#apparently people were like... throwing their car keys over the bridge? no source for this

[nottesilhouette]

the San Francisco Bay Bridge was blocked by over 200 protesters today (11.16.2023) who staged a "die-in" by laying under white sheets & blockading the bridge (which normally sees 260,000 vehicles crossing daily — more now as the city hosts the Asia Pacific Economic Cooperation forum).

[scapegrace74-blog]

New Ways of Turning into Stone, Chapter 6

A/N Where does the time go?  I lugged my laptop 7,000km round trip with the sole intention of working on this fic, but that apparently didn’t happen.  For those who found the last chapter hard to bear, I apologize in advance.  I am not quite finished being cruel.  With that said, trigger warning for character death, childhood disease, suicide ideation.  The chapter title is Sleeping in the Clouds.

The first five chapters are available on my AO3 page.

Five Months Later

A persistent mechanical bleating lifted Claire from the indeterminate depths of medicated sleep.  The emergency contact number she provided to all her patients was programmed to forward to her mobile, where a particularly aggravating ringtone ensured she would never miss a call.  Even at one am on a Tuesday night.

Fumbling for the device, she glanced at the unfamiliar number before answering.

“Doctor Beauchamp speaking.”  Her voice was gritty and rough.  She reached for a half-filled tumbler of water while waiting for the caller to identify themselves.  Over the line she could make out muted traffic noise, and perhaps a distant foghorn, but no-one spoke.

“Hello?” she inquired, torn between concern that a patient needed her and frustration that she might have been woken by a misdialed number.

“If you’re one of my patients, you need to talk to me so that I can help you.”

There was an intake of breath, a weepy sniffle, and then the click of the call being terminated.  A prickle of gooseflesh washed over her.  She couldn’t say exactly how, but she knew who had called, and that he needed her.

One of the grim perks of her job was that she had backdoor access to reverse look-up for telephone numbers, in cases where there was a threat of self-harm or harm to others.  As Claire hastily donned socks and grabbed a winter coat, she waited on hold for the PSAP operator to provide an address.

“We’re in luck, Doctor Beauchamp.  It wasna a mobile number.  In fact, tis a telephone booth.  Gote Lane, in Queensferry.  Down near the... umm, next tae the bridge.”

Without so much as a thank you, she hung up and frantically punched the app for an Uber.

Fifteen nail biting minutes and an excessive tip later, she stood in front of an empty phone booth.  Predictably, the directory had been torn out, leaving only a thin metal cord and car-key graffiti inside the cramped interior.  But on top of the phone itself she found a familiar ecru business card, her name and credentials embossed in black font.

“Damn it, Jamie,” she muttered to herself, palming the card.

If he’d hung up and started walking towards the bridge, she might be able to catch him if she ran all out, but something called her towards the nearby shore instead.

The tide was out, leaving a narrow strip of beach and sharp, slimy rocks exposed to the heavy air.  Her nostrils were assaulted by the briny vegetative rot of the retreating sea.

On a weathered bench facing the river, encircled by a cone of foggy streetlight, sat a man, his eyes trained on the smudgy lights of the Queensferry bridge hovering high above.  Even bundled in a heavy black jacket and watch cap, she would recognize his long limbs and the set of his shoulders anywhere.  She let out a long breath of relief.

She approached the bench cautiously, not certain if her presence would be welcome.  Instead of turning to greet her footsteps, Jamie addressed the bridge.

“Maggie passed t’day.  I called ‘cause I wanted ye tae know, but then I couldna find the words tae tell ye.”  Despite his refusal to look at her, his words were calm and without a hint of the bitterness she’d expected.

“Oh, Jamie.  I’m so terribly sorry.  I didn’t know her well, but she was a very special little girl who loved you dearly.”

He nodded in acknowledgement of her words, but didn’t reply.  She shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other, suddenly aware that she was still wearing her pajamas, her hair doubtless a veritable cumulus of tangled curls.

“Is there anything I can do?” she asked.  “I still have some contacts at the hospital, I could...” she broke off, knowing it was ridiculous to offer professional assistance when she’d been the one to sever their relationship.

“Would ye, if it’s no’ too much tae ask, would ye mind jus’ sittin’ here with me fer a bit?”

He finally turned to look at her, and she could see the spider web of red veins that surrounded his irises, testimony to his heartbreak.  His mouth, usually such an accurate barometer of his mood, was strangely inert.  She nodded, unable to deny him such a simple request.

It was the time of night when the daytime symphony of the city broke into its component parts, every passing car, every lapping wave a single instrument singing its own plaintive song.  They sat in silence for long enough that she could feel the damp creeping up the legs of her pajamas.

“Maggie loved tae cross that bridge,” Jamie said at last.  “She’d lower her window, rain or shine, and stick her wee arm out, sayin’ it felt like she was flyin’.”

Claire smiled at the image, trying to picture the little girl with the giant imagination.

“What colour was her hair, Jamie?” she asked.  “Was it red, like yours?”

“Nah, dark, like Jenny’s and our Da.  But wi’ curls like mine and my Ma’s.  A little like yours, actually, Sassenach.  That is, before the chemo took it away.”

She grimaced, not knowing what topic to choose that wouldn’t lead Jamie on a path directly back to his grief.

“She fought sae hard,” he continued before she could attempt another distraction, “but the cancer wouldna let her win.”  Tears were rolling down his cheeks, glinting in the sodium light like stars, but he didn’t seem to notice or care.  “She was the best person I knew.  Sounds strange tae say of a wee lass, but she truly was.  An’ it made me a better person tae love her.  What the fuck am I gonna do now?”

Jamie was looking straight at her, as though he truly expected her to offer useful guidance.  All her training, her professional distance, fell away in the face of one broken man.  She swallowed, searching for words that weren’t a platitude.

“You’re going to go on living, because she can’t.  Because your happiness, when you are ready to feel it again, will be a gift to her memory.”

Jamie sniffed, then wiped his sleeve across his face.  He placed his hand on the bench between them.  Without allowing herself to think, Claire reached for it, finding his skin surprisingly warm.  There was an agonizing fermata, when all the instruments held their breath, and then he turned his palm upwards to meet her own.  Beneath the fog the river slipped by, blending endlessly into the sea.

"Look, Jamie, I know it’s not the right time, but I want to tell you that I’m sorry.  For the way I treated you, and ended things, and...”

“Nay, Sassenach, it’s me who should apologize.  I had no right tae throw my diagnosis at ye like some kinda weapon.  An’ when I think of how I heedlessly brought up yer becoming a mother.  I, of all people.  Weel, suffice it tae say I’ve spent many an hour regretin’ my words an’ actions.”

She squeezed his hand, wordlessly declaring them equal in remorse.

“How have ye been?” he inquired, peering at her as though trying to read her state of mind on the planes of her face.  She chuckled, looking away when the intensity of his gaze became too much.

“About the same, I suppose.  Better some days than others.  Geillis has started ordering my lunches for me, so I no longer have any excuse not to eat.”  Jamie nodded, seemingly pleased with this news.

“And you?  Are you still seeing Dr. Rafferty?  I... uhh, I know his office requested your file.”

In fact, Giles Rafferty had called her the week after her confrontation with Jamie, wondering why his new patient’s record of treatment contained no more than his biographical details and the time and date of each of his appointments.  She told him the same thing she’d told Geillis when she asked the same question in significantly cruder terms: that her weekly interactions with Jamie had never led to a professional diagnosis or a recommended course of treatment.

“Aye. He’s a good man, although tragically immune tae my charms.  Unlike some.”

“Don’t flatter yourself, Fraser,” she warned, although his rakish grin warmed her from the inside out.

“I’ll be darkening his doorway wi’ some frequency, after t’day,” he continued with a return to solemnity.

And yet you called me, Claire wanted to say, but didn’t.  When his beloved niece had slipped away, hers had been the number he had dialed, despite everything.  The very idea made her thoughts flit about like fireflies.

“I missed ye, Sassenach,” he confessed quietly after a time.

“I missed you too, Jamie.”

They sat together through the thin hours of the night, talking, sharing memories of Maggie, but mostly in silent companionship.  As dawn brightened the eastern sky, the fog began to lift, revealing an overcast sky.  The lights of the bridge blinked out, and the city’s music began anew.  Claire wished futilely that day would never break, knowing that it would bring them both the pain of two very different kinds of goodbye.

Her hand, when Jamie finally let it go, felt strange, as though it had been separated from its source.  She tucked it quickly into her pocket.

“I.. errr, I need tae be goin’,” Jamie said by way of apology.  “Ian and Jenn will be needin’ me.”

“Yes, of course.  I’ll just, um, call myself an Uber.”

They were both standing, neither seemingly knowing how to part.

Jamie opened his mouth, paused, shook his head in frustration, then looked away.  Her traitorous hand escaped her pocket and found its way to his chest.

“I’ll be thinking of you.  All of you.  If there’s anything, anything at all..”

“How long until your no’ my doctor anymore?  Ethically speakin’.”  He was looking at her in a way that made the fireflies whirlpool about.

“What?” she asked to buy herself some time to breath.

“Before I go an’ face everything that is wrong about t’day, I want tae ken, how long must I wait before I can kiss ye again wi’out riskin’ yer reputation?”

“There’s no written timetable,” she stalled.  “It’s a question of a doctor exerting undue influence or the exploitation of the patient’s trust, and there’s really...”

“Those rules are meant tae protect the patient, aye?  So I should be allowed tae waive them, no’?”

“Jamie...”

“Fine, let me rephrase my question.  Doctor Claire Beauchamp, when can I, James Fraser, ask ye tae look upon me as a potential suitor and no’ a former patient?  Six months?  A year?  Two years?”

“You really are the most infuriatingly stubborn man,” she huffed.

“Aye, I ken.  Sae, two years?  Do we have an agreement, Sassenach?”

“Fine, yes, two years, but Jamie, I don’t expect you to...”

A finger was placed across her lips, silencing her protests.

“Two years are naught if I can kiss ye again once they have passed.  Until then, Claire, please take care of yerself.”

She stood by the bench long after Jamie was gone, staring out across the river.  A flock of geese flew by in formation, broad wings nearly touching the surface of the water as it reflected the steel gray clouds above.  She thought of little Maggie, and her birdhouse surrounded by clouds.  A sob wrestled its way up her throat, surprising in its urgency.  And then, she allowed herself to cry.

[bangtan-sonyeonddaeng]

Jackson Zombie Apocalypse AU|

The main rule you always set for yourself was to remain a lone wolf. Having people to worry about taking care of would just slow you down. You knew that it would get you killed, as you saw it happen to countless others, rushing in to save their loved ones and sacrificing themselves. That wasn’t something you were about. In this world you knew it was every man for himself and kill or be killed. 

It’s harsh, but it’s the reality you lived in. After the virus spread and you saw all your friends and family turned into mindless killing machines you made it a point to set out on your own. Sure you grouped up with others when it was convenient or benefitted you, but ultimately you eventually left, remaining alone again. That was until you met a certain man with puppy eyes as wide as saucers. 

He was with a group of 4 other people. They were attempting to scavenge through a convenience store to get food for themselves. You knew there was a group of zombies headed this way, that’s why you were patiently sat in a tree until you knew for sure the coast was clear. You sat back and watched them, they were reckless. Making loud noises and hollering. It was then you saw the first zombie break through the tree line and head right for the store. 

Those idiots are all going to get themselves killed. 

They must have heard the zombies coming because 4 of them bolted out of the store. 

Where’s the 5th one? 

You tried to peer inside of the store with the binoculars but couldn’t see anything. You waited a few moments before he came running out of the store. 

“GUYS! THEY HAD SOME OREOS LE- oh shit.” He takes off running back into the store slamming it shut and frantically looking around for something to barricade the door with. 

Idiot! The store front is all glass they’re just going to break the windows and get in. 

You survey the area and notice there were about 10 zombies in this small group. You didn’t see anymore. You are debating whether you should break your rule and go save this guy, or just stay in the tree and watch everything unfold. There was apparently a storage room on the second floor because you saw the top window open and the guy look around for a way out, that’s when his eyes meet yours. 

“Hey! You! Help me please!”  You shake your head no at him and his jaw drops. “Seriously? You’re just going to let me die?”

“I don’t even know you. Why would I risk my life to save you?”

“Because we’re both humans! We're in this together.”

“You got yourself into this mess you get yourself out.”

“Please I’m begging you. Those other guys had all our weapons I don’t have anything. I am seriously going to die if you leave me.” Just then one of the zombies breaks the glass and a few head into the store. “Shit, please oh my god I’ll do anything just save me! I’ll leave you alone after this I promise just.. I’m not ready to die.” He’s pleading with you, begging even and you are having an internal battle with your conscious. “PLEASE!” You spring into action, jumping down from the tree with your machete and crossbow in hand. You lay waste to the ones outside before making your way in, being careful to be quiet and use you cross bow and machete instead of your gun, not wanting to alert the other zombies of your presence. You kill about 9 of them and make your way upstairs .You notice that the door is wide open and can see the man on the ground with the zombie over top of him, struggling to bite him while the man is trying to throw him off. He’s terrified. You can see it in your eyes. And that’s all the motivation you need to take out your gun and shoot the zombie in the head. It collapses on top of him and the man is frozen for a moment, panting heavily and contemplating what just happened.

“You’re welcome.” His gaze snaps to you immediately. 

“Y-you.. you came?”

“Yeah, couldn’t just let you die now could I?” He smiles at that and shoves the zombie off of him, bounding over to you and pulling you into a tight hug. 

“Thank you. Oh my God thank you I thought for sure that was going to be the end of me.”

“Gross! You’re covered in blood get off of me!” You shove him away but it doesn’t deter the smile on his face.

“What’s your name?”

“It’s y/n.” You try to dust the blood of of your clothes but all you do is smear it around and make it worse.

“My name is Jackson.” 

“Nice to meet you. Alright you’re saved now. Go on back to your group.” 

“Are you kidding?! Those assholes left me here, you really think I am going to go back with them? I just met up with them a few days ago and we agreed to have each other’s backs and they already betrayed me.” 

“That’s the harsh reality we live in Jackson.” 

“Yeah well.. I wanted to believe at least for a little bit that there were still some decent people left in this messed up world.” 

“And it’s exactly that kind of thinking that will get you killed someday.”

“Well not this time. It saved me actually. I trusted you and you came through for me.” 

“That was just a one time thing, don’t you get your hopes up.”

“But y/n I have no weapons now. No food. Surely you should keep me with you so your efforts don’t go to waste when I die of starvation? All that hard work would have been for nothing. You risking your life would have been for naught.” 

“Jackson..” You sigh heavily and pinch the bridge of your nose. 

“Come on I am actually a really good fighter! Give me that machete I’ll mess some zombies up. I used to be a fencer you know.” You consider his words, having someone that not only could hold their own but could help kill the zombies would be a good addition. You think this over for a few moments before you hear a groan from outside. You look out the window and now see a whole horde of zombies heading towards the store. 

“Damnit. Jackson we need to go. Now.” 

“What? Why-” He follows your gaze and you can see the panic in his eyes.

“Now is not the time to panic get your ass in gear and let’s go.” You throw the machete at him, he catches it by the handle thankfully. You grab his hand and take off running out of the store and in the opposite direction from where you came. 

“Thought the smaller towns weren’t supposed to have as many zombies in them.” 

“Usually they don’t. But the hordes can travel wherever the want they have no restrictions! Less talking. More running. Save your breath.” You tug him along as you both go racing through the streets of the small town. You keep running until you get to the outskirts and Jackson collapses on the ground. 

“I can’t run anymore. I’m done.” 

“You can rest for 5 minutes then we’re going. I will leave your ass behind if you don’t follow me.” You sit down next to him and pull some water out of your bag. Jackson eyes it and you hand him a bottle. He starts to chug it and you slap him on the back. He starts coughing loudly and looks at you in shock.

“Why the hell did you do that?!”

“I swear how did you even survive this long.. You need to conserve the water. That’s a limited supply until we find a new fresh water source. You can’t just drink it like that. Honestly are you sure you’re not just going to be a burden?” His face falls at that and you feel a pang in your chest. “Hey, listen I’m sorry for giving you such a hard time. It’s just.. after seeing everyone I care about die I made it a rule to travel alone, and not get attached to anyone ever again. It’s just my walls and stubbornness talking. I don’t actually think you’re a burden.” The corners of his lips tug up in a smile after that. 

“Thanks y/n. I know I don’t really know much about surviving here. To be honest the only reason I’ve survived this long is probably because I’ve always been with a group. The fact you’ve made it this long by yourself is really admirable. Whatever you can teach me, I would be very grateful.” 

“I told you this wasn’t going to be a long term thing, remember?”

“Yeah. But at least for the time we will be traveling together. There’s no reason you can’t give me pointers and stuff, right? Like my mentor? Until your baby bird is strong enough to leave the nest?” You chuckle at that and Jackson’s eyes light up seeing you smile for the first time. “Your smile is pretty. You should do it more often.” You blush and look away, suddenly feeling self conscious. 

“5 minutes are up. Let’s go. There’s a farm house in the distance there do you see it?”

“You mean that one at the top of the hill like 10 miles away?!”

“It’s not that far, come on. Quit being such a baby. Do you want to survive or not?” He nods his head, determined. “Then get up and let’s go.” You know you’re being gruff with him but you can’t help it. He needs to learn how to survive in this world and you can’t coddle him. He doesn't complain once the whole way over there. You approach the farm house and notice it has a well, which means there should still be water in the house. There’s also an old car in the front yard, you make a mental note to see if there are keys in the house somewhere and pray that the car will start. You both walk into the house and glance around. Dust has settled and it’s obvious no one has been here for a while. 

“Good. No one else is here.” You set your bags on the table along with your weapons and collapse in the dining room chair. “You hungry?”

“Do you actually have food?”

“Yeah. Protein bars. Snagged them a while back but they’re still good.” You toss him one and his eyes light up. He scarfs it down but this time you don’t scold him. When he finished the protein bar he looks at you with an odd look in his eyes.

“When was the last time you had Oreos?”

“Oh gosh probably like, a year?” He pulls some out from under his shirt. 

“You actually kept those?!”

“Of course I did!! Food is food! And plus I risked my ass for these Oreos so you better appreciate me for that!” You can’t help it. You burst out laughing and so does he. The stress from everything you both had went through seems to just melt away as the two of you let your laughter ring out into the home. When you settle down you look at him and he’s handing you a cookie. You take it and eat it, savoring the taste as you know it’ll be a while before you come across anything like this ever again. 

“Thank you, Jackson.” 

“You’re welcome. Listen um.. I know you said this is just a temporary thing but, I really hate being alone. If I promise not to get in your way and actually carry my weight can we stay together? At least until maybe we find another group I can go with?” Although you hate to admit it, in the short amount of time you two have been together you have grown at least a little bit fond of him. He’s funny, and seems to genuinely care for others which is rare in this world. 

“I guess that would be o-” Before you can finish your sentence you are pulled into a bone crunching hug.

“Thank you! I promise you won’t regret it. We’re in this together now. I got your back and you got mine right?” He pulls away and holds his hand out to you for a fist bump. You laugh but touch your fist to his. 

“Yeah, I got your back Jackson. I promise.” 

[nextstarblazers]

EPISODE 2

“This was a great battleship in a time when great fleets sailed the seas, and there were wars among the nations of Earth. It sank during one of the last wars between countries. All war on Earth ceased when Gamilon began bombing us. We all joined against a common enemy. Now, the ship has been brought back to life again–not for the purpose of war, although we’ll no doubt see out share of battles, but to save Earth. The message from Queen Starsha of Iscandar offers Earth its one chance for survival. As you know, the radiation increases every day. Now, life on Earth has only one year left. We must reach Iscandar, get the Cosmo DNA, and return to Earth in one year. The Star Force needs you–and others like you!” - Captain Avatar

As the above oration indicates, the second episode of STAR BLAZERS spends its 23 minutes laying out the concept of the series–even when it has to bull through logic and common sense to do so (such as the sequence where Wildstar, Venture and Dr. Sane are ordered to report to a given location, leaving Nova behind–only to discover moments later that she’s arrived there before them in some mysterious, unexplained manner.) 

Speaking of that particular air-car ride, it’s the first instance in which the series needs to disguise Dr. Sane’s obvious alcoholism. It does so in this instance by suggesting that the bottle of liquid that he’s downing so readily is “a new motion sickness remedy I’ve been testing.” In the early YAMATO episodes, Dr. Sane/Dr Sado was very much a comedic character, and in fact most of his scenes across the first half of the series ended up on the cutting room floor when YAMATO became STAR BLAZERS. But some, like this one, were too entrenched in the narrative of the episode to discard. IQ-9 invites himself along on the mission as well, speaking of his capabilities, which leads Wildstar to quip, “Better be smart enough to have a good alibi.”

Remarkably, this particular episode of STAR BLAZERS makes no secret of the fact that its signature battleship is the reborn Yamato, although it is the last episode in which that name will be uttered. It’s pretty remarkable, given the time in which the series was brought over, that this identification was maintained–especially given how easy it would have been to get around it. And in fact, the episode opens with an extended replay of the closing minutes of the first episode, in which Wildstar and Venture crash their purloined plane near the wreckage of the ancient warship and speculate about its secret. This was necessary to bring the episode up to the necessary American run-time after the largest single cut made to STAR BLAZERS–the extraction of a three-minute sequence, beautifully and sensitively rendered, depicting the final mission of the battleship Yamato. And it’s really no wonder. Beyond the fact that an American audience would have no cultural touchstone for these events, in the context of the sequence, the American pilots who sink the Yamato are the bad guys, for all that they salute the fallen ship as it goes down. 

The production team of STAR BLAZERS made one other significant tonal shift from the source material. In YAMATO, the emphasis was on the ship itself, with the various crew members being simply “men of Yamato.” But STAR BLAZERS flips that emphasis on its head by making the focal point the crew themselves, who are christened the Star Force in this episode. (In fact, STAR FORCE was originally to have been the name of the series, but apparently there was a legal snag with using that name, so STAR BLAZERS had to be concocted.) 

This led to a greater emphasis in STAR BLAZERS on the characterization of the crew members as individuals. Often, sequences in STAR BLAZERS which were silent in the original YAMATO airings were given dialogue, and the dialogue itself centers more on the people and what they’re feeling and going through than the original did. That’s very much to the benefit of STAR BLAZERS, and another thing that set it apart from everything else on the afternoon airwaves in 1979. No other program contained a similar depth of emotion.

This is also the first episode in which we get out first glimpse of the enemy, personified by the harried commander of a Gamilon aircraft carrier dispatched to patrol Earth and eliminate any stray resistance. He’s a pretty stock character, but the key take-away from him is that, at this point, the Gamilons were Caucasian–they wouldn’t develop their signature blue epidermis for ten more episodes or so, a late-in-the-game change by the YAMATO creators. As the carrier bombs what it believes to be the aperture of an underground city, the reborn Yamato is, for a long. suspenseful couple of moments unable to fight back, and its mission seems predestined to failure.

And then, on cue, auxiliary power is established, and the great ship rises up, breaking free of the encrusted sea bed and unleashing the power of its massive guns to destroy the enemy ship. And this is one of those instances where, try as it might (particularly in the earliest episodes) , STAR BLAZERS can’t hide the fact that the Gamilon commander has just been killed. We see him aboard his distressed ship just seconds before it is completely annihilated, and even though the specific moment of his demise is cut, it’s clear that he is both a living being and that he is done for.

This was another big dramatic difference that STAR BLAZERS evidenced. Though it struggled with it as the earliest episodes were translated and adapted (as we’ll see in the coming weeks) there was no getting around the reality that this was a ship of war in a time of war, and that there were going to be casualties on both sides. After the death of Alex Wildstar yesterday, the end of the Gamilon commander helped to underline the fact that serious, life-threatening stuff was going on here, and the stakes were absolutely life-and-death.

Because it’s so concerned with laying out the plot, Episode 2 does take a few liberties with character. Wildstar makes only a passing reference to his brother’s death (”I’m proud to go with you, sir, and to serve with the Star Force, as my brother would have been!”), a thread that will come back up again the following day, and he seems completely on board with the notion of throwing in with Captain Avatar and kicking some Gamilon ass. His ambivalence toward Avatar and the circumstances of Alex’s end will resurface in the following episode, which gives the whole progression a herky-jerky quality.

We also get our first look this time out as the incredibly-popular Gamilon leader Desslok, here as pasty-faced as his subordinates. Voice performer Eddie Allen gives Desslok a unique cadence to his delivery–an odd choice that really serves to embody the character over time. He’s going for Boris Karloff, but ends up with something a bit more fey and unique.

This second episode closes by introducing one of the cleverest narrative bits in its arsenal–the episodic ‘countdown-to-extinction”. It’s such a simple thing, but it did so much to maintain suspense across dozens of episodes, as you would see the clock ticking down day by day as the Star Fore attempted to bridge space and retrieve the Cosmo DNA that can save mankind. At this point, the format of the series is set, and future episodes will go on to develop and refine it.

[qqueenofhades]

the tangled web of fate we weave: xii

HAPPY GARCY SUNDAY, Y’ALL. I wasn’t sure whether to post this before the episode, since it’ll probably get buried, but @extasiswings and @prairiepirate wanted it and I love to make them happy. So. Here we are.

part xi/AO3.

February 10, 2012

Lucy turns over a glossy proof for the book cover, then another one, trying to tell if there’s much discernible difference (maybe the title typeface is a few points bigger on the first one, and the photo of Lincoln is a little smaller?) or if there is any way she still needs to be here at 10:55 pm on Friday night to sort it out. The answer to that latter question is no, she doesn’t really need to be, but it’s been the week from hell and she hasn’t had much other time to do it. She sent the final line edits and galley proof back on Wednesday, she has the midterm to write for two classes, and there’s a Historian’s Craft workshop that she naïvely volunteered to help with back in December, after someone sent out a panicked email and of course she felt obliged to step in. When you are not quite two years into the job, and are still the lowest in the faculty pecking order, you get stuck with these kinds of things.

Where was she? Right. Book covers. Lucy stares back and forth between them again. It’s not like this has any chance of ending up on the NYT bestseller list, though she’s sure that the University of Chicago Press will appreciate her attention to detail for the hundred copies ordered for other academic libraries. She’s worked hard on the book, though, and she’s proud of it. “Publish or perish” is absolutely a real thing, and she’s had her journal articles, a few chapters in edited volumes, and papers from conference proceedings, but a monograph is different. Good, solid, quantifiable work. She turned twenty-nine a month ago, and here it is. Already has a permanent position at Stanford. Things worked out.

(Things worked out.)

Lucy reaches out to adjust her book lamp and take a dutiful inventory of them both. Spines look the same. Her picture on the back cover is not completely hideous (a shallow thing to be concerned about, perhaps, but there you have it). You don’t really have admiring quotes on academic books the way you do on popular press ones, but whoever has written the blurb for the back cover has made her sound decently appealing. Eeney-meeny-miney-mo?

After a pause, Lucy decides that she’ll just close her eyes and point, and then she will get her things together and go home. It is, after all, Friday night. Noah will be working late, because he does on Fridays, but she can run a bubble bath and maybe drink a glass of wine in the tub. Start that new novel she’s been meaning to. She’s been meaning to. Been meaning a lot.

Lucy closes her eyes, and points at the covers.

She opens her eyes, looks at the winner, decides she likes the other one better, and then wonders if she really does, or she’s just being contrary. What the hell. Not now. It is in fact eleven o’clock, and she wants to go home. She picks up her purse and keys, shrugs on her jacket and throws her scarf around her neck, then steps out of her office and locks it, admiring the “Dr. Lucy Preston” nameplate, as she does every time it catches her eye. It’s supposed to be nice weather this weekend. She’ll see what Amy is up to, maybe. Call Mom. The last doctor’s report came back encouragingly; Carol’s cancer seems to be in remission after the first major round of treatment. She’s been feeling incredibly crappy, since chemo does that to you, but the prognosis, for now, is moderately decent.

Lucy takes the elevator down and steps out into the dark campus, heading for the faculty parking lot. As she always does when she comes out late, she dutifully looks both ways, keeps her keys at hand, and takes an extra look, just in case. Both for the possibility of any muggers – and, well. Just in case he feels like coming back.

(Lucy doesn’t know that she’s proud of getting back together with Noah, exactly. But he is a grownup with a real job, he knows how to be in a relationship, he did still have a torch for her and was willing to give things another try, and if she’s just tired of being alone and wants to have someone in the house when she comes home, that’s not something to be judged for. It’s fine. It’s always been fine. Noah is a caring and attentive partner and has been supportive of her coming down the stretch with the book, given her space when she acts weird, done his best to help her how she needs. It’s comfortable and it’s familiar and it could be much worse. She has nothing to apologize for, to herself or anyone.)

Lucy reaches her car and unlocks it, swinging behind the wheel and turning on the heater; it’s February, it’s still plenty chilly, especially late at night, and she has a Californian’s innate horror of temperatures below fifty degrees Fahrenheit. At least rekindling things with Noah means that she got to move in with him, after six months of living at home again with her mom. It wasn’t bad, she reminds herself. She is glad that she was able to be there for Carol while she was going through the first, worst stages of treatment. But now that the cancer is in remission and the book is done, now is the time to finally, finally ask her mother about Benjamin Cahill. Lucy has been sitting on this secret for two years, weighing heavily on her heart and mind and soul, and held her tongue because she didn’t want to make things worse. But now, now she is going to do it. She hasn’t seen anyone from Rittenhouse, or at least that she knows is from Rittenhouse, since all that shit went down. Hasn’t seen Emma, or Cahill himself, or anyone. It makes her wonder if Flynn did something, made a big enough mess elsewhere that all their attention got pulled off her, or someone issued orders that she was to be left in peace. Why or how, Lucy has no notion. She has been content to pretend those two months in 2010 did not, for the most part, exist. It hurts her too much when she lets them live.

Once the car is decently warm, Lucy pulls out and heads home. Noah finished his residency at Santa Rosa and is at a hospital in Oakland now, but they still live this side of the Bay Bridge. It’s a decent rental townhouse, just achievable with their combined professional salaries (well, Noah’s professional salary – Lucy doesn’t exactly make bank). They’ve been back together for about a year now, and it’s clear that most people feel another proposal is in the offing before long. It’s also clear that if Lucy turns it down a second time, well, that’s a sign that this isn’t the guy to spend her life with, or at least that she wants to. But she hasn’t met anyone else in the real world – in this world, here, now, possibly – that she can actually see herself with, or that is available. Noah might be all there is. It isn’t the case, fish in the sea and all that, but when would she have time to date, throw herself out there for a new relationship? She has a strong introvert streak and the idea is not appealing. No need to mess this up, when Noah is – after all – fine. And yet. She still hopes he doesn’t propose.

There is a light on in the window when Lucy pulls in, and Noah’s car is parked on the driveway, which is surprising. She didn’t think he would be home yet. Maybe they actually had a quiet night at the hospital and let him off rotation early, though that almost never happens. He’ll probably be tired, though, so maybe she can still proceed to the bath-and-wine part of the evening. Or, since it’s late, just hit the hay and go do something tomorrow.

Lucy gets out, locks the car, and heads up the walk, pushing the door open. “Hey, I’m home!”

“In here.” Noah’s voice comes from the living room, sounding… odd. Lucy frowns, suddenly worried. “Can you come in, please?”

“What’s going on?” Lucy shucks her work heels and blazer, hangs her purse on the coat tree, and walks into the living room, where Noah is sitting on the couch with the face he has on when delivering bad news to patients’ families. Oh God, this isn’t about Mom, is it? Noah isn’t her doctor, and there would have to be some major breach of medical ethics for him to have seen her files, but Carol loves Noah and is usually talking to him about this anyway, things she’s seen on the internet, the efficacy of new treatments, one name-brand drug vs. the other, etc. Lucy feels that if her mother wants to use her boyfriend as a free source of information and expertise, she should pay him for it like everyone else would when accessing a professional service, but Noah feels awkward asking, and everyone is sensitive to Carol’s illness, wants to help, make it easier. Seems crass to bring up money for family, after all.

“Hey,” Lucy says tentatively. “I – didn’t realize you were going to be home. What’s going on?”

“I switched shifts,” Noah says. “I took the one on Sunday that nobody wants, so I could come home early and clean and cook dinner and treat you for finishing your book. Anyway, I was doing that, and while I was, I found this in the closet.” He points at the coffee table. “Along with a couple boxes of bullets. You can guess I was pretty surprised.”

Lucy’s stomach flips. It’s the gun that Flynn bought her two years ago, zipped in its case, but in a way that makes it clear Noah opened it and saw what it was. She hasn’t kept up religiously, but she’s still gone to a range every few months, and while she is not a Navy SEAL, she’s not a total joke. This, obviously, has been a private weekend activity that she hasn’t really felt the need to share with anyone else, not even Amy. Maybe Emma went to London like she wanted and Rittenhouse has moved on to bigger and better things than one history professor, but Lucy has never had the luxury of being sure. This, however…

“So,” Noah says, when the silence has gotten painful. “You wanna tell me why you own a gun and have apparently been using it, and haven’t told me about this?”

Lucy winces. “It was just… it’s just been something I’ve been doing on the side.”

“On the side, okay.” Noah looks up at the ceiling. “You know how I feel about this, Lucy. I’m in Oakland, half the cases that come through the ER are kids who’ve gotten shot up, seventeen-year-old gangbangers with three holes in them, or Mr. Fragile Masculinity brought a gun to his workplace because a woman turned him down for a date and boom, six people are dead. I spend five hours trying to save them and still lose them, and I really – ” He pauses, composes himself, and breathes deeply. “I really do not want one in my house.”

Lucy cannot blame him for this at all, given it was how she felt until two years ago. Even more, she can’t really explain how and why she got it in the first place without venturing into deeply perilous territory. “You know,” she says weakly. “Self-defense. Just in case something ever happened, we might – ”

“You work at Stanford University. This is as nice and boring a middle-class neighborhood as they come. If there was a break-in, the cops would be here in five minutes or less.” Noah is clearly trying very hard to keep his tone calm, but the rough edges of anger keep breaking through. “How long have you had this?”

“For a…” Lucy hesitates. “Remember when I turned up at Santa Rosa on that… that really weird weekend, with the… the guy who was shot, and… all that?”

“When you wanted to be called Anna Thompkins and pretend you were his wife?” Noah’s lips tighten. They might be back together, but it is clear that he does not need reminding. “What, was it – did he get it for you?”

“Yes,” Lucy says. “There was a lot of stuff happening. It was a very bizarre few months. I… had reason to think my life might be in danger at a few points, and Fl… he thought it was a good idea if I… if I knew how to use one.”

Noah looks at her even more strangely. “You’ve never mentioned this.”

“I… I know.” Lucy looks down at her hands. “But it was a year before we got back together, and it stopped, and… I just didn’t think it was important.”

“But your last visit to the range was…” Noah pulls a crumpled receipt out of the bullet box and checks it. “December 16, 2011. So just a couple months ago, you still thought it might be important, and it still didn’t feel like something you might share with me?”

“I’m…” Lucy has no excuse. “I guess I didn’t want to bother you with it.”

“We’re together, Lucy! We live together, here, in the same house! If someone might be coming after you, the odds are good they would also be coming after me!” Noah’s cheeks go blotchy red. “Besides, I obviously want you to talk to me if you feel scared, if you think things aren’t right, if there is something I can help you with! I love you, Lucy, it’s not a bother to deal with serious, major situations that are making you feel so unsafe as to buy a damn gun! I just – ” He catches himself again, modulating his tone. “I thought we were working on these things this time around. Second chance, fresh start.”

“We – we were. I mean, we are.” Lucy knits her fingers more tightly. “Noah, believe me, I wish I could explain, but – ”

“You wish you could explain. Maybe, I don’t know, just actually explain? That guy, John Thompkins or whatever he said his name was – you said he was the one who saved your life in that car accident when you were in college, but never anything else about who he was or why he got shot. Those the same people you think might be shooting at you?”

“I… would imagine so,” Lucy says, after a long moment. “Probably. Yes.”

“Jesus Christ.” Noah racks his fingers down his face. “And one small woman with a handgun is going to stop those kinds of people, is she?”

“It’s better than not having it.”

“As long as they only attacked you at home? Or have you been bringing it when you go out too?”

“I – no, I’ve just been going to the range every few months or so.”

“Right. Okay.” Noah clearly can’t decide whether be relieved or even angrier. “Have you seen John Thompkins recently?”

“No.” Lucy can’t quite keep the hollowness out of her tone. “I don’t think I will. The last time, we… he made it clear he was… not planning on coming back.”

Noah glances at her sidelong. Then he says, “Well. Honestly, he seemed like bad news. I know he saved your life a couple times, but maybe it isn’t coincidence that he’s disappeared and the scary shit stopped. You think?”

“Maybe it isn’t,” Lucy agrees. “And if you’re going to ask, no. I have literally no idea where he is. It could be anywhere.” Anywhen?

“Okay.” Noah blows out another breath. “Look, I don’t want to be outrageous about this, but you were the one who hid a gun in the house and thought we might be attacked and didn’t say anything to me about it, I feel like I have at least a leg to stand on. I really do not want it here. I’m not saying you have to get rid of it altogether, but like – take it to your mom’s and stick it in the attic or something. Somewhere like that. Can that be the compromise, Lucy? Please?”

Lucy hesitates. This is, again, an entirely reasonable offer – completely in character, things with Noah are never bad, they are always fine. This has been a shock and he’s rightfully angry, but he’s trying to work through it and be reasonable. “Okay. I’ve been meaning to talk to her anyway. The – the first round of chemo is finally done, and she’s – she’s in remission.”

“That’s great to hear.” Noah stands up. “I’m sorry I didn’t get around to making your dinner. We’ll reschedule. I think I’m just going to take a shower and go to bed. Night, Lucy.”

“Night,” Lucy echoes, turning her face up so he can peck her quickly on the cheek. Once he’s gone upstairs and she hears the water start running, she sags back on the couch and feels as if that went a lot worse than, strictly speaking, it did. As well, she hasn’t so much as spoken Flynn’s name aloud since the last time she saw him. They drove to Columbus, discovered that it would be cheaper and nonstop to fly from Cincinnati instead, and got most of the way there before the RV finally and spectacularly gave up the ghost. Had to hitchhike the last thirty miles to the airport, but were finally picked up by a kindly trucker, while Flynn sat glaring with his hand on his gun inside his jacket the whole time. Lucy was afraid that someone would sneeze and set off a bullet hailstorm, but they made it. Flew back to San Francisco and stood in the terminal awkwardly, since it was clear that Flynn wasn’t staying here, but wanted to wait until she left before getting onto his next flight. She was going back to her life, and he was leaving his altogether.

(“Goodbye, Lucy,” and a handshake. A handshake. He walked her out to arrivals, then as she was standing on the curb waiting for a bus into downtown, she looked over her shoulder for him one more time, and he had vanished in the crowd.)

Lucy rubs both hands over her face, trying to feel better, which doesn’t work. She knows why Noah was angry, as he had every right to be, but what’s making it worse is the fact that she doesn’t know if she should in fact have gotten rid of the gun months ago. She has no clue what’s happening with Rittenhouse or Flynn or the fucking time machine or any of the utterly bizarre shit that dominated her life for those few months in 2010. Noah is right that maybe Flynn’s disappearance and the world going back to normal are correlated, and Lucy should be grateful for that. To some degree, she is. But why, why is she still half-expecting, half-hoping to see Flynn waiting for her when she leaves campus late? Reappear out of the blue with some miraculous plan to defeat Rittenhouse and return the world to normal? But if it is… or is this just another illusion, another thin veneer of safety, to be shattered in turn? She doesn’t know. She has no idea. For someone like Lucy, that’s her worst nightmare.

At last, Lucy gets up, goes upstairs, and feels like Noah might not be altogether interested in sharing a bed with her tonight. So she goes into the guest room and pulls out the futon, piles on some pillows and quilts from the closet, and crawls in, burying herself like a mole. Tomorrow. She’ll go by Mom’s tomorrow and finally get some answers. Drop off the gun (but maybe Carol doesn’t need to know exactly what it is either). Sort this out.

Lucy dozes off eventually, has weird dreams, and wakes up late the next morning. When she shuffles downstairs, Noah is gone, but he has left a plate of blueberry pancakes as an apparent peace offering, and Lucy is not too proud to eat them with butter and syrup. Then she showers, gets dressed in her flannels and sweats since it’s Saturday and she looks nice the rest of the time, and carefully packs the gun and ammo in a box with lots of other newspapers and knickknacks and other stuff she’s been meaning to clear out. There. Nothing suspicious. She loads it into the car, pulls on her sunglasses, and heads out.

Twenty-odd minutes later, Lucy turns into her mom’s driveway, parks, and gets out with the box. Trundles up the walk, running over her script in her head one more time – how to bring this all up in a gentle but firm way, and not be sidetracked again. Her mom can be good at doing that. But this is a good time to clear the air, she won’t get a better chance. She just has to… do it.

Lucy shifts the box onto her hip, and knocks.

After a pause, she hears footsteps, the deadbolt chain unlocks, and her mom, wearing a bathrobe and a flowery beanie, opens the door. Her hair is just starting to grow back in after the first round of chemo, and Carol, a woman who is always impeccably put together, is self-conscious; she wears a wig in public, and a variety of fashionable hats otherwise. She still looks thin, but better, and smiles warmly. “Lucy. What a surprise.”

“Hi, Mom.” Lucy takes a better grip on the box. “We – well, Noah was doing a little spring cleaning, and there’s just some stuff that we don’t really have room for. Can I possibly pop this in the attic? Then we can have some coffee and talk.”

“Of course.” Carol opens the door and steps back to invite her. “How’s the book going?”

“I just finished it. Picked the cover, I can show you. It’s in my purse.” Lucy shuffles in, hauls the box up the stairs, and up the creaky, dusty, fold-out ladder that leads to the attic. She puts it down with a clunk, feeling better that she has done as Noah wanted, and worse that the gun is now out of her house and out of easy reach if, God forbid, she did need it. Maybe she can sneak back here and pick it up again anyway. There has to be somewhere else in the house that Noah won’t find it. Or just –

“Lucy? What are you doing up there?”

She jumps. “Coming, Mom.”

With that, she puts a crate of Christmas decorations and a blanket on top of the box, feeling like Harry hiding the Horcrux in the Room of Requirement, then climbs back down the ladder, brushing the dust off. She follows Carol down to the sunny kitchen, where they sit down. She waves off the offer of tea, since she’s just had breakfast, goes in circles with some small talk about the book and how the classes are going, then finally tells herself that it is now or never. “So, Mom. I was… hoping we could talk.”

“Isn’t that what we’re doing?” Carol asks. “You’ve been so busy, but – ”

“Yes, of course. I just meant.” Lucy steels herself. “About Benjamin Cahill.”

There is a long and very nasty pause. Her mother goes somewhat pale (or at least, paler). Her thin fingers tap out a rhythm on the tabletop, stop, then tap again. Finally she says, rather too levelly, “Where did you hear about Benjamin?”

“I met him. Actually. A while ago. He told me.” Lucy looks her mother straight in the eye. “Who he is. Is there any reason for him to be lying about it?”

“He… no.” Carol looks crumpled. “He’s… he is your biological father. But Lucy… the situation was difficult, I was young, I know you may be angry at me, but try to see it from my point of view. Henry was a wonderful father to you and Amy, there was never any need to – ”

“Dad was.” Lucy’s throat feels rather thick, as if she can’t call him that without qualification any more, but Henry Wallace is the only man in her life who remotely earned the title, and he gets to keep it. “Dad was great. But don’t you think that I might have needed to know this at some point? If nothing else, for medical histories and whatever, if not for the fact that I had a father that neither of you ever thought it was important for me to know?” Having met Cahill herself, she understands, but maybe he wasn’t always like that.

Carol raises a hand. “Lucy – how did – when did you learn this?”

Lucy isn’t sure if the truth is better or worse in this instance, but she doesn’t feel like it’s the moment for more lies. “Two years ago. He came by Stanford. He was very interested in recruiting me into – some society of his.”

“Some society?” Carol looks puzzled. “What was that?”

“Never mind. It was… it was all a little strange. I thought that might be why you had put distance between us, why you… why you never told me about him.”

“Lucy, you’ve known about this for two years, and you haven’t told me about it?”

“You knew and didn’t tell me for twenty-nine years of my life, so.” Lucy looks at her mother evenly. “I think I still have some catching up to do.”

“That’s not fair, sweetheart. I’ve been sick, I’ve – ”

“Yes, you have, and I’ve been worried about you. I moved home for several months, I spent the week after I graduated going with you to doctor’s appointments, I didn’t say anything until we got the news that you were in remission because I didn’t want to add to your stress. I’ve waited, I’ve been patient. And you weren’t sick before. You could have told me before.”

“You sound very hostile right now.” Carol surveys her daughter with a frown. “Lucy, if there’s all this anger, it can’t be healthy that you’ve just let it build up. You know you could try to – ”

“It’s my fault that I’m upset about you lying about my father?” Lucy gets half to her feet with a clatter. “You can’t even let me have this without telling me how to do it better?”

“Sweetheart, that is not what I meant. Sit back down, please. Let’s talk about this like grownups. I don’t know how much Benjamin told you, but – ”

“It sounded creepy, frankly.” Lucy hesitates, but sits. “He says that he was a visiting professor at Stanford and you were in his class. Please tell me that is not when you… slept together.” No one wants to think about their parents’ sex life, period, but still. She needs to know that that at least is not the case, though it won’t be any less squicky.

“It was after,” Carol says. “It was just a brief thing. He was in another relationship, and for various reasons, we agreed that it was best to continue on our separate ways. He did send some money, sometime. It was all very discreet and professional.”

Discreet and professional. Just the words you want to hear about your parents getting together, after – by the sound of things – Benjamin Cahill cheated on his girlfriend/wife with a pretty young student, knocked her up, then vamoosed. Lucy’s mouth tastes sour, as if the more she learns about this, the more horrifying it gets. “And you were okay with that?”

“Look.” Carol puts her hand over Lucy’s. “It was a long time ago. I’ve made my peace with it. Do you want to know the best thing about Benjamin Cahill? He gave me you.”

Lucy opens her mouth, then shuts it. She looks down at their fingers, the sunlight pooling on the table. Doesn’t want to ask this next question, but still. Finally she says, very carefully, “Did he ever mention anything called Rittenhouse?”

“Rittenhouse? That’s an odd name. What was it supposed to be?”

“Some… weird secret society. He’s very into it. Some – well, some stuff happened around when you were first diagnosed, and… like I said, I thought that was why you decided it was better not for me to know him.”

“He may have mentioned it in passing, I don’t remember.” Carol shakes her head. “The Cahills were a wealthy family, well-connected – his father was an aide in the White House, I do remember that. Eisenhower administration. They had all kinds of political and philanthropic projects. I can’t be sure of them. Why?”

“I just… I met a few of their people, around the same time I met him. They’re very… intense.” Lucy tries to think how to phrase this without worrying her mother. “I – I used to know someone who wanted to look into them, and I just thought…”

Carol’s eyes sharpen. “I’m sorry, you knew who?”

“Just… a guy.” Not that she would do a damn bit of good with the information. It’s not like she’s going to randomly run into Flynn in the Starbucks line. “But if you remembered anything useful, then I just – ”

“Whatever it is,” Carol says with great finality, “it’s his business, Lucy, and it does sound like it’s better to stay away from it, so I think you should. But I don’t think you’ve ever mentioned this friend of yours who wanted to look into a Rittenhouse.”

“It was a while ago. We’re… not in contact anymore.”

Carol glances at her. Then, seemingly as a non sequitur but Lucy can tell that it’s not, she says, “So how are things with Noah?”

“Things with Noah are fine.” Lucy isn’t sure she’s ever given another answer to that question in her life. “He – was going to cook me dinner at some point to celebrate the book getting done. You know we’re both busy, it’s just whenever we can – ”

“Well,” Carol says. “Now that you’ve been back together for a year, you’ve moved in together, have you given any more thought to what a next step might look like? Noah did ask me the other day if you had any more thoughts about… you know. A proposal.”

“What?” Lucy feels a sudden urge to get up and walk out of the house. “He was asking you if we should get engaged?”

“Not necessarily. But he did want to know if you had changed your mind on that at all.”

“I…” Whatever Noah was asking about, Lucy isn’t sure he still thinks the same after the gun reveal, which is almost a perverse relief. “Look, what we have is – it works, all right? It doesn’t need to change or have labels or – you know, any of that. It doesn’t need to be messed up.”

Carol’s brow furrows. “Messed up is a strange way to describe marrying the man you love, Lucy. You do love him, don’t you?”

“Y – yeah, of course.” Lucy glances at the clock. “You two are apparently still friends, so… that’s great. Hey, how about I get my cover proofs? I can show you those.”

Carol eyes her, but deigns to accept the change of subject. Lucy fetches the covers from her purse, Carol thinks she should have chosen the other one, and corrects a split infinitive on the back cover copy. Then finally, Lucy kisses her on the cheek, tells her that she’s happy to see her doing better, and heads out.

It’s a nice day, and she goes out to sit at a coffee shop, hoping that nobody she’s supposed to impress will see her slumming it like a student in her sweatpants. (Professors are human too, you know.) But even though she’s finally gotten a few answers, nothing feels as if it has fallen magically into place. Benjamin Cahill was a skeezeball, her mother doesn’t know anything about Rittenhouse, Noah was kicking around the idea of proposing or at least before he discovered a gun in her shoebox, and Carol’s last question is what Lucy is going to start on next, now that she’s finished the Lincoln book. Nothing exactly earth-shaking. Lucy has clung tenaciously to this life, has insisted on going back and burrowing into it as a defense mechanism, and of course, of course she loves it. But she isn’t sure she likes it any more.

(She wishes – she wishes – that she could just see Flynn again. Know where he’s been. What he’s doing. If he’s even still alive. Rittenhouse could have shot him and dumped him in a shallow grave, and she would never, never know.)

But she’s not going to. She can’t keep hoping, waiting for a man who has, yet again, become all but a ghost, and she didn’t. Moved on with her life, in all senses of the word. Yet if Lucy’s honest, she knows there is a part of her that doesn’t want to accept any possible proposal from Noah, because she doesn’t want Flynn to turn up two days afterward and explain that he has some grand plan to finally defeat Rittenhouse, and she should once more leave her entire life and come with him to do that. It wouldn’t be fair. To Noah.

(That’s what she’s going with. Unfair to Noah.)

And yet. It doesn’t matter. Because it feels, at last, as if Garcia Flynn is finally and truly gone, and the only real way to describe that is heartbreak.

It’s Saturday night, February the eleventh, and Wyatt and Jessica Logan are fighting.

They have in fact been fighting almost non-stop recently, and took a break from fighting at home to go to a bar, which has just resulted in them fighting in public. They’re keeping their voices down, they’re not making a scene, mostly just hissing at each other over their beer and smiling unconvincingly at anyone who might glance over. The idea was that they would get a change of scenery and talk about this over drinks, but that does not appear to be happening. After the whole San Francisco fiasco, Wyatt went home, apologized a lot, and promised they were turning over a new leaf. Then three weeks later he took a months-long assignment tracking two major cocaine cartels from Colombia, one of the most dangerous jobs he’s ever had (and that’s saying a lot). With his previous exploits and Spanish-language ability, he was pretty damn good at it, but he’s still obviously an American gringo, and he came home with yet more damage. Had nightmares. Won’t go see a shrink. Jessica says he’s deliberately stonewalling her, burning them down, and she is at her fucking wit’s end.

(He’s not, he’s not – not on purpose, he’s not, he’s not. Pendleton disagreed with this assessment and put him on leave, but it didn’t help. Wyatt was antsy, unpleasant, itchy, needed to go out, needed to get back to the war – any war, really. It gives him form and definition and purpose, and he doesn’t know, he doesn’t know, what is so deeply fucked up inside him that he wants it more than to rest at home with a woman who loves him.)

Jessica says it’s pretty obvious he either can’t or doesn’t want to change, that she loves him but isn’t sure how much longer she can stand living with him. They have met with a marriage counselor a few times, but Wyatt hates doctors and he isn’t sure how this is supposed to help them. He knows what’s wrong – that he’s chronically uncommunicative, hot-tempered, difficult, drinks a lot, and is prone to vanishing for months on highly dangerous classified missions – but that then implies there is any way for it to stop. Wyatt has tried, he’s tried over and over. He loves Jess and wants it to work as much as she does. He’s tried eating the rabbit food that Californians love so much, he took pills for a while but they fucked up his reflexes, he’s even given the whole Kumbaya cleansing thoughts and scented candles a whirl. None of it works. He’s still stuck in his head, looking at himself being this person, and he hates it so much he sometimes thinks that if he just switched off tomorrow and did not reactivate for five years, he wouldn’t mind. Wipe the mainframe and perform a complete reinstall/reboot.

Jessica says that fad diet and happy thoughts aren’t going to help serious, pervasive long-term depression and PTSD – it’s clinical, it’s a disease, why won’t he just see a doctor. Wyatt snaps back that clearly everything is his fault in this relationship. Jessica is less able to keep her voice down as she points out that she didn’t say that, and he doesn’t keep his down at all as he fires back that she was definitely thinking it. Heads turn. A hush falls over the room.

Wyatt’s face burns. He gets to his feet and pulls $10 out of his pocket, palms it down on the counter. “Keep the change,” he says. “Jess. Let’s go.”

Jessica pauses, then icily swings her purse to her shoulder and stalks after him, as Wyatt can feel the eyes of everyone in the bar following them. They are obviously wondering if this is the kind of situation where they should have spoken up and done something, but nobody moves to openly interfere. They walk stiffly into the parking lot and get into the car.

Wyatt is hoping the argument can wait until they get home, but Jessica says she just wants to know what’s wrong with him, and Wyatt – perhaps since this is the one question he has no answer to, is so terrified about – can feel himself snap. He slams on the brakes and shouts that fine, if she thinks he’s so terrible, she doesn’t need to stay close to him for a second longer. Get out. Door’s right there. It’s not that far home. Nice night. She can fucking walk.

Jessica stares at him for the longest, most nauseous moment in the world, white to the lips. Then she nods once, rips her seatbelt off, and practically kicks the door open. Steps out – Wyatt catches a glimpse of her face in the rearview mirror, glowing demonic red in the hue of the brake lights – and stands there, waiting for him to pull away, until he does. The tires scrape and squeal. He’s not drunk, but he’s possibly had more than he should to be driving. It’s not far. It’s not far.

It is, of course, barely ten minutes later when Wyatt feels as if he’s had a bucket of freezing water sluiced over him, and realizes that leaving your wife on the side of a dark road late at night is an awful, awful thing to do no matter how angry you are at her (and especially when she is 100% right about what a fucked-up mess you are). He whips the car around and lays even more rubber racing back to where he left her – where he thinks he did, at least. He didn’t get a good look at the mile marker, but it was around here. He parks, grabs a flashlight from the glove box, and jumps out. “Jess? Jess! Jessica! JESSICA!”

He sweeps the anemic beam of the flashlight back and forth, heart pounding in his throat, mouth dry as a desert, all his drunken caveman rage burned off. He climbs down into the bushes, skins his hands on the gravel and bangs his legs on the sharp edge of a drainage culvert, but he deserves that, he deserves the pain. He crunches through the bracken, catches the glow of eyes and has a heart attack, but it’s only a raccoon. Maybe he didn’t go far enough. He climbs back and gets in the car and cruises along slowly, window down, shouting for her. A car full of teenagers whips past, faces laughing and grotesque as carnival masks. They think it’s a joke. “Jesssssicaaaa!” they yodel back at him. “Jessiccaaaaaaaa!”

Wyatt drives up and down every part of the road between their house and the bar at least five times. Panic is starting to take over his head, banging like a neighbor’s too-loud music through a wall, drilling and relentless. Jesus. Jesus Christ, this is all his fault. She can’t be gone, she’ll turn up. Someone probably stopped, like a sane person would, to see if a woman on the side of the road was all right, and took her to their place. Or if someone else, someone not a sane person, stopped, and –

By the time Wyatt has realized sickeningly that she’s definitely not here, it’s almost three in the morning. He goes home and calls her cell, which isn’t answered. Calls it again, leaves a message begging her to let him know that she is safe. She doesn’t have to come home, if she’s still angry. But please, please, please let him know that she is safe.

Wyatt dozes fitfully for a few fractured hours, phone in his hand, until his morning alarm goes off. He sits upright immediately, but he can tell she isn’t home. He calls her back again, another three times. Likewise, none of these are answered. This isn’t like Jess. She’s angry, she has every right to be, but the one of them who ditches without a word is Wyatt. If she was safe, if she was in any position to do so, she would have called, or at least texted, by now. Something is wrong. Something’s wrong.

Wyatt goes out and gets in the car to make one more search by daylight, just in case. But when this doesn’t turn up anything, he knows what he has to do. Drives downtown to the police station, and says he needs to file a missing person report.

He can tell that the cop who takes down the information isn’t terribly impressed at hearing about the circumstances in which Mrs. Logan has vanished, but it’s not his job to comment on that. He does ask several times if Wyatt is being forthcoming with everything he knows – as it obviously looks very easy for Wyatt to have whacked her over the temple with a tire jack, hidden the body somewhere, and turn up here to file a report to make it seem like he’s worried. When a wife goes missing, the husband usually did it, and it is an especially bad look when the husband is a military man who was arguing with her beforehand. Wyatt swears up and down that he has never laid a hand on Jess, which is the truth. Their fights can get ugly, but they’ve never turned physical. He would never, ever hurt her.

The police officer remains skeptical, but allows that search teams and K9 units will be dispatched, and if Wyatt has an item of clothing with Jessica’s scent on it, that will help. Wyatt fetches it for them, feeling numb and dreamy. Yesterday was almost ordinary, before it started going downhill with the argument around four o’clock. Today he’s standing in a police station talking about sniffer dogs and search arrangements. This can’t be happening. This can’t be happening. He needs to press rewind and play it out again.

Once that’s settled, Wyatt heads home, slaps together a missing poster on Microsoft Publisher, and runs out as many copies on his printer as he can before its toner goes dry. Then he feverishly heads out and starts tacking them to street corners and utility poles. It strikes him that he has not called anyone since this started, has no sibling or friend or even a god damn poker buddy out here helping him. He should call someone. He needs to call someone. But then he’d have to say the words “Jess is gone, and it’s my fault” out loud, and that might break him. He needs to hold it together until this is over. His bullshit has already cost them – cost her – this much. If by some God-given miracle she comes home, she walks through that door again, he will do absolutely whatever she wants. Therapy, counseling, you name it. He has been an idiot – understandably in some ways, but still an idiot – and this is the bolt from the heavens that he was overdue to get. She has to come back. Has to. Has to.

Wyatt gets concerned, confused, wary, or sympathetic looks from people as he wanders along, offering them the poster. There are plenty of people who pretend they don’t notice and motor on past with their headphones in, because humanity is terrible sometimes. A nice older couple wants to know if there is anything they can do for him, and Wyatt reflexively tells them that he’s got it under control. He does not, he has never had it less under control, but it seems to be an answer he can’t get away from even now. He thanks them for their concern. They promise they will pray for him. Great, he thinks. Great.

Wyatt is sunburned and footsore by the time he gets home, but it feels wrong to sit down and relax, to be comfortable, while Jess is out there enduring God knows what from God knows who. He takes just enough of a shower to refresh, gulps down whatever is in the cupboard, and prepares to go back out again. He’s not going to be allowed to help directly with the search, because they still haven’t formally ruled him out as a suspect, but he has promised to be back at the police station for a longer interview at five o’clock. Needs to look less like a disaster. Shaves. Puts on a sport coat, a pair of nice trousers, and heads out to get in the car.

By the time he walks into the precinct, he can tell that something’s changed just from the way they look at him, and he isn’t sure that he likes it. They shake hands, ask him if he wants a glass of water, maybe they should go to the back and sit down. Wyatt has been around law enforcement long enough to know that when they start going for the tender concern angle, it’s usually because they’re trying to lull you off guard for a big reveal, or it’s because it’s bad-news-breaking time and they have no further reason to play hardball. And this… doesn’t feel like they’re going for the bait and switch. This feels bad.

By the time Wyatt is in fact sitting down in the briefing room, he has a terrible feeling that he knows what they’re going to say, and is clenching his hands white-knuckled on his knees, trying to prepare himself for it, trying to breathe in short, juddering gasps in case he forgets altogether afterward. The police chief sits down and calls him Sergeant Logan – yeah, respectful title, he’s the grieving husband now instead of the suspicious possible domestic abuser. They have completed their search of the area, and they have in fact found a large patch of blood in thick undergrowth, about three-quarters of a mile from where he left her, that matches with Jessica’s DNA. There is a trace amount of other blood present as well, which they can’t identify, but is that of another human, suggesting someone grabbed her, Jessica fought back, and there was a struggle. They are going to continue to put resources out there and track down any leads, any perps with violent-crime rap sheets in the area, conduct interviews. But at this point, they aren’t expecting to find Mrs. Logan in a state compatible with life. They are very sorry, and they offer him their full support.

At that, Wyatt almost collapses. Fucking – not in a state compatible with life. Fucking jargon, fucking military/police jargon, the kind he has used himself, plenty of times. Just say it, he wants to scream at them. Just say dead. Dead. DEAD! Four little letters! Just fucking say it! I deserve it! This is my fault. This is my fault. My fault. My fault!

Someone goes out to get him another glass of water, and someone asks if he wants to speak to the staff chaplain. Wyatt barely hears any of it. The world reels by in heightened fantasia blurs like a bad acid trip. He sits there in the chair with a weird, detached awareness that this is somehow happening, he is living through the worst moment of his life, it is going by right there, right in front of his nose. It’s happening and it keeps happening and it won’t stop happening and all he can think, all he can think, is yes – it could have been some local lowlife. But what if it wasn’t. What if it wasn’t.

(He’s done as he promised, after he signed the stupid affidavit. He knows it was a bad idea, but – he did as ordered, he gave up the Rittenhouse hunt, he went back to his ordinary life with his wars and his broken head and his long-suffering wife, he didn’t look any more, and he fooled himself that that meant it was all fine.)

And at that, a strange, preternatural clarity falls over Wyatt. It’s not relief, exactly, but it feels so good, even for just a minute, after the initial madness and horror and distraught heartbreak, that he almost cries. Because if that’s the case, if there is one tiny wedge he can drive into this heart of darkness and make it crack, if there is something he might be able to do that the police can’t – if he’s lost everything that mattered, so why not take the risk –

There is something he needs to do.

There is someone he needs to find.

Jiya Marri started work at Mason Industries two months ago. Rufus Carlin fell in love with her about one month, twenty-nine days, five hours, and – oh, let’s say seventeen minutes ago.

He was probably doomed the instant she walked in – dark ponytail bouncing, stuff packed in a bulging Caltech tote, and a Star Trek scarf wrapped around her neck, the proud result of a “Groundbreaking Women in STEM” fellowship program that Connor Mason sponsored, with the winner offered a job at Mason Industries to design, build, and launch their own app, high-tech project, social transformation scheme, or something else at the cutting, cutting edge. Connor brought her around to meet the team, and Rufus, noting the Caltech and Star Trek accessories, made an awkward joke that he, as the resident MIT/Star Wars diehard, was probably going to be her biggest problem here. Jiya just gave him a bring-it-on-nerd-boy look, smiled, and told him that she was looking forward to it.

It’s not like Rufus hasn’t met smart women before – he has grown up with them, went to school with them, works with plenty of them. It’s not that Jiya is “Not Like Other Girls,” a phrase Rufus hates, but that just she seems so comfortable with being, well, a geek. And that is not a reflection on geek girls, because Rufus has found they are often much easier to get along with and much more enthusiastic and self-deprecating about their interests than unbearably pretentious and insecure geek boys. It’s partly because he wishes he could be more like Jiya, have a little more trust that the world would like him if he came out of his shell. Jiya writes fanfic and has a Tumblr account, goes to cons, does cosplay for various fandoms, has a Twitter where she hilariously and scathingly takes down misogynistic fuckwits on the Internet (so, Rufus thinks, most of the Internet, then). She writes guest blog posts on everything from advanced theoretical technology concepts to why Kirk/Spock is a classic love story among the greats of literature. She can do crazily difficult equations in a couple of minutes, scribbled on the back of a lunch napkin. She has fought through her fair share of bullshit to get here, absolutely. But she’s then powered right on far past it, up, up, up into the stars. Looking at her, Rufus genuinely believes anything is possible (considering what Connor has been working on for the past several years, that’s saying a lot) and he would give anything, anything, for just a little of that to rub off on him.

Rufus knows he’s no slacker, and he’s proud of that. You don’t go from a black kid growing up on the South Side of Chicago in a not-great neighborhood, to where he is now, without some serious ambition and drive (and luck) along the way. He’s made plenty of money and managed to buy his mom and little brother a new house out here, they’ve moved to California and put down new roots. He is part of the lead team on – (it still takes a moment every time he says it, even in his head) – developing a god damn time machine. Rufus knows he’s valuable and knows he’s smart and knows he’s done a lot. It just somehow never feels like it.

Then again, Rufus supposes, maybe it’s better if he just stays safely within the protective cocoon of Mason Industries for his entire life, let other people be the Steve Jobs and the Mark Zuckerbergs of the world, get the attention and the billions and the name recognition. His one brief foray out, with Wyatt Logan, did not go terribly well. He thinks that maybe Wyatt shouldn’t feel bad for leaving him behind (they aren’t friends, he made it plain that he didn’t trust the dude, of course Wyatt cleared out) because once he got back to Mason Industries with Cahill’s Corporate Creepos from Hell, he went in, found Connor, and handed him the recording device that Mason insisted he take, when Rufus told him that Wyatt was giving him a ride. Here, Rufus said. Don’t know what that was about, but… fine, here.

Thank you. Mason took it and stowed it carefully inside his jacket pocket. Oh, and Rufus? Word of advice? Don’t go gallivanting off with Wyatt Logan any more. It’s rather a bad look, and… well. You know I’ve always had your best interests at heart, so really do listen to me on this one. If he does get in contact again, inform me immediately.

This sounded a little odd to Rufus even back then, but as per usual, he settled on not asking any questions. He likewise has gone back to his life, of working on new bits of supporting technology for the time machine. It’s been rough – Anthony did the first major run out beyond just the few-second temporal displacements, which have been dangerous enough, and as a result, he was in a coma for eight months. Rufus visited the hospital faithfully until he woke up, because Anthony has sponsored his intellectual development just as much as Connor. It would be easy for a middle-aged white-guy engineer, especially working on this, to just blow someone like Rufus off, but Anthony has always trusted him and valued his advice. Loyalty is the one thing Rufus prizes the most, and he returned the favor.

Now, however, Anthony’s awake and mostly back to work, and Mason Industries is taking a team trip to London as part of the festivities surrounding the 2012 Olympic Summer Games taking place there later this year. Connor Mason, hometown boy made good, returning to his roots to share his improvements and breakthroughs. He’s chartered a private jet for the whole staff, and while Rufus is side-eyeing the timing a bit (who wants to go to London in February? Couldn’t it have been in actual summer?) he’s obviously not about to turn up his nose too much. As he steps on board the plush plane (ivory leather seats, gilded trim and wood paneling, the whole nine) carrying his duffel bag, he glances around and tries to see if a) Jiya is already on board, and b) if there’s an open seat anywhere near her. It’s a long flight from San Francisco to London, after all, and maybe they could chat a bit.

By happy coincidence, there is one relatively nearby, which Rufus takes. Jiya has her headphones on and a dog-eared Anne McCaffrey Dragonriders of Pern paperback open, though, so he doesn’t want to bother her. They’ll be in London for a week, and maybe Rufus can take her to get fish and chips, or whatever it is that Brits do for a date. While assuring her seventy billion times that it’s not a date, because he does not want to be creepy. Or is it creepier if he does that? God, he is so bad at this.

They take off and fly into the falling night. Rufus stares out the window and watches the distant pinpricks of light wheel past below them, though he starts dozing off about the time they turn only to black and the flight tracker shows they’re out over the Atlantic Ocean. Rufus thinks then of Anthony, steering a time machine out into the uttermost void, the deepest darkness, a world beyond uncharted, where not even the dragons have proper form or name. Beyond Apollo 8 and the dark side of the moon, beyond a place any human can think of or have a proper conceptual idea of. A few of the techies are really interested in asking the test pilots how it actually feels, to leave time and space behind, to move in dimensions the human brain is not remotely equipped to comprehend. Not Rufus. Even the idea gives him a chill. He might be curious on an academic, theoretical-interest level, but he has no desire to ever experience it for himself. Sometimes he wonders if it’s the right thing to do – they can, it’s there, it’s possible, but as he knows well, something done because someone can do it doesn’t mean they should. All the Mason Industries test pilots basically have to sign their own will before taking the job, prove they either have no dependents or have made the proper arrangements for their care in the event of their sudden and unfortunate decease. It’s not quite the Tuskegee syphilis scandal, obviously, and everyone involved knows what they’re getting in for. Mason himself is a black man, he is aware of this. But still. Rufus wonders.

Rufus sleeps for the main leg over the ocean, and wakes as they are touching down in London the next morning. In proper English fashion, it’s raining as they shuffle into Heathrow, pass customs, and are shown to the chauffeured cars that Mason, naturally, has waiting; no cramming onto the Underground for them. As they glide into the city, Rufus turns to Jiya and clears his throat. “So, uh, if it stops raining, maybe we should go look around? Just, you know, whatever seems cool?”

“It will never stop raining,” Mason remarks, overhearing him, with the jaded demeanor of a true Londoner. “Just do take a brolly and be back by six for our opening dinner. If you don’t want to sleep off the jetlag, that is?”

“I’ll probably crash as soon as the dinner’s over, but I’m feeling okay right now.” Rufus glances at Jiya, wondering if he should then invite their other coworkers to prove it’s not a date. But he doesn’t really want to. “You?”

“Yeah, I’d rather make the most of it,” Jiya says. “We should freshen up first once we get to the hotel, but sure, I’m up for it.”

Rufus hastily tries to quash the flare of excited and apprehensive victory in his stomach, as he still has plenty of chances to screw this up somehow. They arrive at the hotel, check in (everyone gets their own room – you really don’t realize how many doors money can open and how much a billion dollars is, until you hang out with a billionaire – Rufus has never quite gotten used to it) and while some employees elect to snooze until dinner tonight, Rufus and Jiya hastily change out of their comfy flight clothes and into something a little more non-embarrassing for public. Then they pick up the envelopes with their daily allowance of spending money (£100 apiece, and Connor has promised to increase it if anyone feels pinched), make sure they have umbrellas and a map, and head out.

The rain has thinned to an atmospheric mist, the trees have faint hints of green on them, black cabs and red buses rush past (Rufus is completely mixed up about which way he needs to look crossing the street, and hopes he doesn’t end up plastered to the front of one of them) and of course, it’s London. They wander past the various touristy sites – Westminster, Big Ben, the Houses of Parliament, Trafalgar Square, the Tower of London, the London Eye, etc. – chat, and take goofy pictures. It’s possibly one of the best days of Rufus’s life, even if he starts yawning hardcore around three PM and suggests they return to the hotel for a power nap before dinner. First, however, they duck into Covent Garden Market to grab coffee. Jiya wanders away to look at one of the stalls, Rufus sips his latte, and feels as if he has actually had a successful day with a girl, miracles are real. Hopefully he can keep it up, and –

Just then, someone standing behind him taps him on the shoulder, and he turns automatically, a little surprised. Maybe it’s just another of their coworkers out to carpe the diem, but –

Rufus doesn’t recognize the tall, dark-featured man, though something makes him think he should. The newcomer is wearing a trim leather jacket and jeans, a scarf and a newsboy cap, looking like the rest of the fashionable denizens of central London, but he has one hand in his pocket, and he pulls it out just far enough to let Rufus see that he’s holding what appears to be a gun. The Brit laws are a lot more strict than the American ones. What the fu –

“Hello, Rufus,” the man says. His voice is gravelly and accented, his eyes cool and level and more than a little frightening. “I’d like you to come with me.”

[verybadhedgehog]

A Pleasure To Work With

A (completely non shippy) fic about Kylo Ren and his TIE Silencer test team. Premise: he gets on perfectly fine with the men and women of Sienar-Jaemus Fleet Systems. They like and respect him, and he provides them with excellent technical feedback.

(I hope you like tedious descriptions of what I imagine prototype testing / flight testing / race car testing is like, because that’s what this is, punctuated with some faintly amusing examples of General Hux Being A Dick For Absolutely No Reason) 

(can also be found on AO3 here)

Supremacy, Officers’ Wardroom Two, 2235h Friday

“Who are those guys?”

Chief Petty Officer Talget Rees put down her glass of Navy Long. “Which guys?”

“Those. On that table over there. With the unfastened jackets.”

“Oh, them. Yeah, you see the patches under their First Order insignia?”

“Hold on…” Petty Officer Dantrey squinted. “Oh yeah. Is that Sienar-Jaemus Fleet Systems? Light’s not the best in here.”

“Yeah. That’s the development team for the TIE Silencer.”

“No way? The Silencer? Wow. So they work with Kylo Ren?”

Rees grinned. “Yep.”

“Wow. They look rather relaxed, considering. I mean, they must get force-strangled on a fairly regular basis.”

“Yeah, no, funny thing is: apparently not. Apparently he’s totally fine with them.” “Really?”

“Couple of days ago, I was talking to Engineer Suchran — that’s the tall guy there? Brown skin, sort of long face?”

Dantrey nodded.

“And I think her name was Endis — the woman with short hair, leaning over the table?”

“Yeah, I see her.”

“So anyway, they’d had a few drinks and they were chatting about him like it was no big deal.”

“Looks like they’ve had a few drinks now,” Dantrey said, looking at the tech’s table and its detritus of salt snack packets and empty glasses and beer bottles. 

“Oh, go on, Talgs, introduce us. I want to hear Kylo Ren stories — and get details on the Silencer.”

Rees thought about it, then looked over to the table of Sienar-Jaemus techs. She made more deliberate eye contact with someone on the table, nodded, smiled, and stood up. “Come on, let’s go and sit with them.” She led and Dantrey followed along. One of the technicians greeted Rees, and they all made more space at their table for the two Navy officers to settle in.

“How you all doing?” Rees asked.

“Great, yeah.”

“Good session today?”

The technicians glanced between each other, and Rees realised she hadn’t introduced the newcomer. “This is Petty Officer Marco Dantrey, by the way. He’s into starfighters.”

“Well, I mean, who isn’t,” Dantrey said.

The team introduced themselves. Suchran. Endis. Judson. Meredith. 

“Anyway, yeah, good,” Endis said. “Got a few key things sorted out since last test session.”

Suchran took the lead. “We made great progress, so I gave the team an order, no working late tonight. We’ve all earned some beers and snacks.”

“I bet you earn them, working with him.”

Endis laughed. “He’s really not that bad. Did your friend not tell you?” she said, and Dantrey tried not to make the wrong face. “No, it’s alright.” She took another swig of her beer. “You see him totally differently than what we do.”

Dantrey tried again to avoid making the wrong face at the Sienar-Jaenus woman’s rather loose syntax. He supposed that the First Order valued these people for their expertise, and therefore turned a blind eye to their unrefined speech.

“To you, he’s whatever, the Enforcer, all of that,” Judson said, making a dramatic gesture with one hand to illustrate. “To us, he’s a fighter pilot. And not just any fighter pilot, the best.”

“And he gives great technical feedback,” Endis added. “Pleasure to work with, to be quite honest.”

Another technician, Meredith, cut in. “Like, case in point, today we were — oh no, wait a second —“

“If it’s classified you don’t have to,” Dantrey said. “I wouldn’t want you guys getting in trouble on our account.”

“No, no, you’re alright. If I leave out the fine details, we’ll all be right.”

Suchran gave affirmation. Rees and Dantrey leaned forward.

“So, yeah. We were working on the thrust response, implementing some solutions we’d been working out —“

“Solutions I’d been working out.”

“— Yeah, solutions Endis and her guys in Production had been working out — and it was a good session, really. Kylo was happy, he gave us good feedback, some pointers towards further improvements.”

“And a happy KR means a happy team — so, beers all round,” Suchran said. 

“Speaking of which, shall I get a round in?”

There was general agreement, and Judson stood, awkwardly gathered the empty glasses and bottles, and headed for the bar.

Supremacy, Hangar 16, 1400h Monday

Test Technician Meredith fired up the propulsion system. Chief Test Engineer Suchran and Test Engineer Endis checked system readouts together. Suchran asked for an update on initial heat exchange position, and Test Technician Judson delivered.

On time, test pilot Kylo Ren entered the hangar, black cloth flapping behind him. He looked around. “Just us in here?”

“Yep, just our team.”

Kylo unclasped his mask and pulled it off. 

“Put it under here if you want,” said Endis, pointing under the consoles. She and Judson made room, and Kylo stowed his helmet.

“So,” he said. “Fired up and ready?”

“All ready. Just a quick look at the schedule,” he said, and offered a datapad for Kylo’s viewing. “We’d like you to run to the first four sets of beacons and back for three laps to get some thruster data, and then we’re going to try with weapons firing on the barrage targets.”

“Okay,” Kylo said. “I’ll stay out unless you need me to come back in.”

“That’s fine — just wait for my word before you start firing on the targets.”

“You think you’ve pinned down the issue with power draw down?”

“Yep. Just need the data and your feedback to be sure.”

Kylo strolled out to the Silencer, climbed on board and lowered the access hatch.

“Ready to depart.”

“Okay, Kylo, keep it on mode zero till you’re clear of the line.”

“I know.”

“And engine mode two after the line,”

“Copy.”

The Silencer lifted from the hangar floor and slipped out of the atmosphere containment field into the space immediately surrounding the Supremacy, at a modest pace with its thrust arrays only dimly glowing. A set of beeps on the test comm channel indicated that the TIE had passed the boundary delineating the test space, into which other craft were forbidden from passing during the test session (a source of consternation to some of the officers of the Supremacy, who needed to adjust docking routes for supply vessels and transporter craft).

“Engine mode two for the first lap, Kylo,” said Endis.

The rear of the TIE Silencer lit up in red and accelerated to a startling pace, rushing past a set of hover beacons.

Suchran, Endis and Meredith stood around a console, peering at the curves of a graph that drew itself with the TIE’s continuing flight.

“That’s looking better,” Endis said. “Let’s see how tight he takes the second beacons.”

“Definitely better under cornering. Still a gap there though.”

Suchran pressed a button on his comm device. “How’s it feeling in there?”

“Better than before. Could still be better coming out of a tight manoeuvre.”

“Okay, Kylo, copy that.”

“It’s maybe a tenth or less, but I need to have it immediately.”

“Yeah, copy that. Telemetry shows the same. Mode three for your second lap, Kylo. And you can throw it around this time.”

“Can do.”

On the third lap, Kylo called through on the comm channel. “Steering feels slightly loose in places.”

“Okay, Kylo, copy.”

Endis looked at the telemetry screen. “Worse response after acceleration/deceleration,” she said. “And where the throttle is already micro-lagging. Looks like part of the same problem.”

“Gets worse when he’s chucking it about. So could be mechanical,” Suchran said.

“Something physically loose in there?”

“Could be. Let’s bring him in.” He pushed the talk to cockpit button. “Kylo? If you could come back to hangar now, back to hangar.”

Kylo turned the ship around, reduced power, and coasted in to the hangar. He lowered the landing gear and the ship settled.

“Systems to minimum, please, Kylo.”

“Yeah, okay.” He climbed out of the hatch and leapt down to the ground.

“What’s the story?”

“We want to check connections to the thruster array. Something might be mechanically loose in there. Could take a while.”

“Physically cutting connection to the thrusters?” Kylo looked thoughtful and nodded. “That’s possible.” He walked with Suchran to the rear of the fighter. 

“How was it feeling in there?”

“A loose, uncertain feeling in the steering, mostly in the z axis and a little in the x,” Kylo said, holding his hand flat out in front of him and wiggling it to demonstrate.

“After a corner, was that?”

“Yes. In the second part of a complex, especially.”

Two astromech BB units rolled up, and began undoing maintenance hatches on the belly of the fighter.

“Do you need me to… visualise?” Kylo asked, looking intently at the thrust arrays.

“We’ll take a look first, with the droids.”

“Alright. Let me know,” Kylo said, and he turned and walked to a corner of the hangar, where he sat down with his back against a wall.

Technician Judson tipped his head in Kylo’s direction. “What’s he doing? Nap time already? Or meditating?”

“I’d say eighty percent chance meditation. But you can’t discount nap.”

The BB units busied themselves under the fighter, and Suchran went to give them further direction.

A call came in from the bridge, interrupting him. He waved a hand at Endis to tell her to take over in his stead.

“Engineer Suchran? This is Captain Peavey.”

“Good day, sir.”

“Yes, quite. Ah — is this test session finished?”

“No, sir.”

“I see. It’s merely that we don’t see the Silencer in flight, and we would prefer to have anterior sector four space open…”

Suchran could hear another man’s voice fussing in the background.

“Give me the bloody comm — Engineer Suchran? General Hux.”

Suchran rolled his eyes. This was all they needed.

“Are you and Ren going to be flying that TIE or not?”

“The TIE is undergoing some modifications at the moment, sir, and Kylo Ren isready to get back on board.”

“What’s he doing now, if I might ask.”

“Meditating, I believe, sir.”

Hux scoffed audibly. “Well, I’m sure you’re all terribly patient and understanding with his mystical ways, although of course the rest of the starfighter corps seem not to need to indulge in his brand of relaxation.”

Suchran rolled his eyes again.

“How long do you intend to have that sector of space tied up?”

“Until 1700h, sir. As scheduled.”

Hux sighed. “Fine. What modifications are you doing, if I might ask?”

“Correcting a mechanical issue with cable routing, sir.”

“A mechanical issue? At this stage?”

“Issues can arise at various stages of the process, with a prototype, sir,” Suchran said, gritting his teeth.

He could hear Hux muttering to Peavey, off mic. “What are we paying these sums of money for if they’re still having mechanical problems — this is corner cutting at the front end stage, I could have half this done in-house.”

Suchran made a rude gesture at the comm device, grateful that it wasn’t a holotransmission.

“Alright. Well, I’m sure you know what you’re doing,” Hux said, a little sarcastically, and cut off the transmission.

Judson looked up from his work. “Was that the bridge?”

“That was Hux.”

“He does like to, erm, take an interest, doesn’t he?”

“He does. If you can call it that.”

Endis and the BB units emerged from beneath the fighter.

“We found the culprit, I believe. One cable bundle on the starboard side was tugging under its own weight. Two cable ties and some welding, and we should be good as gold.”

“Do we have images?”

“I had BB-9L take before and after images.”

“Good. Something to show to production.” 

The BB unit trundled to a console, to upload its images.

It was time to start the flight test again, and Suchran knew the team had little time to waste. “Meredith! You go and get the sleeping prince, cos we’re ready to go, I reckon.”

Meredith sighed. “Oh alright. I’ll stand out of lightsaber’s range,” he laughed.

Kylo opened his eyes at Meredith’s approach, stood, stretched, and walked back with him.

“Issues fixed, Engineer?”

“We believe so,” Suchran said. “Time for a test and if all’s well we’ll go straight into the weapons power draw-down test.”

“Good.”

“One warm up lap and one full power lap and then we’ll start with the heavy lasers.”

Kylo climbed back on board and quickly had the TIE fired up and heading back out of the hangar.

Endis and Judson stood at their monitoring screens.

“How’s the thrust response, Endis?”

“We’ve lost the micro-lag, and laterals are looking good.”

Suchran pushed the talk to cockpit button to check in with Kylo. “How’s it feeling?”

“Better.”

“Under lateral acceleration?”

“Better.”

Suchran turned to his left. “Ready, Judson?”

Judson tapped on his screen. “Power cell readouts running.”

“Okay, good.” Suchran pushed the button again. “Alright, Kylo, we’re ready for the weapons power draw-down test.”

“I’ll come round from ship side.”

“Confirm that. Target one has shields fully up, ready to go.”

Kylo swung the TIE around and set off into the test space again.

“Okay, fire when ready on this lap.”

“Confirm.”

Long bolts of green laser plasma fired from the TIE’s cannons and dispersed on the shields of the target satellite.

“Heavy fire from both sides,” Suchran said.

“Yes, yes, yes, I’m doing it. You don’t have to remind me.” He pummelled the barrage target with several more rounds of fire. “Fuck’s sake.”

Suchran cut the comm.

“Power cells discharging — smooth curve as predicted. Down to fifty five percent now,” Judson said, “and cells starting to recharge now.”

“Need to check if that’s from reactor or solars. Holding steady?”

“Steady at sixty percent approx, and he’s giving it plenty.”

“How’s the rector to ion drive throughput?”

“Steady.”

“Good. He’s gonna have a hole in the shields in a minute. I’ll call him off.”

“Kylo? That’s enough on the lasers.”

His fire ceased.

“You’ve got what we need?” he asked.

“Looking good from here, Kylo. Nothing to note on thrust or handling?”

“No. All responses normal.”

Suchran called the TIE back in.

Supremacy, Hangar 16, 1010h Tuesday

“Same runs as yesterday, but after the second lap, stealth field on. Four laps full stealth, then pop it back off and we’ll reestablish comms.”

“Two laps, then four laps full stealth, got it. Thrusters on mode two?”

“Mode two, but you can try mode three or five on one of your stealth laps. We’ll download data at the end but as far as handling goes I’m more interested in your report.”

Kylo raised the landing gear, and the Silencer departed the hangar to start his run-in laps.

Endis and Judson monitored their screens.

A comm from the bridge came through. Suchran hoped it wasn’t General Hux again. He hoped in vain.

“Are you lot flying that Silencer out there in stealth mode?”

“Yes, sir. We are conducting a test of the cloaking field.”

“I take it you have full permission for that.”

“Of course, sir. We have full authorisation. You signed off on the request —“

“Yes, of course I did. I simply find that —“ Hux lowered his voice. “Listen, do you trust him?”

“He’s a fighter pilot, your — our — best, sir. A fighter pilot engaged in necessary testing.”

“Well. So long as he doesn’t simply wander off, we’ll all be fine.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I see. Good. That’ll be all.”

Hux abruptly cut the comm and Suchran shook his head.

Endis glanced across at him. “Was that Hux again?”

“Yep.”

“What did he want? Or should I not ask?”

“I have absolutely no idea,” Suchran said.

They looked at each other and shook their heads. Endis silently mouthed a rude word.

“He is, though,” Suchran said. “Don’t talk like that in front of your new Navy pals, mind you, or they’ll be sending themselves off to reconditioning.” 

Meredith was standing close to the hangar exit, staring out into the void.

“I have a visual on the Silencer,” he called.

“You sure? By your eyes?”

“Yeah, just got a glimpse of him rounding one of the beacons. Absolutely nothing on sensors though.”

“Well, that’s good.”

After a few minutes, the Silencer suddenly reappeared on Suchran’s test space monitor, and telemetry graphs began to redraw themselves in front of Endis and Judson. The fighter approached the Supremacy for a good fifteen seconds before Kylo opened comms.

“Coming back in now.”

“Okay, give us your debrief when you’re docked.”

Kylo stood and described how the Silencer had behaved on his test run, hands moving animatedly as he laid out the movements and attitudes of the starfighter in flight. 

“That’s meshing with what we expected,” Suchran said. “Give us a write up so we have that to take to Production along with the data download.”

“Of course,” Kylo said. Then he fixed Suchran with a questioning look. “Tell me, did you have any interruptions this time?”

“Yes. Just one.”

“Was it General Hux?”

“It was.”

Kylo grimaced. “He shouldn’t interfere. What did he want?”

“He wanted to know if we were flying in stealth mode.”

“He knows that. And he should go through the proper channels.”

“Technically,” Suchran said, “as I am leading the test team, I am the proper channels.”

“No,” Kylo said. “Fuck that. He’s doing this to get at me, but he can’t call directly to the TIE, yet, so he calls you. It’s pathetic really.”

“We answer questions as and when appropriate. We can’t exactly tell him to go away.”

“You could refer him to me.”

“If you like.”

“Tell him, the next time he tries to interfere, that I’ve given you direct orders to refer all questions to me. You’re under my command as much as his.”

“Yes. Sir.”

“Kriffing fuck. He shouldn’t even be here. He should be supervising progress on his own project.” Kylo looked up in the vague direction of the Supremacy’s bridge, and glowered. “Has he brought his hangers-on? “

“I did speak to Captain Peavey earlier on.”

“Peavey, huh. So who’s commanding the Finalizer? Ship’s cat?”

“No idea.”

“Pathetic, isn’t it?”

The technicians made vague non-committal sounds of amusement.

“I’ll turn up on his project, see how he likes it,” Kylo muttered. “In fact, when we’re done here, I’ll go and speak to him.”

“If I could have your report first though. Sir.”

Kylo ran a hand through his hair and made a face. “Yeah. Of course.” He reached for his datapad.

Supremacy, Bridge, 1315h Tuesday

“Ah, Ren. Good to see you.

Under his mask, Kylo rolled his eyes at Hux’s insincerity. “You seem keen to follow me around, General.”

“Not at all.”

“So, what then brings you to the Supremacy?”

“I divide my time between the Finalizer, work on Starkiller, and the Supremacy, as you know.”

“And how much time would you spend on this ship if you were able to stay away from my fighter testing?”

“That’s none of your business, Ren.”

“No, Hux. It’s none of your business.”

“The equipment of First Order military is none of my business? My forces?”

“The First Order’s forces. You are not the Order.”

Hux stared at him, his face sour and pinched. “It is every bit my business.”

“You have hundreds of other lines of command to attend to before you come to a test program operated by external contractor personnel. Does your chief provisioning officer know you’ve gone over her head? Does Sienar-Jaemus’ liaison manager know you’ve gone over his head? Ignoring your other responsibilities to do so?”

“Don’t question how I lead and how I manage,” Hux said, suddenly blistering.

Ren barked a dry, distorted laugh. “All because you can’t leave me alone to pilot a starfighter for half an hour.”

“I’m taking an interest, Ren. I want to know how testing is going. I’d like to get progress reports.”

“You’ll get reports. Ask your chief provisioning officer.” He leant closer. “Yes, I do know what your organisation chart looks like.”

“Well done you,” sniffed Hux.

“So, don’t hassle my team again. I’ve given them orders to refer all your questions to me.”

“Oh, splendid. If I know they’ll refer to you, I shall make it my business to speak to them much more frequently. Thank you very much indeed, Ren.”

Hux turned and departed. Kylo clenched a fist and gritted his teeth. Hux would come to regret this.

[stereksecretsanta]

Merry Christmas, @cats4stiles!

Dear cats4stiles, I hope this fluff is fluffy enough!

*****

The Cat Story

“Turns out my dad's allergic to cats, who knew, right?” Stiles says as soon as Derek opens the door. He steps around Derek to enter the loft, arm and shoulder brushing against Derek's and leaving a pleasantly distracting warmth behind. There's something weird about his scent, something new, and it throws Derek off enough that it takes him a moment to process what Stiles has said. Not that it made any sense as a greeting to begin with, but over the years he's grown accustomed to the non sequiturs.

As Derek turns to find Stiles sprawled comfortably across the couch-- a sight which fills Derek with a contentment he tries to ignore-- his inquiry of “And this is important because?” is cut short when he notices the source of the change in Stiles’ scent. There's a small kitten, barely big enough to be weaned and clearly enamored with Stiles, batting her tiny white and orange paws at Stiles’ long fingers as they wiggle in front of her. After a few seconds of daydreaming about those fingers, Derek shakes his head slightly to chase the thoughts away; now is not the time for thinking about how Stiles’ fingers would feel on his skin, or what it would be like to weave his own between them.

“That's a cat,” Derek says, wincing at the absurdity of the statement the second it's out of his mouth.

Stiles snorts. “Very good, Der, glad you're paying attention,” he teases, his voice softer than usual, presumably in deference to the cat, who Stiles can't seem to stop smiling at.

He tries to keep his responding laugh annoyed, but he knows it comes out fond instead. Stiles knows it too, because he tears his attention away from the kitten to smile at Derek.

Clearing his throat to break the tension he's pretty sure only he's feeling, Derek says “I meant, why do you have a cat? In my house, specifically.”

Stiles looks at him again, rolling his eyes slightly, as though the answer is obvious. “Because dad is allergic. I thought you were keeping up?”

Derek sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose for a moment. He may possibly be a little bit in love with Stiles, but no one could irritate him quite so efficiently.

“That answers literally zero of my questions, Stiles. And why'd you get a cat in the first place if your dad's allergic?”

“First of all,” Stiles sighs, fondly exasperated, “I didn’t know he was allergic until he came home from work this morning and started sneezing. Secondly,” he continues, cradling the kitten to his chest so he can sit up without dislodging her from where she’s fallen asleep, tiny purrs coming from her tiny body. “Secondly, I didn’t get her on purpose. Someone left her in a box in the parking lot on campus. Like a heartless monster, just abandoned her,” Stiles defends, a frown between his brows as his anger for the faceless abandonner of kittens leaks into his words and his fingers began absently scratching between the kitten’s ears. “Scott and Deaton checked her out, but they’re all out of foster homes for cats right now, and I couldn’t just leave her because she made the saddest little sound when I even mentioned it. So I obviously had to adopt her. But then, The Great Stilinski Sneeze Attack happened.” He’s still petting the cat, cooing at her when she wiggles her nose in her sleep. “And C, I’m here because I have something to give you. A present, even,” Stiles says with too much casualness, his scent spiking with nerves in a way that meant he was being less than straight-forward as opposed to being anxious.

Oh. Oh no.

“Stiles.”

“Derek.”

“Stiles, no.”

“But Der! Look at her!” Stiles says, cradling the kitten in his hands and presenting her to Derek like an offering. The kitten wakes up then, blinking her big green eyes sleepily at Derek and unleashing a squeaky yawn as she cocks her head to the side, studying Derek’s face from where Stiles is holding her mere inches away from his nose. “She needs a safe home, big guy. She can’t fend for herself out there in the great big world!”

Derek narrows his eyes at Stiles, who is looking at him with a shockingly accurate imitation of what Stiles would call Scott’s puppy dog face; Derek pretends he’s unaffected, but the kitten takes that moment to reach out with one tiny striped paw and bat at the tip of Derek’s nose. Stiles absolutely cackles as Derek reaches up to brush away the tickly sensation, shooting a shocked glance at the little ball of fluff that is now trying valiantly to escape the cage of Stiles’ hands and climb onto Derek’s face. “See! She loves you already!” Stiles crows triumphantly. Derek doesn’t have it in him to pretend that he’s actually going to fight him on it; he knew he was keeping the cat the second Stiles had flopped down onto his couch and snuggled up with her like it was something he did all the time. Dammit.

“Here,” Stiles says, gently shoving the cat into Derek’s chest, “Hold her a second while I go get her stuff from my car!” And just like that, Stiles is running out the door and Derek is staring at the cat--his cat, apparently--with what he can feel is an incredulous expression.

“Well, hi Cat. Welcome home?”

She mewls at him before nuzzling against his chin. He takes it as assent and moves to fall gracelessly into his favorite overstuffed chair to wait for Stiles to return.

When Stiles comes clamoring back up the stairs, he has a truly startling amount of stuff in his arms; Derek can only stare at him in mild terror for a long moment. “What is- haven’t you only had Cat for like, two days?”

Stiles looks sheepish when he shrugs as best he can with an armload and a half of cat-care and entertainment. He looks like a walking pet store. “I mean, she needed a litter box, and Scott said kittens need special food to help them grow,” he shuffles his burden slightly to indicate the box and a bag full of food, and Derek belatedly springs up to take some of the stuff, the kitten tucked against him carefully with his free hand. Stiles sighs in relief as Derek takes two of the heaviest bags,. Derek leads him into an empty corner of the room to start setting up and unpacking. “Plus, she has a lot of energy--when she’s not sleeping--so I got some toys, and I figured it’d help her brain development if she had a variety. But if the little balls with the bells inside drive your wolfy senses nuts, I can bring them to Deaton.”

Derek can’t help a fond smile and eye-roll as Stiles talks, he was clearly very excited about having a pet (and clearly also already diving into research about feline development). The disappointment he clearly feels at not being able to keep the cat is obvious, and before he can think about it, Derek is saying “You can come see her anytime, you know. You do have a key, and she’s your cat.”

With a grin that makes Derek feel like a king for having caused it, Stiles says “Thanks,” in a soft, awed kind of way, and Derek is hit with a wave of contentment that almost knocks him over. They stare at each other for a perfect moment, broken only by an excited squeak from Cat. When they turn away from each other to investigate the cause, both wear a heated flush that they tacitly ignore.

“So,” Derek clears his throat to ask, “What’s her name, anyway? We can’t just keep calling her ‘Cat’.”

Stiles snorts, and Derek pretends the inelegant sound is off-putting. “Tiger, obviously. I was gonna go with Pumpkin, but I figured most of my favorite people are wolves, so I stuck with the theme.” Derek thinks that Stiles’ eyes flickered to him when he mentioned his favorite people, but he probably imagined it. He can’t dwell long, because he cat--Tiger--demands attention, and neither of them can really deny her.

Before either of them notice, the day has passed in a pleasant flurry of playing with the kitten, and watching her sleep.

*****

Stiles starts coming over to visit. A lot. Derek’s place always smells like Stiles, and it’s as wonderful as it is maddening.

Tiger has quickly established herself as the Alpha of the house, and Stiles finds it endlessly entertaining to watch Derek coo at her and give into her demands for affection with half-hearted grumbles and a soft curve at the corners of his mouth. It makes it hard to keep his feelings for Derek from spilling all over, but he would give up a lot to see more moments where Derek absently scratches Tiger’s ears while he reads, or when he lets himself in to find Tiger curled up on Derek’s chest when he’s fallen asleep on the couch.

*****

Tiger is a troublemaker. She hides socks, she likes to bat at the your heels when they’re on the floor, and she shreds paper like she’s getting paid for it. More specifically, she shreds Stiles’ papers. For his thesis.

“Der-ek! Your cat ate half of my article on forensic psychology! Again!”

He’s staring menacingly at Tiger where she’s curled around a small pile of destroyed paper, her tail flicking slowly back and forth as she rubs her cheek against a strip of paper that has curled around her paw with a pleased expression on her face. Derek tries very hard not to laugh. He does not entirely succeed, because Stiles shoots him a glare that should probably cause him actual pain.

“Why is she only my cat when she’s destroying your stuff?”

“Who knows what you tell her about me when I’m not home! She’s targeting me, Derek!” Derek freezes in place at hearing Stiles call his place home, and a warm, bright feeling fills his chest, joining a pleased rumble that he hopes Stiles can’t hear. Tiger does, though, and she pads quickly over to Derek to try to climb his leg, a loud purr echoing his.

Stiles’ annoyance melts away when Derek scoops Tiger up and holds her with one arm, petting her with his free hand. “I only tell her true stories when you’re not here,” he tries to joke, but it lands too sincerely. “We’ll make it up to you by ordering your favorite take-out from that Thai place on Birch.”

“Extra peanut sauce?”

“Of course; gotta have extra peanut sauce.” Tiger meows.

*****

Tiger is a daredevil. It’s nerve wracking.

She jumps from stupidly high places, wriggles her way into the tiniest spaces, and climbs on top of things she has no right to be able to balance on.

Mostly, she has the balance of, well, of a cat, and it’s not a problem. But on one particular day, she leaps onto the counter and knocks Stiles’ mug of hot coffee down to shatter on the floor, gets spooked by the sound and by Derek’s yelp, and fumbles her dismount, landing in the middle of the puddle of coffee and ceramic shards.

They work seamlessly to bundle her up and get her in the car, arriving at the emergency vet in record time. The reception desk is empty, and Stiles yells “Excuse me? Our cat needs help, please!” His voice is a little shaky, which should be ridiculous after all they’ve been through--that a cat that might have a minor cut on her paw should make Stiles feel frightened--but only makes Derek’s love for him rush to the surface. He puts a palm on Stiles’ back and rubs soothing circles there, gratified when he feels the tension leave Stiles’ frame.

A friendly looking woman with cartoon dogs wearing capes on her scrubs rushes out from behind the reception area, already offering reassurance as she asks for their information. When she asks “And Tiger is both of yours?” Derek can feel Stiles tense up, can smell his embarrassment even above all the other scents in the office.

Before Stiles can back-track, Derek says simply, “Yes, she’s ours,” and is immensely gratified when Stiles relaxes into the gentle press of his hand and looks at him with something like hope.

The nurse smiles at them warmly and says “Right this way, gentlemen, we’ll get Tiger patched up in no time,” before leading them into a small exam room. Less than forty minutes later, Tiger has had a small piece of ceramic removes from the pad of her foot, and is sporting a small bandage and a cone around her tiny head. The cone is orange, at Stiles’ request, because “It’s funny! She’s Tiger, but now she looks like a lion! Come on, you know it’s funny.”

Derek has to admit it is.

When they’re settled in back at Derek’s, Tiger napping on her oversized cushion, Stiles and Derek sit quietly on the couch pretending to watch a movie that may or might not be about vampires; they’re close enough to feel each other’s warmth, but not quite touching. They haven't spoken about anything but Tiger all afternoon, and the weight of what they both almost said at the vet is pushing in on them from all sides.

With a deep breath, Derek moves his hand an inch or so, so that it lays against the side of Stiles’, and is beyond relieved when Stiles loops his pinkie around Derek’s own. “So,” Derek breathes out uncertainly, equally afraid to speak as to stay silent. Stiles though, Stiles has always been good at reading him, so he just lets himself lean over so that his head rests on Derek’s shoulder as he threads their fingers together.

The smile in his voice is audible when he replies with a quiet “Yeah.” They wordlessly rearrange themselves so that they can settle in to watch the movie. Stiles lays against Derek’s chest, and raises their joined hands to his lips to place a kiss on Derek’s knuckles. The kiss Derek presses into Stiles’ temple is shaped like a smile.

Before they can speak more--or kiss more--Tiger jumps onto the couch and claims Stiles’ stomach for the remainder of her nap. Stiles makes an annoyed sound, and Derek cuts him off with “She’s your cat.”

“Nope, ours,” Stiles argues happily. They both laugh softly, and hold each other a little tighter. When Derek hums his agreement, Stiles turns his face toward Derek’s, and they meet in a perfect, (mostly) chaste kiss.

Tiger purrs in her sleep.

Later, they leave her to her cushion and close the bedroom door.