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[drawbauchery]

Pre and Post-Second Session Secrets

fic by cartoons-tothemoon!

fic commission info inside!

Private, in all his years, was always regarded as oblivious, dense, benign.

He knew this, and most of the time, he didn’t even mind such a thing. Was it really so hard to believe that a cutie pie like him that liked knitting and baking was also capable of feats of incredible violence?

Of course, the answer was always “yes.” Because of course it was.

However, Private had found himself a different role to settle himself into in his most recent years. Or rather, a secret trait, that he treasured along with his more open and obvious personality traits, like kindness and empathy.

And that trait was quite simply, being perceptive.

It was undeniable that Private wasn’t always aware of his surroundings, but he was aware of people.

He could tell when Skipper was getting a little too paranoid for his own good or when Rico missed Julien especially bad on hour-long missions, or when Kowalski was about to have a sensory-related meltdown.

It was why he was the one who always paid rent.

People liked Private, and Private liked quite a lot of them. Even the ones he didn’t like, he seemed to have an understanding of.

They thought they understood him, and he found that he understood them quite well.

———

He couldn’t understand this quite well, however.

Skipper was a…character. Let’s just say that. Ignoring his haircut and his arms and his sharp eyes that always had a certain spark to them and-

Ignoring all that, Skipper was the type to let things slip under the radar. Sure, it’s not like  Kowalski WANTED people to know how his last relationship went, and Rico’s cavalcade of issues was always on full display even if they created a sort of smoke-screen for other things, but with Skipper…his issues only came up when they physically pervaded their lives. Dr. Blowhole or Hans, for example, it would’ve been nice to know that Skipper had particular targets on his back, but, that was spy stuff lost to the days. Of course he didn’t talk about it.

He was now referring more so to things like his extreme fear of needles, or that one time when it came up that he could tie a cherry stem with his tongue. Just last week was the first time Private had even heard a thing about Skipper’s apparently strained relationship with his family. He’d kind of assumed he didn’t have a family at that point, as sad as that sounded to say.

Weird insecurities, secrets, skills, and even just his past in general were things he never mentioned because it “never came up,” but it’s not like Private hadn’t asked him about a few of those things before. Skipper just happened to always dismiss him, there was always a reason for him not to contend with the questions in mind, be it they were already busy with whatever crisis the day had in store for them or whatever other excuse Skipper could make up at the moment.

So, Skipper was a private person. There certainly wasn’t anything wrong with that. It’s quite ironic that he himself wasn’t MORE private, in fact.

And sure, it occasionally lead to a whole incident, or two, or…five, but it’s not like they could really say something about it anyhow. It wasn’t that they weren’t allowed to call him out for certain things, they certainly were, but if they began asking him to be open…well, wouldn’t they have to be more open too? To point the blade one way and not expect it to pierce you as well was a foolhardy argument to make. And besides, what would they even be asking him? “Be more open and honest about your secrets and feelings?” Not only is that vague as hell, it’s just…

It’s a lot to ask of someone.

Private seemed open in a way that made people comfortable with him, but was he really open at all? Sure, he had no problem discussing things like his interests or some elements of his past with others, but now that he had to think about it, it kind of obfuscated the truth.

After all, being so open about living with Uncle Nigel most of his life made people forget that he could’ve been doing other things with his life as well.

Not that the Armadillo Kid forgot, anyhow.

So, maybe secrets were fine after all. Maybe Skipper didn’t even realize he was keeping secrets until they came up. After all, the needle thing only came up during a physical with the team’s doctor, the cherry stem thing only came up while they were getting ice cream, and his strained relationship with his family only came to light because he received a letter from them that he tore up before reading when he was helping Private sort through his mail pile.

To make something out of it when he has no reason to would just be silly, and to put this extra level of scrutiny on Skipper, or anybody for that matter would no doubt weaken their trust in him, and that was the last thing he’d want.

Being cute and loving and trustworthy wasn’t something Private saw as a skill he had to hone, it was just how he was, but that didn’t mean it didn’t take work. Love and trust were labors all their own, and just because they weren’t the same thing as being able to construct ray guns or have inexplicable amounts of dynamite in his hoodie’s pocket didn’t mean it wasn’t worth something, to somebody like him.

After all, no matter if the team possessed enough dynamite to destroy the Eastern seaboard or conquer Mars, they’d always need somebody to pay rent.

And although there were times when Private wanted to press, wanted to question, wanted to scream from the rooftops how much he wanted to understand with all his heart, he relented. He relaxed. Sure, he took note of such incidents, but that wasn’t being nosy. That was just his job.

So, Private, in all his patience, let things be. Sometimes secret were secrets for a reason, and prying open a treasure chest with a crowbar was never going to be an easy task, especially if he could later count on the key to wash up on the shore. Why pry now?

And that was his mentality for quite a long time.

Until a crowbar washed up on the shore.

———

In retrospect, it felt like it was a few day’s coming. Skipper seemed to be slipping from his usual emotional state of “fine, but tired” to “fine, but tired AND jumpy,” which doesn’t seem like that much of a difference until a tap on the shoulder gets you pressed against the fridge in the exact position it would take to dislocate your entire upper body.

He just wanted a glass of water.

Of course, Skipper apologized a thousand times over, but Private just brushed this off as Skipper having a bad bout of insomnia, and so, Private just dropped him off at his room for a nap, circadian rhythm be damned.

It didn’t seem like insomnia. Sure, it’s not like Private knew Skipper’s sleep schedule enough to say that it WASN’T insomnia, but…

He could just tell that something else was bothering him. He couldn’t tell why, maybe it was the way he only acted out like this when being touched or when he knew other people were around, maybe it was the eyebags that felt less sallow and deep than he knew they’d be after a practically sleepless week, or maybe it just felt like he had something to hide.

If he was trying to hide something, it would seem like he had nothing to hide in the first place. Skipper was a master of the double bluff, the triple bluff, and so on and so forth. Skipper practically waltzed around the truth on the best of days.

However, this clearly wasn’t the best of days. Skipper was obviously, clearly, undeniably hiding something, and was making no effort to even hide those efforts. Sure, a double bluff was a double bluff, but that only meant that this was either a remarkable version of such a psychology, or an absolutely terrible version of what it really was.

You could never really tell with a guy like Skipper.

Of course, given that his ice pack still didn’t seem to dull the pain of nearly having his arm removed from his socket, and how spooked Skipper seemed to be about the whole thing, there was a little bit of certainty that this wasn’t just an act. Whether because he did it in the first place, or apologized for it, he couldn’t say for certain.

(Sleeplessness, erratic movement, paranoia, irritation…were his hands trembling?)

At this point, Private wasn’t really certain WHAT to do, confronting him on it was certain to escalate things, but if he didn’t do SOMETHING about it, Skipper might actually kill somebody. It’s not like Skipper would approach him about any emotional vulnerabilities or problems he was facing. He didn’t talk to anyone about them. Not by choice, anyhow.

He had to do this. He had to figure something out, and it most certainly had to be him.

Private hated to boil this down in such a way, but getting people to open up to him, especially when they didn’t want to, was a lot like operating one of those coin-operated claw machines. Some of those games were easier than others, and a lot more may take it for granted that you would try again, but it was basically the same idea.

To win the game, you had to look at all the angles, you had to time your moves just right in accordance to the game, and, of course, you had to have a delicate touch. That was how you won your prize, be it an adorable stuffed toy, or insight into one of your dearest friend’s issues.

You couldn’t shake the machine, or break it. Because then you’re not playing the game.

You can’t analyze the game simply as a mechanical device, and expect to win either, because there’s nothing wrong with how the mechanisms actually operate, just how the machine takes them.

It has to be him. He’s the one with the gentle hand. He’s the one who can see all the angles, and, yes, he knows when he needs to apply the force necessary to not just play the game, but to win. The people around him need him to play to win.

And in many ways, they’re lucky.

Private’s great at those games. Where else would he get all of his stuffed animals, after all?

———

It felt like Skipper had settled down at dinner. Sure, he tapped his silverware softly when his fingers seemed to lose the rhythm he took while fidgeting, but he seemed more tired than anything else. Tired and sad.

Which, on one hand, was not great. The last thing Private wanted was for his friends to be sad, but it also meant that he was open.

He was stuck.

Trapped by societal convention. He couldn’t leave the table until he ate all of his food, and because Kowalski prepared it tonight, the consequences for leaving would not only be an empty stomach, but a hyper self-conscious scientist in the coming days, a price rather damning considering the combination of how sad he’d get and how much yellow-cake uranium he had access to.

So, now was the perfect time for an intervention.

“Hey, Skipper, how’s it going?” Perfect opener. Bland and unoriginal, a little suspicious considering the lack of conversation currently going on, but, nonetheless, it was the only entrance he really could take.

Of course, there’s already so much weight to be taken from “how’s it going?” But a person who’s doing fine in the world won’t think about that. They’ll just be fine. And they’ll say they’re fine.

“Oh, uh. Fine.” Skipper said, not exactly startled, but not exactly there, either.

“Do anything interesting today?”

“I already apologized for that.”

“I meant other things. Interesting things.”

Now, this did not look to be a compelling conversation, mostly because it wasn’t. Skipper wasn’t even really answering the questions, using half measures to make sure he never had to lift his eyes from the part of the table he had locked his gaze on, and seemed determined to not look up from until he could leave, a classic tactic to be sure.

“Skipper, are you…al..right?” Kowalski asked, hesitantly. “I’m not talking just now, I’m talking in general. You’ve been acting really strange, lately.”

Although Private could handle these things on his own, the fact of the matter is, you don’t turn down good help. Kowalski was good help. Sure, his plan may have to be reformatted, but he’d play it by ear, like he always did.

“Has something happened? Your erratic behavior began almost three weeks ago, and it’s continued since then, with seemingly no cause behind it.”

“I’ve been handling it.”

“Oh yeah, sure. That’s been going real great.”

That got Skipper to lift an eyebrow in his direction, but his eyes remained cast down as he primarily focused on eating. He was almost done, and although Private hadn’t been able to dig a lot on his own, he’d take what he could get.

“Sir, you assaulted a member of team, with no justifiable reason behind it.” Skipper flinched at that, but kept his head down. His guilt was already well-known, so it felt more like picking at flesh wounds at that point. “That is the behavior of somebody not just unstable, but somebody unfit to lead.”

Private…hadn’t expected that. This seemed to be spiraling out of control far too quickly. This is definitely not how he plays the game.

“Kowalski-“

“Can it. Skipper, if you can’t get yourself together and be the leader you’re supposed to be, then I suppose we’re just going to have to find a new leader.”

Private was shocked. Horrified, even. Skipper had lifted his head at this point to glare at Kowalski in twain.

“You seem to forget I have the number to HQ, too. Acquiring yellow cake uranium in New York City is, uh, shockingly difficult, in case you were wondering.”

Private knew Kowalski was bluffing. The team needed Skipper, just as much as Skipper needed the team. Even if he was going on some more secret missions than usual, he always came back to the roost, not to mention that HQ wasn’t really fond of them in the first place. They were stuck with what they had, and what they had was each other. Kowalski was never going to call, and Private knew this. And if Private knew, then Skipper did too.

Not like it didn’t make it hurt any less.

Maybe it made it hurt worse.

Skipper stood up.

“Then HQ better be on my doorstep by morning with a new assignment waiting for me.” Skipper sneered, and walked away from the table to put away his plate.

“Oh, and I’m sure your new team will just, fall at your feet, that’s what you’re looking for, right? For people to be quiet and not question your judgement?”

“And I’m sure your new leader will be just fine with whatever Geneva Convention violating monsters you’re storing in the break fridge. Because that’s what you want, right? A leader that’ll hold you accountable?”

“I’m not even mad about that anymore!”

“I f-feel like I’m w-watching mom and d-dad go through a, through a divorce.” Rico whispered to Private as they watched the scene play out. Private, however, could only watch. He felt like he was learning more and more with each passing venomous jab that they passed back and forth.

Kowalski was clearly mad that Skipper hasn’t been taking the suggestions he’s been giving on how to get back in “tip-top shape,” as Private would say, and whether he was just trying to get Skipper to take better care of himself, or if he was just trying to figure out what caused him to be in such a state, and his methods hadn’t been working. Obviously. Skipper seemed like he was too tired to continue, but only continued to do so out of either pride, or just because it was something expected of him.

“For the last time, I am HANDLING it.”

“Oh, really? Is that what you’re doing?”

Skipper glared, but he seemed more disgusted than anything else.

“For the record, yes, I am actually DOING something, but, think what you want, I’m going to bed.” He said, leaving the kitchen. Private could tell that there was clearly more that he wanted to say, but without the place to be open about it, he wasn’t going to be.

There also clearly seemed to be more that Kowalski wanted to say, but where Skipper went hot, Kowalski went cool. Explosions always got more attention because they were bright and flashy and dynamic, but Kowalski looked ready to launch a new ice age, and a new ice age would bring with it cold, lingering death.

Still, in all of this, there was still a question to be had.

“You’re not…really going to call HQ, are you?”

Kowalski crossed his arms and leaned against the counter with a sigh.

“No.”

Private smiled, not especially brightly, but, gratefully. It was a resigned response, sure,  one that if Kowalski had more energy would be followed up with a tirade, but, still, it meant the world to Private.

It wasn’t his greatest fear, that would be badgers, heights, leopard seals, and whatever was living in the trash can, but Private couldn’t deny that he possessed some sort of anxiety surrounding the idea that this little family of his would fall apart, and eventually, they’d be nothing more than strangers. Maybe because it was something so…true. The fact of the matter was, that this was a job. They went from never knowing each other to what they were now, after all, but if Skipper or Kowalski or Rico got a better deal, who’s to say that they wouldn’t take it? And if they didn’t get a better job, then wouldn’t this job just have to end at one point?

This worried him, as a passive anxiety that he never thought he’d have to consider, the same way that “what if space squids came to Earth and decided to steal Kowalski’s technology, and then conquer the planet?” or “what if I have to be the one to make a doctor’s appointment?” was a passive anxiety. The chances of these events happening were slim to nill, sure, but it could still happen.

Still, there was something to be asked.

“What do you think Skipper meant by “actually doing something?”

Rico shrugged, “p-probably hitting the b-bottle.”

“Mmm. Not likely.” Kowalski replied. “Skipper isn’t the type to be incapacitated by choice, unless under specific circumstances.”

“G-girlfriend? He did say doing some-“ Rico looked at Private when he said it, who did his best to look neutral, if not a little bored.

Kowalski grabbed Rico by his skull, and shook it around. A weird counter-measure to the traditional head slap, considering they were beginning to wonder if that was doing more harm than good. “No, no. Remember Kitka? He was a lovey-dovey mess over her for a week! There’s no way we wouldn’t know if he was dating someone.”

“B-Boyfriend?”

“Night terrors?”

“N-New nemesis?”

“New medication?”

Kowalski sighed. “Who’s to say? Whatever Skipper’s newest problem is, or what happened, we can only do so much if he’s so insistent on not telling us.”

Private was about to pipe up. “And only saying that he’s “taking care of it” is negligible at the best of times. Until Skipper’s knocking down my door for some super-charged xannies, I think the best thing I can do is stay out of it, and I recommend you two do the same.” Kowalski then left the kitchen. And then there were two.

It had been a very stressful evening.

Private looked at Rico. Rico looked at Private.

“J-Julien’s telling me w-we b-bought too much ice-cream l-lately.” Rico sighed, feigning some sort of casual gesture. “W-winky flavored and e-everything. It’d, well, it’d b-be a shame t-to go t-to waste.”

Private smiled at that.

“I’ll go grab some spoons.”

———

Ice cream with Rico and Julien and his gang obviously wasn’t going to solve things, but there was something fun about eating too much ice cream and watching Clueless in Julien’s room that seemed to make Private far, far less stressed than he was when he entered.

For all his crude jokes and lewd gestures, Rico could be a really good friend. He hid it pretty well, but he seemed to be remarkably perceptive.

It was just a good thing to remember.

And although Private could’ve spent all night watching cheesy 90s movies and braiding Julien’s hair, it was already half past midnight, and he was supposed to be up bright and early as always.

…Of course, given Skipper’s state as of late, what had once been an 8 AM wake-up had slipped into 9:30…and then 11:00…and then they kind of gave up on getting Skipper up at any time that they didn’t have to. Still, a healthy sleep schedule makes for a healthy mind, and a healthy body, and Private liked being healthy, despite the fact that he had just eaten half his weight in ice cream, so, he figured it was as good a time as any to go to bed.

…But it looked like he was not alone in roaming the halls tonight, as he turned the corner, he saw Skipper peek his head out of his room, look left, right, up, down, and then left again, before slipping out of his room, and beginning to walk carefully into their living room.

To pretend that Private ever had a choice NOT to follow him would be like saying that you had a choice not to open that secret door behind the bookshelf, or the choice not climb a mysteriously hidden spiral staircase up to the clouds. Once you know it’s there, it’s not like you can ignore it.

So Private, at a pace approximately an entire hallway away from Skipper, followed him. Both carefully making sure they didn’t step on where the floorboards may creak, and carefully side-stepping various messes, until Skipper made it to the living room.

He looked around once again, but seemingly missed Private’s face peeking out behind the doorframe, masked by the cover of darkness.

Skipper seemed to be aware of a presence THERE, but with no way to see it or prove it, he ignored it. He continued to the window in the living room, which was supposedly Marlene’s idea of a fire escape, despite the fact that there was no conventional staircase, and the platform you’d land on was three stories below them.

However, because there was never a fire they needed escaping that wasn’t started by them in the first place, they bought the place anyhow, and disregarded the blatant safety hazard.

Skipper, was obviously aware of this, as when he opened up the window, he walked away to attach a rope he was carrying to a weight-bearing beam, before walking back to the window, and beginning to scale the building.

Private walked quickly to the window, conflicted between staying hidden and knowing what’s going on, but found a way to peer out of the corner of the window without being seen.

Skipper seemed to have landed safely, and scaled down the fire escape from there, before ending up in an alley, and turning a sidewalk out of Private’s view.

He was leaving at night? Well, that sure managed to explain the supposed bouts of insomnia he’s been having as of late, but where? And why?

Where was he going at night? Was Rico right and he was going to go see a date, or at least a sex worker? Maybe that paranoia came from guilt of some kind. Was he living this whole other life as a nightclub singer or gardener or something? Was he doing drugs? Where was he going?

And why was he leaving at night?

Well, obviously he was leaving at night either because it was an activity that could only be done at night, OR it was something that he wanted to keep a secret, and felt was far too shameful to share.

But that doesn’t really narrow it down, no. It becomes more of a Venn-Diagram at certain points than anything else. He’s repressed up the wazoo, just more casual about it. Anything could be worth keeping a secret for him and for him alone if he was operating under that criteria.

Well, regardless. Private might as well go get his pajamas on, because he had a feeling he was going to have a long night ahead of him.

———

He was only a little wrong about that.

It was only two or three hours he had to wait, but that was two to three hours he had to wait sitting silently in the dark, only occasionally being able to pull out his phone to scroll through, before hearing a random noise in the middle of night, feeling his heart rate jump about 20 beats higher than it should’ve been, and turning off his phone as fast as possible so the light illumination it gave off wouldn’t give him away.

It was a long two or three hours, and a mildly stressful two or three hours, at that, let’s just say.

However, it seemed to him that his patience was rewarded when he heard the slightly distant sounds of Skipper climbing the rope back up to the apartment. It wouldn’t have mattered how quietly he was climbing, after so many hours spent stressing over the slightest of sounds, when he heard the slight scuffle of sneaker rubber against brick, he knew it was either Skipper or a burglar, and he was ready to confront both.

So, Private got into position, just a few moments before Skipper had grabbed the window pane and pulled himself inside. He untied the rope from the weight-supporting beam,  pulled the rest of the rope inside, and then closed the window as quietly as possible. He stared at it a moment, and then let out a sigh of relief.

And then Private clicked the lamp on from where he was sitting in Rico’s recliner, and Skipper half jumped out of his skin.

“You’re home late.”

“Private, I-“ Skipper almost seemed happy to see him, but then something made him hold back. “It’s, uh, nice to see-“

“What are you doing? Sneaking out-sneaking out windows in the dead of night? Why? We have a front door.” Private had left the chair that he was sitting on, and began to pace in front of him. He should have rehearsed. “Wait. The more important thing is, where are you going?”

Private didn’t seem to particularly care if he got an answer or not at this point, especially considering that as Skipper stood there with his mouth gaping, looking like he was about to say something, Private grabbed the sides of his face with his forefinger and thumb and pulled him down to his level.

“And just who in the world split your lip? What? Are you doing a fight club now?” He muttered. Skipper hid his hands as discreetly as possible behind his back. Private squeezed his face once or twice before letting go.

“I want answers. REAL answers. Nobody believed you when you said you joined a bowling league last week, so I want REAL answers. Now.”

“…” Whatever Skipper was trying to explain, or trying to cover up, he really seemed to not have a story put together either way. It was either incredibly hard to explain, or he foolishly didn’t have a story put together in advance and just…EXPECTED to never get caught.

“…You give the best hugs?”

“WHAT?”

“And you’re always so optimistic. It helps my uh, team morale.”

Private let out a quite confused screech.

“And you’re really good at cooking. Your meals are practically restaurant caliber as is.”

Private looked as if a vein was going to pop out of his head, he was so furious. “…You are doing NOTHING to help your case if you think that you can just WANDER in here at deadass hours of the night and think you can just GET OUT OF IT by making me fall to your feet smitten-“

“-Not a big fan of that language from you, bud…”

“That’s it. I’m getting Kowalski.”

“Wait!” Skipper rose his voice slightly, maybe a few decibels too loud as he reached out to grab Private’s hand.

This was a gesture that surprised both of them, as Private turned around to hear him out and Skipper dropped the hand like it was a flaming hot crucible. Skipper seemed conflicted on where to put his hands until he stuck them firmly at his sides.

“I’m sorry.” He said. “For…Everything. For, just being kind of awful lately? I know it’s been…Rough, but I’ve…” He sighed.

“Take your time.” Private said, and Skipper looked almost grateful for it.

“I’ve been forced recently to take a long, hard look at myself, by somebody who knows me quite well…Almost too well. The knowledge, and simultaneously the idea that they have that knowledge has been taking a sort of…mental toll on me.”

Private took a seat, apparently ready to listen more.

“It’s, I don’t know, really. On some level, I want to take it out on them for being right, but I really can’t, so…I guess that’s fallen on you guys when it shouldn’t have, and I’m…really sorry about that.”

Skipper sat down as well, in front of Private.

“I really do mean it when I say I’ve been working on it, I just needed to find an…outlet.”

Private tilted his head. This was something to take in. He felt sort of vindicated for having a feeling that there was more going on, but it was still rather vague.

“What are you saying?”

“…I’ve picked up some…night classes…to help with my stress.”

“…What kind of night classes?”

“Oh, you know…baking.” He said hesitantly.

And that basically clinched it for him. Skipper’s thought process had perfectly revealed himself to him! After hearing something that hit too close to home, he endeavored to better himself, but was embarrassed by it! That sounded reasonable, and it was just like Skipper to do too.

“Don’t get that smug look on your face, if it doesn’t work out I’m picking up night archery.”

“Who? Me? Smug?”

Skipper laughed as he gave him a shove. He seemed a lot more relaxed than he did in a long time. It must’ve felt good to get that weight off his shoulder. Sure, taking cooking classes might not be a big deal for anybody else, but this was Skipper. Skipper was a weirdly hyper-masculine, private guy. For him to even get in a situation where he’d willingly tell Private something like this, it was a pretty big step.

“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t tell Kowalski or Rico.”

“Oh, no problem! If you want, I can pick out a recipe for you to bring in.”

“I was just about to ask for one, how serendipitous.”

Private couldn’t help but keep giggling, just from the relief of it all. It was a pretty tense scenario for quite a bit of time, and he couldn’t help but react in some way to the ease he was now feeling. Skipper got up and gave a stretch that was indicative that he was ready for bed, and couldn’t help but smile fondly as Private tried to catch his breath.

“You know, it’s funny. We, Kowalski, Rico, and I, were trying to figure out what was up. We thought it was anything and everything from a girlfriend to seeing a therapist that was putting you off so badly, who would’ve thought.”

“Ha ha, yeah.” Skipper said, as if Private couldn’t tell his hands were shaking.

“But wait,” Private said, in a sorta-fake moment of wonder. “Where did you get the split lip from then?”

Skipper panicked. “Why did you say that me giving you compliments would make you fall to my feet smitten?”

Private panicked more. “Good night!”

Okay, so maybe they were both working on this “open and honest” thing. So sue them. Baby steps or not, it was a step in the right direction. But, if Skipper’s secrets were as benign as that, then Private could take them any day, and he’d make sure he knew that. He hoped Skipper thought the same of him.

(Remember when 3K was considered long for me? Ha ha, anyhow, this is 5.5K words of nothing but dramatic irony. I really can’t believe that I went from writing short fluff pieces based on actual art to my own story arc about Skipper getting some FUCKING therapy.

Anyhow! Much more important things are afoot! I’m doing charity commissions, where all proceeds are going to bail funds across the country. If you like my writing, feel free to contact me at my Tumblr @cartoons-tothemoon, and we’ll work it out from there. $10 for 5K, or $2 for 1K. Of course, I don’t really know what to charge yet, but that can be negotiated! I’d really appreciate it if you commissioned me at this time, but my work on @drawbauchery’s is always going to be free. I hope you have a nice day!)