility she wouldn’t let what happened slide and come back to haunt you was looming over your head. You were already on her hit list, and frankly, it would do you no harm to continue playing along with Diavolo’s charade. It would keep you safe, and it would help him continue driving her off. There were only a few months left until the exchange program was over. Your arrangement would end by then. There was nothing for you to lose.

“Sure.”

The demon brothers, who rushed home to stop whatever Maddi had plotted, arrived fifteen minutes too late. You and Diavolo were having the last of your coffee by the time they barged inside the House of Lamentation. Promptly, Diavolo and Lucifer had a meeting in the study room concerning the situation with Maddi. As for the rest of the demon brothers, they fawned over you and made sure you were unharmed while those who had the unfortunate luck of encountering Maddi prior to this mess shared accounts of their experience. The conversation soon shifted to all of them ranting about Maddi’s cunning behavior during her escape from the Demon Lord’s Castle. Even though none of them said it, they felt terrible for being unable to fulfill Diavolo’s request which resulted in putting you in unnecessary danger. You assured them you were fine, sneaking glances at the direction of the study room from time to time.

After half an hour, Diavolo and Lucifer concluded their meeting.

“Let’s continue this discussion tomorrow,” Lucifer said as the two of them emerged from the study room.

Diavolo nodded. “Yes, let’s meet at the Student Council Room after class.” 

You wondered about the specifics of their discussion, but before you could dwell on the thought, Lucifer turned to you and requested, “Will you accompany Diavolo to the door?”

“Of course.”

“See you all tomorrow,” Diavolo told everyone, gesturing for you to lead the way. “Let’s go.”

In comfortable silence, you walked beside Diavolo along the hallway. Your encounter with Maddi replayed inside your head, and though every word she had said screamed her dislike for you, a tiny part of you felt terrible for her and the pain of her rejection. She must have liked Diavolo a lot—loved him, even—but the feeling wasn’t mutual. From your perspective, that sounded awful. 

You halted your steps once you reached the entrance, addressing him as he pushed the door open. “Have a safe trip home. Thank you for today, Lord Diavolo.”

He paused and regarded you with amusement. “Just ‘Diavolo’ is fine. Call me by my name.”

“Okay.” You nodded. “Diavolo.”

“Good girl,” he said, tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear and bidding you goodbye.

The rest of the day passed by in a blur. After excusing yourself, you went straight to your room and plopped down on your bed, the morning’s events still occupying your mind. With how trivial the day had begun, you never expected the circumstances to progress this way. Your thoughts inevitably wandered to Diavolo, the serious expression you had witnessed from him burned in your memory. Somehow, you felt closer to him than you had ever been because of this experience. As the tenderness in his voice and touch from your last interaction left you restless, you reminded yourself this was all for show, and you had a new challenge ahead of you.

When Beelzebub knocked on your door to summon you for dinner, a part of you was unsettled for the questions the demon brothers would ask you about Diavolo. After everyone arrived and began eating, Lucifer relayed what happened with Maddi first and foremost, and then, revealed the ‘truth’ about you. He stated how Diavolo confirmed this morning that you were the one in the prophecy, the prospective Queen of the Devildom. 

“Haha! Ya tryin’ to be a joker, Lucifer? C’mon anyone can do better than that!” Mammon laughed at Lucifer’s ‘poor attempt at humor’ and downed his lemon juice in one go.

“If anyone here is a joke, it’s you, Mammon,” Lucifer said, shooting his younger brother’s idea down with a fierce glare. 

“Wh…? No way! You’re... You’re actually serious?”

Lucifer pinched the bridge of his nose. “We’ve been having this conversation for fifteen minutes. How many times do I have to tell you?”

“In any case,” Leviathan interjected, sounding excited, “this is even better than the plot of I’m A Succubus Who Fell In Love With Heaven’s Number One Angel! What a turn of events… and posted!”

Satan sighed, regarding Leviathan with a look of exasperation. “Did you really need to make a social media update?”

“Duh,” Leviathan replied, typing away his next post.

Beelzebub, who had been busy eating this whole time, paused and swallowed a bite of steak, peering at your face worriedly from beside you. “Hey, will he make you happy?”

“He better,” Belphegor stated with narrowed eyes, both sleepy and threatening, “or else…”

“To be honest with you, I am kinda worried,” you admitted, finally speaking up. “Not about Diavolo, though, but…”

“If it’s Maddi you’re worried about, say one word, and she’s going to be taken care of, I assure you,” Satan said.

“Breaking News: Satan has just made a threat against The Great Witch Maddi. How scary the Avatar of Wrath is…” Leviathan commented, “and posted!”

Satan attempted to snatch Leviathan’s phone but failed. “Give me that!”

Although menacing, the words of comfort Satan offered you made you chuckle. “Thanks, Satan.”

“Of course.” Satan sent you a firm nod and went back to trying to get Leviathan’s phone.

“Well?” Asmodeus prodded from the other side of the table, placing his eating utensils down to fold his fingers.

“What is it, Asmo?” you asked.

“What are you waiting for? Spill the beans!”

“Don’t. I’ll eat them instead—”

“Not those beans, Beel.” Asmodeus shook his head and made a show of clapping his hands. “I’m talking about Lord Diavolo!”

Spill the beans about Diavolo? From what you had gathered from Lucifer and Mammon’s conversation, Diavolo told none of them, not even Lucifer, of the true nature of your charade. You trusted his decision, but while you kept your composure on the outside, internally, you began to panic. Did Asmodeus suspect something?

You cleared your throat and took a sip of your drink, feigning nonchalance as you asked with caution. “What about him?”

“Come on, you know what I’m talking about. Have you done it with him? Is he good in bed—no, scratch that—how good is he in bed? Does he prefer it rough or gentle? Which position is his favorite? How big is his—”

“Not another word, Asmodeus,” Lucifer’s booming voice demanded everyone’s attention, and the chatter and the sound of cutlery ceased at once. “Not. Another. Word.”

Asmodeus frowned but relented, picking up his utensils to continue eating his meal.

You had no idea how to answer the question Asmodeus posed, and you couldn’t help but let out a sigh of relief as the subject was shut down before it could even begin, silently thanking Lucifer’s aversion to the topic for saving you from responding.

The conversation shifted to more trivial matters, all of which you were more than happy to participate in, as long as none of them concerned you and Diavolo. Soon, you were laughing with everyone again. The mood was lighter, and the food was more enjoyable. Once dinner ended, you returned to your bedroom and reveled in the fact you survived the whole ordeal. No one but you knew the truth about your situation with Diavolo. The less who knew, the less complicated it was. It was best to keep it that way.

After you took your cardigan off and hung it aside, you began your routine for the night, thankful for the mundane task to keep your mind off things. As you changed into your pajamas, the fabric running over your spine sent a conscious feeling of your soulmark all over you, but as always, it didn’t matter. You fought the urge away, and your secret remained safe, even from you.

Turning the lights off, you laid in bed and stared into the abstract patterns in the ceiling, adding one more secret to those you had to keep.

The next day, the news of the confrontation Diavolo, Maddi, and you had at the House of Lamentation spread like wildfire all over the academy. Succubi sent impressed—some, envious—glances your way while incubi followed your form with unrepressed interest as you made your way to your classes. A few demons shook your hand and introduced themselves when you went to the cafeteria to eat lunch while a few others glanced at you with fear, much to your confusion. The scrutiny in their gazes was nothing new, but the way it increased tenfold had you on the edge all day. The moment Seductive Speechcraft, which was your final class for the day, was dismissed, you bolted out of the classroom at once, sighing when you reached the first floor.

What a day, you thought.

As you had haphazardly put them on, you fixed the straps of your backpack on your shoulders and slowed your pace as you made your way to the exit. Once you reached the courtyard, however, to your surprise and panic, Diavolo was making his way to you, an exhausted Lucifer in tow.

A glance around the area made it seem as if no one was around, but you knew better. With the way everyone had been watching you like a hawk since you stepped inside the campus this morning, the demons interested in your affair with the Prince of the Devildom were present but hiding from plain sight.

“There you are,” Diavolo said, his tone elated and satisfied. He turned to Lucifer and addressed him, “I’ll take it from here. Thank you very much for your assistance, Lucifer.”

“You’re welcome.” Lucifer nodded, shooting an exasperated glance at you and Diavolo. “Seriously, it’s only been a day, and the two of you are already such a handful…”

With a shake of his head, Lucifer left the two of you to your devices and climbed the staircase on the way to the Student Council Room.

As soon as Lucifer was out of sight, Diavolo stepped closer to you and moved to give you the item he was holding. “Here.”

“For me?”

“Yes.”

You outstretched your hands and accepted his gift: a budding Mirage Flower in a little crimson pot with a golden ribbon tied around its center. Colorful iridescent petals glimmered in the most enchanting way you had ever witnessed, and you took a moment to appreciate their beauty. Every time you happened to see this flower, that time when you and the brothers were all worried about a ‘thief’ running around in the Devildom and stealing this plant, valuable and an endangered species, from the Western Forest would pop inside your mind. The ‘thief’ turned out to be Diavolo, who had been sneaking into the forest and moving the flowers to the academy in hopes they could be admired by the denizens in this world better. It had given you and the brothers a shock when you found out, but all in all, it was a funny memory to look back on.

However, as you held the flower pot in your palm, where it fit perfectly, another thought struck you and led you to blurt out, “H-Hold on. Isn’t this illegal?”

Diavolo let out a booming laugh, his head thrown back and his hand over his stomach, neither confirming nor denying your assumption.

“Diavolo…” You twirled the end of the ribbon with your index finger, truly questioning the legality of his gift.

“You forget,” Diavolo said as he smiled mischievously, “that I’m the Prince of the Devildom.”

“Even so. Is it really okay for me to have a Mirage Flower?”

“Of course.” He nodded, a finger reaching out to touch the flower bud gently. “I wanted something unique to be the first flower I would give to you, and I know you’ll take care of it. Besides, you’re a thousand times more special than any Mirage Flower in the Devildom.”

Right. You were supposed to be the future Queen of the Devildom.

It would’ve been such a shame if the Mirage Flower had been plucked and left to wilt in time. This flower was too precious for such treatment. You were grateful for Diavolo’s foresight, preferring to receive such a special flower this way. As you warmed up to his gift, you thought of the spots you could place it in once you arrived home and decided you’d put it on your windowsill and water it as needed. “Thank you. It’s really beautiful. I promise to take very good care of it.”

“It’s my pleasure,” Diavolo said, one of his hands reaching out to stroke your hair and cup your cheek. His golden eyes gazed straight at your own intently, and you couldn’t find it in you to look away.“I’m looking forward to this weekend.”

Confused, you cocked your head to the side, unintentionally leaning into his touch. “Why? What’s going on this weekend?”

Diavolo took your free hand in his and kissed the back of it, his warm lips leaving a tingling sensation in their wake. “Our first date.”

Several gasps erupted from the students hiding from various spots around you, and a few loud squeals followed. A camera flashed from a photographer from the RAD Newspaper Club who had stumbled upon the scene by accident, documenting this moment for future reference. At this point, everyone was done trying to conceal their voices, the scene in front of them too interesting to ignore, sparking numerous conversations among them. You overlooked the ruckus, your attention solely focused on the man in front of you, your heart beating like a drum as you smiled shyly.

“I’m looking forward to it, too.”

Notes: As of writing, we have yet to see how Maddi is truly like in canon.

Thank you for reading! This is a work in progress. I’d love to know your thoughts on the story so far if you’re keen on sharing them. (◍•ᴗ•◍)✧*。

See No Evil, Hear No Evil, Speak No Evil

Obey Me! Masterlist | Main Masterlist

[whump-town]

Professors

No one asked for more of this AU and, truthfully, I don’t even know why I keep writing it. We all know I have other things to be doing. The Cancer AU, the PowerPoint, and other fics left unfinished. Yet, here I am offering garbage

WARNING FOR Reid whump, implied abuse

Growing up, Spencer Reid relished his escapism. Spending hours, days even, cooped into the smallest holes of his mother’s house with nothing but books and the ability to lose track of time and space. More importantly, his ability to ignore the obvious. Here it did not matter that his mother thought he was a spy. That she’d slapped him so hard he’d felt his teeth smack together and his eyes shake in their sockets. 

Now, he’s a little too old for that. Escaping is so much harder to do. 

“Reid?”

The lights of his office are off, the door shut firmly behind him. With every ounce of his concentration on steading his ataxic gait and forcing his trembling hands around the doorknob of his office, he would have remembered to lock the door on his way in. Unfortunately, his days of complete solitude are behind him. A toll often paid for in order to acquire friends. His fellow professors of-- whatever it is they all teach. 

“Spencer--” Hotch. Thank god. “I’m going to come in okay?”

Now, Reid can remember the distinct tap of Hotch’s approaching figure. Closing his eyes and pushing his head further into his couch, Reid hears the door open. Tap. Hotch’s old shoes scuffing across the unforgivingly rough carpet. Tap, more muffled now. One more half-raised step and the sound of the real, thick wood of Hotch’s cane being hooked over the arm of the plastic chair painted to look wooden to his left. 

“What can I do?”

Reid doesn’t answer, just keeps his sweaty palms pressing into his ears. If he moves, he’s certain that his body will explode. Little bits of genius coating all for walls. His books covered in gore. Another mess. 

“You haven’t been sleeping.”

Hard, calloused fingers wrap around the back of his neck. The tips digging into the stiffened muscles until Reid lets out a whimper. Then, with certainty and reflexive habit, one hand remains kneading the muscles until they ease while the other plants itself firmly on his flank. Stilling his body. Well, to be as still as Reid can. 

His body has been out of his control since he was nine. The maternal drive had not been enough to protect him. For years, his mother had been distracted with work and by his father. She made time for him amidst the books but he was spared her anger and confusion. Until his father left and she could no longer work reliably. Then, one night in a fit of paranoia, his mother had hit him. She’d hit him so hard that no amount of genius had sparred him.

His cerebellum is damaged. 

Garcia could tell you far more about the reasoning behind how he is now. He can too but it’s far too taxing to recount each of his bodily flaws. His disabilities. 

Their silence is interrupted by a soft knock at the door and peaking out from under the suit jacket Reid hadn’t realized Hotch had tucked around him, he can see Emily. Her dark eyes flash twice over the scene before her and immediately she sinks. That’s what he loves most about her. In all her hardness, Emily is easily one of the kindest people he’s ever met.

Raised by her mother’s hip, Emily had known too much about politics and little of the reflexive kindness of those around her. To be born good and to choose good is always a rewarded ideology. People like Penelope Garcia and Derek Morgan. Born good, surrounded by good, and only learning of the evil much later are fantastic people. They have their own struggles but they overcame them. To Reid, there is nothing more interesting than those surrounded by the cold curling fingers of the world but come out good. Emily wasn’t hugged as a child. Praise came at the expense of crushing her peers and never knowing what a good friend was. Hotch was raised by two abusive, domineering parents. For them to choose kindness, to willingly soften their edges is… it’s commendable. 

But maybe that’s all the pointless rambling of a book nerd. 

“Que pasa?” Spanish has always lent itself to be Emily’s most practice language. Perhaps, it has to do with the softened curls and rolls of the language. It’s never sounded rough, coarse coming out of her mouth. She sounds like the women who raised her. The maids who cleaned gravel out of her knees when she fell in the driveway and the calloused fingertips that ran under her eyes to quickly wipe her tears. 

With a soft, tsks Emily comes into the room. “Get off the floor,” she whispers to Hotch. His long spider-like legs curled every which way. She has no way of being able to tell how he’s been on the floor but she knows any length of time will come with repercussions. “If you can,” there is an emphasis on his abilities. Not to push himself. “Get Penelope-- wait…” She realizes a moment too soon that won’t work. “She’s got a class. I need you to get Derek.” 

Garcia is like their shady doctor. She went through all the training-- undergraduate, medical school, and interned. After a bit though, she realized that stitches, sutures, and contusions were not in fact something she loved. Not even a little. So, she went to computers. A huge financial burden to take on but that was her calling. Now she has tenure and spends her time balancing JJ’s art classes with her own class on programming. 

Derek is an actual doctor but he only practice theoretical medicine. Too busy teaching know-it-all medical school students about ethics. Reid likes to joke that he’s just a philosophy professor. Being an english literature professor leaves him pretty open to any comebacks Morgan can think of in the moment. 

Slowly rising to his feet, Hotch totters. Emily’s long fingers curl around his bicep, an unspoken order to hold still for just a moment. Long enough for his labored breathing to calm back down and his back to stop aching so feverishly. “You’ll be no help hurting yourself,” she comments, releasing him. She avoids his eyes, almost flushed having been caught touching him. Stepping into his space. It’s nothing for someone else but Hotch isn’t someone like Garcia and she’s not gentle like Reid. Turning her back, she’s stops any further comment. Any looks or reciprocation of that touch. 

Hotch leans heavily into the cane curling into his right palm. The wood slick with the calmness of his hand. “I’ll be back,” he promises, feeling a sickening twist in his stomach. All too conscious of every step being measured out by the tap, tap of his cane on the cold tiled floor. 

It’s that very sound that alerts Derek to Hotch closing in. 

Unlike Reid, what ails Hotch is undetermined. People, like puzzles, are simple enough to put together with enough the edges put together. For Reid, the edge pieces are his mother’s schizophrenia, her bouts of aggression, and her love of books. From there, blossoms the genius of the youngest professor the school has ever had. His cerebral injury is accounted for by his mother’s illness. Her abuse. No matter how much Reid dances around the use of that word. Her love had taken him here, to this university and to his profound love of books. To Reid, that love, has always mattered more than the rest. 

Hotch, though, he is a man completely lacking in edges. 

What does Derek Morgan know about Aaron Hotchner? He used to work at the District Attorney’s office. There is a mark on his record but the matters of it have been expunged, he was about sixteen according to the date. Those are matter of public record. He likes orange juice better than apple juice. If someone else is making it, he takes his coffee black, but when he makes it for himself it’s a mess of gradually adding sugar and creamer until he’s content. And the cane. It’s purpose is clear. The why is more important. It’s not very typical of men not yet fifty to need mobility aides.  

The tapping stops at his open door, he doesn’t need to look up from what he’s doing to know who it is or where he is. “You’re going to royally fuck your shoulder up if you don’t start using that cane on the other side.” 

As it always does, his comment is ignored. The excuse is always the same. Hotch is left handed, he simply prefers to keep his left hand free. It’s a matter of convenience. “Reid is having an episode--” 

Pushing himself up, Derek doesn’t need to hear the rest. For a moment he does falter. Unsure if should falter back with Hotch, allowing the older man to set their pace rather than making Hotch’s slow, zombie like lurches seem exaggeratedly slowed by Derek’s easy, long pace. Deciding Reid to be what he needs to focus on he simply walks around Hotch. “Use the cane on the other side,” Derek says, as he steps on. “Or I’m going to start emailing you articles about the damage you’re doing to your body.”

Hotch huffs.

“If that doesn’t work I’ll send them to JJ and Emily.”

Hotch curses softly, “you wouldn’t.”

Morgan just smiles, jogging on down the hall, and knowing by the paced tap, tap that Hotch is coming in behind him. 

“Pretty boy.” Sinking to his knees with an ease Hotch could not afford earlier in his comfort, Morgan pushes Reid’s sweat soaked hair back from his skin. The fever and tension become immediately apparent. Reid’s brain, as genius as it is, often forgets that Reid and his body are one. Not two separate things in which one needs to be attacked to protect itself. Today, his entire body suffers with the attack. His stomach aching, brain swelling, and back in flames. His body often betrays him. 

Emily moves away from the pair, untangling her own body to stand and leave the room. Reid won’t appreciate a crowd and Morgan can handle this. Plus, she’s a coward. She doesn’t want to see him in pain any longer. 

“He’s okay.”

Emily steps out into the hall to find JJ and Hotch. Having found a seat in the hall, Hotch is failing to subtly rub at his aching side. JJ, covered in red paint, is only finding his pain as fuel to the fire. Obviously, she is taking his word for a grain of rice. 

“Emily,” JJ greets. “How is he?”

Hotch just shakes his head, leaning his head forward onto his cane. 

“Derek’s with him. He’s just having an… a moment.” Episode sounds too harsh. A thing that Reid can never be. His skeletole, looming gentleness is tender. Clammy, at times, but nothing but loving. “He just needs a moment.” None-the-less, JJ understands exactly what she means. 

But that is, in a way, simply a lie. There is nothing that can be done for Reid in these moments. blinded by pain, he still will not cave. Never, not once, has Reid ever allowed them to give him something to manage the pain. He’ll take vitamins and ibuprofen for headaches but not for the other things. Not for this. 

“Just breathe.”

All they can do is be there. Rub their fingers into the tension and hold his hand. 

[bloodfromthethorn]

Friendly Fire

Mac tries very hard not to make mistakes, because whenever he does, people always, always get hurt.  An army days fic.

Part thirteen of the July of Whump 2021 prompt challenge.

Also on AO3.

..

Despite what a lot of people seemed to believe, Mac did make mistakes. It didn’t happen all that often because he was viscerally aware that a lot of what he did was dangerous to more than just himself and that meant that you goddamn checked your working, but he wasn’t infallible. When he’d been younger, those mistakes had usually been small things, like falling out of a tree because he’d misjudged the distance between two branches or not picking up on his father’s mood quickly enough to avoid a lecture, but there had been some big blowouts too. The football field was probably the crowning example, but it wasn’t the only one.

Then he’d joined the army and been sent into the desert and suddenly the idea of making a mistake went from ‘possibly dangerous’ to ‘will almost certainly cost lives’. It was around that time that he started triple checking his working, just to be sure.

Which made it all the more horrifying when he did finally screw something up badly enough to get someone hurt. And, just in case that wasn’t punishment enough for his own stupidity and hubris, of course that someone would be Jack. Of fucking course.

..

He dug through the rubble like a man possessed, tearing open a gouge on his hand as he did so but not faltering for even a single second.

“Jack!” He didn’t dare raise his voice too high just in case any hostiles had survived the blast, but he needed his Overwatch to answer him. Since the wall had come down, he hadn’t heard a peep. “C’mon Dalton, you’re not going out like this. You do not get to die on me.”

He scrabbled for a moment against a chunk of sundried stone just a little too heavy for him to comfortably shift, then was rewarded with the smallest sliver of desert camo. More carefully, he tossed aside some of the smaller bricks, uncovering a gloved hand to go along with the arm he’d first seen. From there it was the matter of moments to clear the rest of Jack’s body, quietly thankful with each new revelation that at the very least he was still in one piece. Bruised and bloody, but whole.

And still not waking up. Maybe Mac wasn’t so relieved after all.

“Jack? Dalton? Can you hear me?” He felt for a pulse, gusting out a pained sigh when he finally found it – a little too fast for his liking, but strong all the same. “Thank god,” he breathed quietly.

There was blood around Jack’s eye from a gash on his forehead, with more dripping from a split lip, but otherwise he looked remarkably alright. No doubt his combat gear and dust coated skin was hiding a multitude of bruises and possible broken bones, but at the very least he wasn’t in danger of bleeding out. Or- well. A thought suddenly occurred to Mac and he spent the next ten seconds wrestling with Jack’s vest to get at his stomach to search for any signs of severe internal bleeding, not relaxing until his search turned up nothing more than unbroken skin.

“Okay,” he said more to himself than his unconscious partner. “We’ve got to get out of here. Stayed too long as it is.”

A glance around didn’t turn up anything he could conveniently use as a litter. He was thoroughly unwilling to leave Jack’s side while he was so defenceless, particularly when hostiles might be closing in, so that meant they were doing this the hard way. He started by untangling Jack’s rifle and making sure the safety was on before setting it carefully on the ground beside him; Jack would be giving him hell for messing with it, but if that was an argument he wanted to have then he was just damn well going to have to wake up and have it, wasn’t he?

Next came the man himself. Even though Mac was technically classified as a non-combatant, he’d still had to go through Basic with all the other recruits, so he’d done plenty of fireman’s lifts before. None of them had really prepared him for the added weight of responsibility he felt as soon as Jack was on his shoulders. He’d always considered their partnership to be two-way: Jack protected Mac and Mac protected Jack right back. It had never really felt this literal before though. Normally his protection came in the form of defusing a bomb before it went off, not bearing the man’s limp weight as they moved through hostile territory when at any minute a bullet could come their way.

But now wasn’t the time to be frozen by indecision and fear. Certainly not when he had to contend with the not inconsiderable weight of Jack and his gear, and then had to juggle his rifle in his free hand. Now was the time for action.

Without stopping to overthink it, he hitched Jack up a little higher and took off in the direction of their Humvee.

..

No doubt he made a hell of a scene pulling into camp and skidding the vehicle to a stop beside the medical tent, but by that point he was far too wound up to care. Jack hadn’t so much as stirred once, and while his breathing and heart rate were holding steady, Mac could feel his skin crawling with the awful sense that maybe something was critically wrong after all.

As soon as the Humvee came to a stop, he was on his feet and shouting, summoning the random assortment of medical staff who happened to be both in earshot and available. On the other side of the ‘road’, a handful of signalmen poked their heads out of the communications tent to see what was going on. Mac barely spared them a glance – all he cared about was getting Jack inside and to help as quickly as humanly possible and then finding somewhere quiet so he could have a breakdown in peace.

To that end, he hauled Jack back up onto his shoulders and met the medical staff halfway, breathlessly explaining what had happened. A gurney was unceremoniously shoved in front of him and he carefully tipped his charge down onto it. The second Jack was down, the staff were pulling him away, whisking him off for an examination inside. He took half a step to follow, but was immediately blocked by one of the nurses.

“Sir, are you injured?”

Mac barely spared the Private a glance, trying to push past but getting stopped by a firm hand on his chest. “No, I’m fine, but he’s my Overwatch, I have to-”

“Specialist,” the nurse said sharply, moving with him to keep him from getting past. “Your partner is getting the best care he can. If you’re not injured, you’ll need to report in. Only medical staff and patients are allowed past this point.”

A prickle-hot wave of frustration raced through Mac at being denied access to his partner, but it was almost immediately chased away by a wash of cold when he properly registered what the man had said. ‘You’ll need to report in.’ Of course that’s what he needed to do – standard protocol and all that. Theoretically he was already in violation of his orders by not having turned on his heel the instant Jack was in the hands of the medical staff, although he was pretty sure he could be forgiven in this particular instance.

But even then, he needed to report in. He had to walk up to his commanding officer and explain that because of his own stupidity and carelessness, he might just have gotten his own partner killed. Jack wasn’t well liked by the Brass, exactly, but he was certainly well respected and now Mac had to walk up to the Major and explain just how badly he’d fucked up. And then, assuming that didn’t get him transferred or demoted or fucking arrested, he was going to have to walk into the barracks filled with Jack’s friends and hope that none of them decided revenge was a dish best served hot. The Brass might not like Jack too well, but the men sure did.

Well, at least he had one thing going for him: since they were in the FOB and not the main operating base, he wouldn’t have to report directly to the Colonel. Small mercies.

“Specialist?” The nurse was saying, apparently alarmed by his sudden freeze. “Are you injured?”

“N-No,” he managed when he finally managed to find his voice again. The nurse didn’t look convinced, so he repeated himself more firmly. “No, I’m fine. You’re right, I need to report. Just- Look after him, okay?”

The nurse’s severity and concern fell away under a blanket of reassurance, his expression turning soft. “We will, don’t you worry. I’ll make sure someone lets you know when he gets moved to the ward, okay? You’ll be able to visit him then.”

Barely clinging to the present moment, all Mac could do was nod. The nurse gave him an appraising look, but whatever it was that Mac was projecting apparently passed muster because he nodded sharply and backed off, giving him one last glance before ducking into the tent and disappearing. For a long moment, Mac just stared at the spot where he’d been in the hopes that if he waited long enough, his brain might kick into gear before he had to face the Major.

Of course, it didn’t happen.

In a daze, he backed up from the entrance to the medical tent, glancing about in sudden self-awareness but finding himself mostly alone. The few people he could see appeared to be going about their days as normal, not paying him the slightest bit of attention.

Right. Things to do. No matter what had just happened, he was still on duty. He had work to be doing.

With a firm mental shake, he forced himself to climb back into the Humvee and drive it over to the much more suitable parking lot. He procrastinated for a few minutes then, sorting out his and Jack’s stuff and making sure the equipment he’d collected earlier that morning was still secure. It already felt like a thousand years ago. That done, he checked the vehicle in with the mechanics and headed to the command tent to face his fate.

..

Mac had never had much cause to interact with Major Torres beyond receiving the occasional direct mission brief or having to give an in-person report when a mission went sideways. Both cases usually ended up being pretty stressful affairs, either because there was a lot on the line or because Mac had to own up to some hare-brained scheme that would probably have gotten him court marshalled twenty times over if his skillset hadn’t been in such high demand. The result was that almost all of Mac’s recollections of the Major were coloured in shades of concern and unhappiness, despite the man himself having never done anything particularly bad to Mac himself. On the contrary, the man had been ridiculously forgiving of some of the shit Mac had tried to pull in the past.

Nonetheless, as he stood in front of him now, he couldn’t help but feel incredibly small.

“So you arrived in Sakini at 1300 hours?”

“Yes sir.”

“What was the situation on the ground?”

“At first, quiet. There were a couple of locals around, but they didn’t appear armed and they didn’t visibly react to our presence at all.”

“At first?”

Mac swallowed, willing himself to keep his thoughts in the right order. The last thing he needed was to add ‘filing an inaccurate report’ to his list of transgressions. “Jack – Sergeant Dalton – went out to do a survey of the area. I stayed back in the vehicle. When he deemed it was clear, he called me out while he set up on the roof of a building in- the town square, I guess.” He pointed at the appropriate place on the map, well aware that the handful of buildings hardly constituted a town, much less one in possession of anything resembling a square, but the building Jack had chosen had good sightlines and that was the main point.

“You went looking for the IED.”

“Yes.”

“Did you encounter any resistance?”

“No. The locals all kept out of my way, but not so much so I thought they were actively avoiding me. More like they just didn’t want to get involved in our business.”

“But you did find a device?”

“Yes sir, but not for an hour or so. It had been tucked into the gap between two buildings and blocked off with crates. Just getting to it took longer than it should have done.”

Torres’ expression twisted in something that might have been sympathy. Two US soldiers alone in possibly hostile territory for over an hour was never the start of a happy story.

“Once I did get to it,” Mac continued, bracing himself, “I was able to disarm it pretty quickly. The device was well hidden, but not particularly well built. It had a single failsafe, but compared to a lot of what we’ve been seeing recently, it was surprisingly basic.”

Evidently, his opinion was not welcome; the Major’s face darkened. “If that’s the case, then why is one of my men in the infirmary following an explosion, Specialist?”

He ducked his head on instinct, shame and fear washing over him afresh. It didn’t matter; what had happened, happened, and beating around the bush now wasn’t going to change that.

“Because I messed up, sir,” he said honestly. “The device was successfully disarmed, but before I could pack it up, Sergeant Dalton alerted me to hostiles closing in on our position. One of them must have been watching Sakini in case we showed up. There were too many of them for Jack to safely deal with alone and they were between us and our transport, so I came up with a plan to funnel them into a small space, and then trigger the explosion. It seemed like our best shot of taking them all out at once, so Jack agreed.”

Torres nodded, but didn’t interject with his own opinion.

Mac cleared his throat. “I needed a minute to rearm the device, and we needed to make sure they all got into position, so Jack acted as the bait. He took a few pot shots at them to get their attention, then made a run for it. Thankfully, they followed. I planted the device at a weak point on the building’s exterior, armed it, and retreated.”

“Dalton didn’t have time to clear the building?”

If Mac had been a little more dishonest – and perhaps less certain that he wouldn’t immediately get caught in the lie – he might have said yes. It still put him on the hook for blowing up his Overwatch, but it still felt a little less like a crushing failure on his part. But that wasn’t who Mac was, and even if it had been, it certainly wasn’t who Jack was, and the second he woke up he’d be asked to give his own account of things. The only way forward was the truth, no matter what it might be.

“Actually, he made it out okay. Things appeared to have gone perfectly but… I wasn’t watching my back, sir. I thought that all the hostiles had entered the building and I wasn’t careful enough. One of them managed to flank me. He was yelling something – I don’t speak Arabic – and dragging me back towards the building – I fought him, but…”

The memory flashed back to him, a warm hand painfully tight on his arm, the hard barrel of an assault rifle jabbing into his ribs, and neither of those things as scary as the IED he was being hauled towards. He’d tried to say something, tried to struggle, but the man had been huge even if he hadn’t had a gun to back him up. Mac hadn’t stood a chance.

Fortunately, Torres seemed to read into what he wasn’t saying. “Dalton doubled back to help you.”

“Yes sir.” His voice sounded small even to himself.

“And he got caught in the blast when he came too close to the building.”

“Yes sir.”

A pause. “Were you hurt in the explosion?”

Mac blinked in surprise, caught off guard. In truth, once Jack had gone down and stopped answering his radio, it had never occurred to Mac to even think about himself. “Uh, no sir. The man holding me was – he was between me and the device, so he caught the worst of it. Knocked him out, I think.”

“You think?”

“I- uh. I knew Sergeant Dalton was hurt. I was more focused on getting to him and getting him out than I was about the hostiles.” He knew it sounded bad even as he said it. He tried his best to look sheepish, but all he really felt was bone-deep weariness. He wanted this to be done. “I’m sorry sir.”

The Major shook that off, unconcerned. “With your Overwatch down, Dalton should have been your priority. EOD aren’t trained to be combatants.”

That wasn’t entirely true, but Mac was hardly about to argue with the man. Besides, he doubted it had escaped notice that he wasn’t wearing his sidearm; he’d been given one as part of his kit and told to carry it with him whenever he was in uniform, but after about a month of working with Jack, he’d felt safer leaving it in the Humvee instead. He wasn’t confident that if there was a hostile in front of him he’d be able to shoot them anyway, so carrying around a loaded weapon was more of a liability than anything. Jack didn’t agree, but he hadn’t pressed the issue.

“What happened next?”

“I found Jack buried in the rubble. He had a visible head wound and he was unconscious. When I couldn’t wake him, I carried him back to our vehicle and came straight here.”

Torres nodded slowly. “Do you have anything else of note to report?”

“No sir.” He held still, waiting for his verdict. He could personally point out about twelve different things he’d done wrong, and every single one of them added up to Jack in a hospital bed. If it really was anything worse than a concussion…

If it came to that, there wasn’t anything the Major could do to Mac that he wouldn’t deserve.

“Alright,” the man said, his voice heavy and drawn. “I take it you know that I’ll have to report this up the chain. Circumstances aside, catching your own teammate in a repurposed IED blast isn’t going to look good and that’s before we even get to you getting ambushed.”

“Yes sir.”

Torres sighed, looking momentarily softer than he had any right to after the shitshow he’d just heard about. “For now, the most any of us can do is wait for Dalton to wake up so he can give his own report. We’ll go from there. In the meantime, I’ll send some men out to Sakini to work on clean-up; you go get washed up. You’re off rotation until your Overwatch is back on his feet.”

The very idea of having a shower and going to bed felt utterly heavenly – just thinking of being gifted such a reward after what he’d done made something in Mac balk. He straightened up, trying to make himself look firm. “That’s not necessary, sir. I’m still fit for work.”

Torres paused in surprise, then gave him a quick look up and down. “You’re asking for another Overwatch?”

Mac hesitated, but didn’t back down. “Not permanently, sir. I know Sergeant Dalton’s tour is conditional. But while he’s in recovery, if there’s work that needs doing then I’m happy to do it.”

The Major didn’t look entirely thrilled by the idea, but he wasn’t turning him down cold either. Mostly, he seemed thoughtful. “It sounds like you were pretty close to an explosion yourself. You’re sure you’re in good shape?”

“I mostly caught the blowback, sir. Made my ears ring, knocked the wind out of me. Nothing serious, nothing permanent.” It was true, too. He really had gotten off incredibly lightly given the severity of the situation, and he could mostly thank the man who had been trying to kill him for it. He’d ended up acting as a surprisingly effective human shield, in the end.

Slowly, Torres nodded. “Okay. I’m going to ask you to get a medical check-up to confirm you’re as okay as you say you are, but if that comes back clean, you can keep working. As it happens, one of our other EOD techs – Garcia – is shipping out in the morning, and his Overwatch doesn’t have a new partner yet. You know Corporal Lee?”

“Yes sir.”

“Good. You can stick with him until Dalton’s back on rotation. Check in with him directly to get your instructions, clear?”

“Clear, sir. Thank you.”

“Good. Now, go get that check-up and find out what’s become of your partner. You know he won’t be happy about you working with someone else.”

Torres said it lightly, sharing something of an in-joke that Mac was only half party to. Jack had never properly explained the nature of his deal with Torres – and the Colonel above him – to extend his tour with some provisos, but he’d got the impression that there had been a lot of shouting involved. Honestly, he’d been glad to steer clear of it. Apparently, though, it wasn’t too much of a sore point with Torres anymore and Mac was grateful; he’d hated to know that Jack had put so much on the line for his sake.

With a clear dismissal, Mac saluted, then turned on his heel and headed back to the medical tent. He avoided the emergency area this time, electing instead to go into the space just beyond it that was set aside for the standard check-ups that active soldiers were routinely subjected to.

Stupidly, it wasn’t until he was gestured towards an unoccupied booth that he realised his palm was still coated in dried, flaking blood. In everything that had happened, he’d completely forgotten about the minor wound. Not that there was anything to be done about it now. It wasn’t like he could hide it and besides, it really was only very minor. It shouldn’t pose any threat to his ability to work.

When the doctor made it round to him, he suffered through the indignity of the exam with little grace, too worn out and drained to make small talk. Fortunately, the doctor seemed to understand his mind was elsewhere, because he maintained a solid professional demeanour throughout and didn’t prod when others might have done. He cleaned out the slice in Mac’s palm, agreeing that it wouldn’t need stitches, and carefully checked his torso for any signs of major damage. Finding none, he signed off on Mac’s duty form and gave him back his shirt.

“You’re Dalton’s partner, right?” He said, just as Mac finished getting dressed again.

Mac’s eyes snapped up to look at him. “Yes. Is he- Is there news?”

The man shot him a reassuring smile, flapping a hand to soothe his obvious concern. “Everything’s okay, calm down. He took a hell of a knock to the head, but there’s no signs of critical damage. We’ll be keeping him in for a few days for concussion and cognition checks and the like, but from what I’ve heard, he got off remarkably lucky. He’s sedated at the moment, but I think they’re planning to bring him around in the next hour or so – you can go and sit with him if you like?”

He made a vague sweeping gesture in the direction of the main ward, an obvious invitation, but despite his desperation to see that his partner really was still in one piece, Mac hesitated.

The last time Jack had been injured – a bullet graze over the meat of his shoulder that he seemed annoyed by more than anything – Mac had planted himself at his partner’s side and refused to budge. It had felt like the right thing to do; Jack had always made a point of sticking around whenever Mac was ill or injured, and the least he could do was return the favour. Besides, sitting and chatting with him was a lot better than continuously replaying the moment when the bullet had caught him, his cry of pain and surprise. Jack had certainly seemed to appreciate the company while he waited out the required bedrest portion of his recovery.

But that had been then, when Jack had been wounded by a bullet Mac couldn’t possibly have done anything about. Now, he was laid up with a head injury because Mac hadn’t been smart enough to watch his own back for all of five minutes and had ended up luring his partner into an explosion he caused. On every possible level, Jack’s injuries were his fault.

There wasn’t the slightest chance that the first thing he would want to see when he woke up would be Mac’s face.

He became distantly aware that he’d frozen in place and the doctor had started to eye him critically, so he slapped on what he hoped looked like a relieved smile.

“Nah, that’s okay. I don’t want to disturb him if he needs the rest. Besides, I’m knackered too.”

To his credit, the doctor managed to keep whatever he thought about that off his face. Instead, he offered an obliging smile. “Of course. You’ve had a rough day too.”

Mac nodded, then a thought occurred to him. “Can you let me know, though, if- If something happens?”

No matter how much Jack might not want to see Mac, the only way Mac would be able to not bear seeing him is if he knew that the man was going to be okay. He needed to know that his own stupidity hadn’t done worse than what he already knew about.

“Of course. You’re set up as his base contact anyway, so you’re supposed to be kept in the loop.”

He hadn’t known that Jack had done that, though in hindsight it made sense. He’d done the same the day after Jack had decided to stay on after all. Still, the very thought of it now, when Mac was just about the one person in the entire FOB who Jack shouldn’t be relying on to be there in times of trouble- It stung.

He buried the sensation as best he could under a wave of fatigue and hopped down off the examination bed. If he was going to have a breakdown over this, it sure as hell wasn’t going to be here.

“Is that everything?” He asked the doctor, wanting to be done and away from here.

He smiled. “That’s everything, Specialist. You make sure you get some rest before shipping back out tomorrow, okay? I don’t want to see you back here any time soon.”

“Sir yes sir.”

With that done and a form confirming he was ready for active duty clutched tightly in one hand, he scooped up his and Jack’s packs, as well as Jack’s rifle which he still hadn’t had time to return, and marched back out into the blazing sunlight.

..

The first few times Jack woke up, he spent the few minutes of consciousness he had in muddled confusion. There were bright lights and lots of sound, then pale blue moonlight and muffled voices, then light again – through all of it, he couldn’t have said where he was or what was happening. Everything was too distant and vague to grasp, and fatigue had sunk its claws deep into his mind, dragging him back whenever he dared to try to push ahead.

He couldn’t give up though. He might not know what was going on, but he was sure that there was something he was forgetting, something important. Whatever it was didn’t matter – all that did, was that Jack needed to wake up and get to it.

It wasn’t until he finally blinked himself properly awake that he was able to put some logic to the flashes he’d caught before. He was in a hospital bed, with the slowly undulating fabric of a tent above him – the FOB. That certainly made sense, given that he felt like he’d been hit by a truck, but it didn’t really explain the why of that whole situation and no memories seemed ready to spring forth from the depths of his mind to enlighten him.

Christ, what the hell had happened to him?

He crawled his hand over the scratchy bedding, searching for a call button and ending up surprised when he actually found one. Any higher tech than the stone age was normally reserved for the MOB, and since he was in a tent then he clearly wasn’t there. Shrugging it off as unimportant, he hit the button and waited.

A nurse appeared between the screens around his bed less than twenty seconds later. “Sergeant Dalton? Back with us this time?”

“This time?” He muttered, then regretted it when his throat rasped horribly over the words. Clearly he’d been out for a while.

Understanding brightened in her face, and she stepped closer to retrieve a cup of water from his bedside table and present the straw in front of his face. Uncomfortable as he was, he was pretty certain he could have held the cup himself, but it hardly seemed worth the argument when she was willing to do it. Besides, having a beautiful woman feed him by hand was hardly going to be the low point of his day.

When he was done, she returned the cup to its place and pulled out his chart. “Can you tell me how you’re feeling? Any pain?”

“Headache. Feels like I got run over. What happened?”

Her eyes flicked towards him, measuring. “How would you rate the severity of your headache on a scale of one to ten?”

“Four. It’s fine. What happened?”

She pulled a penlight out from the pocket of her scrubs and leaned in to examine his pupils. He let it happen with increasing impatience, long since aware that trying to rush medical staff when they were intent on checking him over was a losing game. Better to let her get it out of her system before pushing too hard for answers.

“Pupil response is normal,” she said after a moment. “It looks as though your concussion is clearing up nicely. Unfortunately you’re still in what we would consider the danger period for head injuries, so you’re going to be staying with us a few days yet for monitoring.”

That was annoying as hell, but with no idea what was wrong with him, he had no scale of what was reasonable. “Sure, fine, whatever. Can you please tell me what happened? I don’t remember getting hurt.”

Truthfully, he didn’t remember much of anything.

She hesitated, but she must have seen the determination in his eyes because she folded without further argument. “You were hit by falling masonry following an explosion. I don’t know the details beyond that. Your partner brought you in.”

His partner-?

Mac!

A rush of memories suddenly hit him, so sharp and fierce that he actually sucked in a hard breath in surprise. The IED in Sakini, hostiles closing in, an utterly insane idea from Mac that just might be crazy enough to work – and it did, right up until he heard a scuffle over the radio, Mac’s voice tight with stress saying, let go of me, we can’t go in there, there’s a bomb-

He hadn’t hesitated for a second to race back in the direction he’d come.

“My partner-” He said wildly, coming to life all of a sudden as cold terror rushed through him. “Mac- Is he- What happened? Where is he?”

Something had to have gone wrong. If he was alright then he would be here, teasing Jack for being so muddled and letting him see with his own eyes that he was unhurt. That was what they did.

The nurse’s hand pressed down firmly on his shoulder, forcing him back down from where he’d tried to jackknife upright. “Sergeant! Please, stay calm. Your partner is completely fine. Specialist MacGyver, right? He’s okay. No injuries.”

Jack’s wild eyes found hers and latched on, seeking truth. “He’s okay?”

“Yes. I promise you. When he brought you in, he wasn’t injured. He had a physical to clear him for duty and came up clean. You’re the one we’ve been worried about.”

There was a lot there that he needed to process, and most of it seemed beyond his exhausted mind, but he wasn’t going to let that stop him. Mac was okay. That was- well, honestly, that was far better than he had any right to expect given the nightmare situation they’d been in, and the fact that apparently Jack had just checked out and left the kid to deal with it, in hostile territory no less. God, he owed him a beer.

But if he’d been sought medical clearance, then that meant… “He’s back on duty?”

The nurse nodded, evidently surprised by the question. It was standard practice for uninjured soldiers to rotate as needed around their teammates’ injuries, and if Mac really wasn’t hurt then there was absolutely no need for him to be sitting around the FOB twiddling his thumbs. But, then, ‘standard practice’ had never been their way of doing things. Thanks to Jack’s very carefully worded agreement with the Brass, the pair of them should have been free to turn down any requests for temporary reassignment.

Then again, Mac didn’t seem the type to pass on a call to duty, particularly if there were lives on the line.

He nodded slowly, letting that knowledge settle inside him. Mac was alive and uninjured, if not exactly safe. Jack was – apparently – alive and relatively okay. A win all round, really – so why did he feel like something had gone horribly wrong?

“Okay,” he said slowly, then again more firmly. “So, doc. Give it to me straight: how am I doing?”

..

Jack had kind of assumed that Mac had been absent when he woke because it was clearly the middle of the day, which logically meant that he was off-base somewhere. That was perfectly understandable and given the circumstances, Jack could understand why he’d done it – Mac hadn’t known that Jack was finally going to wake up after all and since he’d apparently been in and out for three whole days, it wasn’t surprising he’d not elected to sit around, bored out of his mind. Still, that logic fell apart just a little bit when night fell and no blond bomb nerd appeared at his elbow.

He knew that Mac was his contact, which meant he must have been informed that Jack was awake and talking and yet- He went to sleep that evening with no visitors.

He slept in the next morning, unintentionally, so if Mac had stopped by before heading out then he would have missed him. He almost wanted to ask one of the staff, but he had a sneaking suspicion that the kid hadn’t been by at all and that… That didn’t feel right.

It wasn’t that Jack thought he was owed Mac’s time or attention or anything like that, but he’d kind of thought that he’d get it anyway. The last time he’d been stuck in the hospital ward, he hadn’t been able to shake Mac off for more than a few minutes at a time, no matter how much he’d pleaded with him to go back to the barracks and get some proper sleep. Any time one of the staff had tried to chase him out, he’d planted his feet and refused to be moved. It had been touching, in an odd kind of way, a clear demonstration of Mac saying ‘If you’ve chosen me, I’ve chosen you too.’

Now- Now it was different, and Jack was pretty sure that wasn’t a good thing.

Some careful questioning – and an outright demand for an explanation from Major Torres when he showed up to get Jack’s report – had brought some things to light, but made others even murkier. For one, Mac had actively requested to remain on duty. After what had happened last time, that was a big red flag in its own right. He did at least have Lee watching his back, someone who Jack knew to be a crack shot and clever with it, so he probably wasn’t getting himself into too much trouble, but still.

Torres had also made it clear that their failed mission was not being received particularly well by the higher ups. When pressed, he’d alluded to the fact Mac had – apparently entirely willingly – painted himself right into the corner and placed the blame directly on his own shoulders. Jack hadn’t been able to keep himself from swearing aloud. Goddamn self-sacrificing idiot. He’d tried to make it clear that Mac hadn’t been to blame for what happened, and Torres seemed inclined to listen to him, but the details of his report did match up squarely with what Mac had said. The only difference was that Jack wasn’t about to start playing the blame game.

All signs pointed to something being very, very wrong with his partner.

When that evening rolled around and there was still no Mac, Jack had been about ready to climb out of bed himself and hunt the git down. In the end he was spared the trouble by a surprise visitor – just not the one he’d been expecting.

“Jackie! You’re looking- well, a bit shit, honestly, but much better than before.” Corporal Lee – Ryan, to basically everyone who had known him for more than five minutes – stuck his head through the break in the screens and offered him a wide, toothy grin.

“Thanks,” he shot back, grimacing at him then stopping when it pulled at the colourful array of bruising he knew was adorning his face – and most of the rest of him, come to think of it. “What are you doing here?”

Ryan slipped through the screens to stand beside him, casting a careful eye over his injuries even while he waved a careless hand in dismissal. “Your boy got a splinter that I’m making him get checked out. Thought I’d stop by to see you since I’m already here.”

White, electric panic shot down Jack’s spine. “Mac’s hurt?”

“No, no, he’s fine! Yeesh, calm down. It really is just a splinter, I promise, cross my heart. If he was anybody else, I wouldn’t have made him come here but I swear to god, someone needs to teach that boy he’s not immortal.”

The words were clearly meant in jest, but Jack felt the pit of worry in his gut that had opened when he woke up without Mac beside him suddenly yawn wider. Mac had never been particularly good at putting his own safety on his list of priorities, and if he really was blaming himself for Jack’s injuries, then there was a good chance he’d be acting downright reckless.

“He’s been giving you a hard time?” He asked, just to make sure.

Ryan rolled his eyes. “Honestly man, I have no idea how you do it. I’ve been driving myself hoarse telling him to keep his goddamn head down and I’ve only been working with him a few days.”

“Yeah, that sounds about right,” he said, hoping his levity covered the ice crawling through his chest. Goddamn it Mac, you don’t get to do this. “You two have any trouble?”

“Nothing worth reporting on. More IEDs than I ever wanted to see in my life but that’s kinda par for the course, right?”

“Tell me about it.”

“But other than that, it’s been pretty quiet. Word got around that your boy took out ten hostiles on his own, so maybe the T-men are all too busy trying to stay out of his way. I sure fucking would if I were them.”

That did actually pull a smile out of Jack, despite everything. The situation was definitely FUBAR, but it was about time someone other than him realised the sheer elemental force that was a pissed off Angus MacGyver. For a skinny little bomb nerd, he packed a surprising punch.

“You haven’t seen the half of it yet.”

“You have no idea how horrifying that is to hear, thanks.”

“You’re welcome. Hey, you said he was here, right? In medical?”

Ryan rolled his eyes, smiling. Clearly he wasn’t distracted by Jack’s meek attempts at feigning disinterest. “Yes, he’s about twenty metres that way, and yes, I will tell him to come and see you as soon as that pretty blonde nurse stops flirting with him. I thought he was gonna come yesterday, but he ended up just crashing. Not sure he’s been sleeping all that well.”

The last was said with a quiet, gentle concern, the type of tone that made Ryan one of the most popular soldiers on base. He might be a devil in a firefight, but he was genuine and he cared about the men he served with well beyond what he was officially required to do. Jack was, not for the first time, very glad that this was the Overwatch Mac had been transferred to.

“Who does, in this place? Can you remember what your twenties were like? I’m glad I didn’t spend mine in this hellhole.”

Ryan shuddered. “I don’t think I was ever that young.”

“Me neither.” They shared a look of weary amusement as Ryan patted a warm hand to his shoulder and kicked off from where he’d been leaning against the bed.

“I’ll go make sure your boy doesn’t escape without saying hello. You take care man, okay? We’ve missed you in the barracks.”

“Not sure anyone’s ever missed my snoring before,” he shot back with a smile, then sobered. “And hey, thanks man. For watching out of him. There’s no one else I’d trust more.”

“Don’t sweat it. You’ve pulled my ass out of the fire before. You just rest up and let me take care of your bomb nerd for a bit.”

..

Mac knew that Ryan had only really been making him come to medical to prove a point and that it was all in service of trying to watch out for him while Jack was laid up, but he still found himself pissed off by it. He wasn’t a child in need of someone to pull out his splinters – he’d been perfectly capable of doing that since he was five. Besides, Ryan hadn’t even tried to pretend it wasn’t payback for Mac ignoring his warnings earlier that morning and momentarily ducking out of his sightline to check out a suspicious rock pile.

There hadn’t even been anything buried under the rocks – it was just a false alarm. He’d been back under the protective watch of Ryan’s scope inside of a minute.

All of this to say, he was pretty sour about the whole experience. The nurse was incredibly patient with him, raising an eyebrow at Ryan when he cheerfully explained the problem like he was a parent dropping a kid off at daycare. The attitude had not helped matters. Regardless, she’d sat him down and pulled out her disinfectant and tweezers, and hadn’t reacted at all to Mac’s stormy expression.

It was a waste of his time, and more importantly hers. There were soldiers here with real, actual injuries that needed tending to and here he was taking up space and resources for a ‘wound’ he had scarcely even noticed. Still, he was here now and it wasn’t like Ryan wasn’t going to give him shit for it if he didn’t stick around, so he stayed where he was, feeling worse with every passing minute.

The splinter was hardly difficult to find, in inch long fragment of wood sticking haphazardly out of the inside of his wrist. Too shallow to cause any real damage, but long enough to itch something fierce. It had taken all of Mac’s willpower not to scratch himself raw on the drive back. The nurse hummed in sympathy when she saw it, but didn’t take the opportunity to make a comment that would so visibly have been unwelcome. She simply disinfected her tweezers and got to work.

The process hurt, but it was superficial. More frustrating was the agonising amount of time she spent examining the wound, trying to make sure she’d removed every last bit of debris before she let him go. He knew that it was literally her job to thorough and that he’d live to regret it if there was something nasty still lurking under his skin, but he couldn’t help his own impatience. He’d done everything he could to avoid the medical tents in the last few days and now he was stuck here, no doubt metres away from his Overwatch.

The urge to give in and seek Jack out was almost overwhelming now that he was actually here.

He’d been told that he’d woken up and didn’t appear to have suffered any neurological effects from his injuries or from his extended sedation, but Mac couldn’t trust that until he saw it with his own eyes. If he hadn’t been so sure that Jack wouldn’t want to see him, he’d have been at his side as soon as he heard the news. As it was, Jack hadn’t asked for him so he’d stayed clear.

Ryan reappeared just as the nurse was smoothing a dressing down over the small gash. “Dalton’s a tough son of a bitch, huh?”

Mac’s head snapped up to look at him. “You’ve been to see him?”

“Yeah. And, as it turns out, I think he’s pretty surprised that you haven’t.” Ryan raised his eyebrows pointedly, somehow both a question and a condemnation. Mac was in no mood to answer either.

He shrugged. “I’ve been busy, and he’s been sleeping.”

“He’s not sleeping now.” Mac bit his tongue to clamp down on his response to that. Fortunately, Ryan didn’t seem to need one, because he continued, “He’s asking to see you. If you’re done here?”

The nurse, packing up her things, nodded amiably as an answer, then bid them both goodbye and left. Mac somehow felt more exposed with her gone and nothing else to distract Ryan’s attention.

He wanted to refuse. The only reason Jack would be asking after him is if he wanted to tear him a new one for being so uncompromisingly shit at his job that he’d nearly killed his partner, and Mac just didn’t think he was solid enough to take that right now. But, really, that didn’t matter. If Jack wanted to chew him out, then it wasn’t like it was anything Mac didn’t one hundred percent deserve. He’d have to face the music sooner or later and he stubbornly refused to be a coward about it.

“Okay,” he said instead of trying to find an excuse. “Lead the way.”

Brave face or not, apparently he was a coward in the end anyway, because he hesitated at the very last hurdle; it had taken Ryan physically pushing him forwards to get him past the screens surrounding Jack’s bed. The view that greeted him was- not unexpected, but hardly a pleasant one either.

Jack was awake and blinking at him, which was a vast improvement on the unconscious slump he’d worn the last time Mac had laid eyes upon him, but his face was also a patchwork of blues and purples, softening to a sickly yellow at the edges. He looked – well. He looked like a wall had been dropped on his head.

He opened his mouth with absolutely no idea what was about to fall out of it, but it didn’t matter because Jack immediately cut him off.

“It wasn’t your fault.”

It brought Mac up short. “I- What?”

“Me getting hurt. It wasn’t your fault.”

“Jack-”

“No, shut up, listen to me. I know you and I think I’m finally getting some idea of what’s going on in that idiot head of yours because you told Torres that you were to blame for all this. Isn’t that right?”

“Well. I am.”

Jack huffed, visibly annoyed, and Mac had no idea what he was supposed to do in this situation. He’d expected anger, shouting, not whatever this was. “Goddamn it kid. This isn’t on you, of course it isn’t. Why would you even think that?”

He’d apparently meant it as some sort of rhetorical question because he blanched when Mac put up a hand to count his mistakes on his fingers. Jack spoke before he had the chance to start.

“No, don’t actually answer that. Forget I asked. Look, whatever moon logic you’re using to blame yourself for this? It’s nonsense, man. And no one else is going to tell you that because they don’t know, but I was there, okay? I was there the whole time. And I’m telling you right now that you didn’t do anything wrong.”

Distantly, Mac felt his body trembling. This wasn’t what he’d expected.

“We were in a shit situation, and your quick thinking is what got us out of it. I’m the one who was stupid enough to run towards an active IED even when I knew it was about to blow. And even after that, when the person who’s supposed to be watching out of you was out for the count, you kept your shit together long enough to get us both home without any further injury.”

Mac blinked at him.

“You saved my life, man.”

That was too much. He hissed, flinching at the absurdity of it. “I nearly killed you.”

“Nah, I did that. My mistake, not yours. And besides, I’m fine – couple of bruises ain’t nothing.”

“You were coming back because I was in trouble. Because I couldn’t look after myself for three minutes.”

Jack was shaking his head and Mac wished he’d stop because it looked like it hurt, and he couldn’t bear any more of Jack’s pain right now. “We were surrounded by hostiles Mac. It’s my job to keep an eye out for them so you can keep your eyes right where they need to be, and even I thought they’d all gone into that building. Anyone outside of that was trying to keep out of sight and you had no way of knowing you needed to be watching for that kind of threat. That’s what I’m here for, remember?”

Unable to find words to refute him, Mac just shook his head adamantly.

His Overwatch’s gaze turned soft. “Hey, man, c’mon. You’ve got to know that you didn’t have any control over what happened, and the bits you did, you did great. You got me out of there all by yourself. So what’s going on man?”

Mac hesitated, feeling torn open and raw, but somehow still entirely safe under Jack’s eyes. When he said nothing further, Mac felt himself deflate. “I’ve never-” He stopped, retried. “I didn’t come out here to hurt people,” he managed quietly. “All I’ve tried to do is disarm IEDs and limit the destruction and then this time…”

“This time you were the one setting the bomb.” Jack’s voice was level, understanding and without judgement.

“Yeah. And, of course, not only do I manage to-” He bit off the end of that sentence, his breathing ragged. “I also nearly killed you.”

He was aware that there were tears welling in the corners of his eyes, but he honestly couldn’t have been sure what emotion they were trying to convey. He just felt overwhelmed.

Jack put out a hand, setting his fingertips lightly on Mac’s elbow, the only part of him he could reach where Mac was keeping his distance. “That was the first time you killed someone,” he said calmly.

Wordless and bereft, Mac nodded. One of the tears slipped free.

“Ah, kiddo,” Jack breathed, leaning over a little further to grab Mac’s arm properly and pull him closer. Laid up as he was, he couldn’t offer much of a hug, but he was able to settle for tucking Mac into the curve of his arm and settling him there. “You didn’t do anything wrong, you hear me? I’m so sorry that you were in that situation at all, but you did everything right. Those men- They would have killed you and me and everyone in that village without hesitation, okay? I know it doesn’t feel like it, but you were protecting people Mac.”

Exhausted, overwhelmed, and with no way of voicing any of it, Mac just clung to Jack with a desperation he’d be self-conscious about if he was anyone else. Jack shushed him softly, running his hand up and down his back, and it was only then that Mac realised he was crying.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled wetly, not sure himself if he was apologising for Jack’s injuries or his own meltdown.

“Ain’t got nothing to be sorry for.”

“I do.”

“No, you don’t. I’ll keep telling you as long as you need to hear it hoss, but this wasn’t your fault. None of it.”

They stayed like that for a long time. Mac felt himself starting to come together again just a little, still raw and hurting but able to breathe again. It was imperfect, but it was still somehow the best he’d felt in days. When he pulled back his head to look at Jack, he found his Overwatch smiling at him.

“There you are. Had me worried for a moment.”

“Sorry.”

Jack snorted. “If you insist on apologising, you could at least have the decency to do it for something that actually deserves it. Like, say, driving Ryan up the wall with your reckless behaviour?”

Mac’s eyes dropped, flushing. Jack just laughed at him, warm and relieved, absent of any actual anger. That part would probably come later, but it was obvious to anyone who looked that Mac wasn’t going to be able to withstand that sort of attack right now.

“Damn it kid. You’re okay though, right? Not hiding any injuries or something?”

“No. I should be asking you that. You’re the one who nearly died.”

“I’m not that easy to kill, brother. And besides, I had you watching my back. I knew you’d get me home safe.”

Mac’s brow furrowed. “I don’t think unconscious counts as safe.”

“I’m awake now, aren’t I?”

“Jack.”

Unable to help himself, Jack ruffled a hand through Mac’s mop of hair, laughing when he chirped in alarm and rapidly backpedalled out of reach. “I’m going to be just fine Mac. Quit worrying about me. I’ll be back on duty and driving you crazy over the radio in no time at all.”

When it came, Mac’s smile was a careful thing. “Can’t wait.”

“Me neither kid. Me neither.”