#blue bloods fic

[aislinceivun]

*dusts off account* *coughs*

My tumblr is pretty much defunct but I'm crossposting this one per request~

Art for part #6 of my absolute favorite StaticRadio fic series, 666: Live On Air! written by the amazing @prince-liest

Every new installment keeps destroying AND energizing me, but the hurt/comfort of this latest update fed me ESPECIALLY well😩💞

If you aren't doing it yet and you love the ship, GO READ 666!! It's droolworthy! It's emotional! It's kinky! It'll make you laugh one sec, rip your heart out the next! No excuses, you must give it a try at least!!

PS: If you're interested in more StaticRadio (or StaticDust) (or StaticRadioDust, perchance? >:3) art & threads from me, find me on twitter here!♥ (adults only) PPS: This one is not a 666 fanart but I might as well plug it: I actually had the same galaxy brain idea as Prince and drew Vox manually keeping Al's heart beating post-Adam😈 (The way I gasped when this happened in 666 too!😩👏) Mild gore cw, but if you're curious, it's here.

[justaz]

merlin told arthur his favorite color was the color of the sky during sunset when it shifted into a deep violet. arthur gets a tunic made in that exact shade. its the best thing merlin owns. arthur was hoping that would mean he’d wear it almost everyday but merlin almost never wears it. the only time he does wear it is when royals come to visit (which isn’t all that often). arthur “subtly” asks about it and merlin is like “it’s the best thing i own. i’m not gonna dirty it mucking out the stables or serving rowdy knights wine while they splatter food on it” and arthur is like “why not wear it when nobles come to visit? look at least a little presentable for them” (cough nice save). merlin doesn’t see the point in it bc nobles don’t care about him at best, view him as less than human at worst.

arthur really just wants to see his boyfriend servant in the tunic he had made for him (bonus points for sending a message that merlin is his. not that merlin seems to notice. man is too much of an idiot). merlin wants to preserve his favorite tunic and gift from his boyfriend king.

[0vergrowngraveyard]

"tails" takes an L

[fallen-flier]

the moon will sing (time traveling tim)

so. i saw this super awesome post by @puppetwoman17 about time traveling tim drake and got obsessed, so here's a small ficlet i wrote about it!

part 2

The thing is, Tim expects it. He’s faintly aware of the blood seeping from his stomach, staining his hands red— hands which are uselessly putting pressure on his wound. If he survives this, he doesn’t even want to think of all the weeks of pure agony and fever, brought on by the wonderful lack of his spleen and the fact that healing from wounds sucked, period.

Death isn’t surprising— he really didn’t think he would live past, what, twenty-five? Thirty? To live until beyond 50 with his lifestyle was, well. It sounded painful, anyways. And you would need to be a deeply paranoid neurotic. Like Bruce. Because as much as he respected his father and looked up to him, if Tim turned out anything like Batman, he’d probably find a bullet through his brain sooner or later.

Half because Tim was reckless and his plans were so convoluted and insane that nobody really knew what was going on either, just to confuse his opponent. The other half was, well. You can guess.

So. He’s bleeding out, the night is uncomfortably cold and the wind bites into his skin, sand grating against his back, and all Tim can think about is how much he hopes Ra’s al-Ghul doesn’t show up like a damned wraith and drag him kicking and screaming to the nearest surgery table and take out his kidneys or something. 

Tim’s also thinking about his family. And the probable inconveniences that come with his death. Like arranging his funeral and all his assets and his Nest and the fact that Tim is a very integral part of the family and Dick will probably fall apart and Bruce will mourn and brood, and, and damn it. Tim should probably revoke his thinking process or something.

—

Tim is twenty three years old when he bleeds to death alone, and nobody finds his body until three weeks later when his family has scoured the Earth and his distress signal rings, rings, but nobody sees it. His predictions about his family come true.

But that isn’t quite relevant, because Tim isn’t aware of such a thing. 

Instead, Tim closes his eyes and falls and jerks up on his bed, clutching his chest as years of memories flood his brain, too much for a mere eleven year old. It feels like his head has been cracked open and molten lava had been poured through, scorching his veins and circulation. It feels like agony of the highest level and Tim is faintly aware of the darkness creeping in, his mind too overwhelmed and overstimulated from years of memories flooding into his brain.

And so for the second time in a few minutes and a lifetime, Tim welcomes unconsciousness with open arms.

The next few hours are spent in pure agony, his body being too weak to move and his limbs too short for him to coordinate. He’s pretty sure that there’s a pool of dried blood underneath him from a nosebleed, but he’s too tired to turn around, so he just uncomfortably shifts away from it. Not for the first time, he thanks his lucky stars that his parents are neglectful, because he doesn’t even know how he would explain all of this. 

Two days later, he musters the strength to stumble out of bed, gulp down the bitter, carbon dioxide-filled water next to him and get to the kitchen. It’s April 1st, twelve years ago, Tim is eleven years old, and his family doesn’t know him yet.

Half of the terrible things that have happened to Dick haven’t happened yet. Jason hasn’t died yet. Duke is still a kid and his parents are healthy. Babs hasn’t been put into a wheelchair by the Joker.

Steph is still living with her father. Damian and Cass are being trained as assassins.

Mrs. Mac is due to come in a few hours. Tim looks at the blood-crusted covers of his bed and his crumpled clothes. 

Oh, shoot. 

So instead of researching or training, Tim spends the next hour trying to get the bedsheets off with his tiny, noodle arms, half stumbling on his feet because he’s way too damn short, and making his way to the bathroom so he can take a shower and get some of the blood off so it doesn’t stain too badly. 

It’s probably a lost cause. Not that his parents will notice or care about a missing bedsheet, but it feels wasteful to just throw it away to hide evidence of his unintentional time travel.

Two and a half hours later, Tim stumbles out of the laundry room, his bedsheets and pillow finally in the washer. He collapses on the nearest chair and scans the room for his father’s computer. 

He lets out a shaky breath. His family is generally unscarred. Jason is Robin again. Jason. The boy who Tim had held with a certain degree of, well, disdain. Thinking about it kind of makes him want to punch is past self in the face, or cringe in the way that you can only do when you think of something embarrassing you used to do. Like victim-blaming your older brother for getting beat to death while trying to find his mother. 

It wasn’t the only way he looked at Jason, but he had always thought of him as too reckless. Maybe he really did deserve the beating. Well, not that he believed that young teenagers should be beat up by young adults in Robin cosplay, but at least Tim wasn’t exactly traumatized by the experience. Better him than some other poor civilian kid Bruce could’ve adopted.

And Tim did get his revenge. By getting Jason on his private parts. But whatever. Revenge was revenge, and Tim was better than the whole crime lord setup his older brother had. In practice, anyways. 

Chewing on the ballpoint pen, he writes down the first thing on his list (in code, of course) since coming back in time.

prevent jason’s death 

Well. Now that he had a comprehensive list, Tim was down and ready to plan. 

—

A hour later, Mrs. Mac appears, none the wiser to what happened to him. Tim greets her as she walks in, and she smiles and greets him back, putting lunch in the fridge. She notices nothing wrong about how he stays sitting on the chair in the living room, and Tim says nothing about it. When she leaves, he pulls the piece of paper out of his book and the pen from his hair, scratching down some extra points.

Hmm. Maybe the Court of Owls should go early. Or perhaps that would create too much change?

Dick would have a better time in the future if they were gone, though. Tim frowns, dragging his pen back and forth in a short line on the table. 

He still needed to factor in the fact that he was an unknown to the family. The thing is, Tim loves their dysfunctional, broken family and he knows Bruce and Dick loved him back. But to be honest, it would be easier to change events if he wasn’t being scrutinized by Bruce every day. And it wasn’t like Tim had any shortage of money, with his parents still alive and his family fortune enough to cover whole lifetimes, so he wasn’t worried about his own safety.

It would be nice to go to college too. Maybe Stanford. He was smart enough to make it, and the location was close to the vigiliante community that if he so wanted to, he could probably join and watch his family from the outskirts. Last time around, Tim just couldn’t leave Gotham. Being a vigiliante was his life— he couldn’t even justify it as a temporary thing anymore. Their family had gone through so much tragedy and Gotham was still filled with crime and Tim had an obligation to keep her safe. It just… he couldn’t escape his mantle because he loved it, and Tim had a difficult time letting things go once he loved them. 

But if Tim could change things from the start, he didn’t need to be pulled back into the life. (He couldn’t have it, even if he loved it, because it was never his in the first place.) He could start anew, be a vigiliante when he was in college and far away from the family he hopefully would’ve fixed by then.

Well then. First things first, he needed to remove a factor from Jason’s death so he wouldn’t die in the first place.

—

Mrs. Mac comes by and cooks him lunch, and they eat in silence. Typically, Tim would fill the silence with chattering, glad to have someone to talk to in the empty manor.  But Tim’s mind is whirring, drawing up and discarding plans. By the time Mrs. Mac stands up and tells him she’s going to leave now, Tim has thought of three contingencies and twelve more future events he needs to address.

He mhms when Mrs. Mac prompts him to, and eventually she leaves out the front door, leaving him alone with his thoughts. It’s spring break and Tim doesn’t actually have anything to do because he’s in middle school now, so he mulls over the Jason problem for a few more hours.

It comes to him when he’s microwaving the leftovers from lunch, and Tim is pretty sure he’s a genius, or something. Sheila Haywood worked at a refugee camp in Ethiopia handling medical supplies, but she was embezzling funds from the organization she was working for. It wouldn’t be difficult for Tim to trace it and report her. By the time Jason began tracking her down, she would most likely be in prison, just for a few years and everything would hopefully blow over and the Joker wouldn’t blackmail her because she had no use to him in prison. 

It was cold, perhaps. But her life wouldn’t be over with a few years in prison, and Jason would be alive. Nothing more than they deserved.

Jason, alive. Then Damian, Cass, and Steph. He would see to his family, whole and happy. Then perhaps, in the future, when he was older and safely out of Bruce’s adoption zone, Tim could perhaps work with them. Laugh about how he never expected the Wayne family to be vigilantes, just to throw them off his trail. 

Tim allows himself this one selfish thought, because he has nothing else but the shattered remains of a future that will never come to be, and a family he left behind but still exists.

a/n:

i wrote this in two hours under an inspired haze of time travel and tim, two of my favorite things

tim is a super unreliable narrator if you haven't already noticed lmao

also if i get any characterization wrong feel free to leave some discourse or ping me on the head

but like please be gentle cause y'know constructive crit, not bashing

thanks for reading! :D

[pursuitseternal]

Meet: Merelind, aka—Murderella, my sweet, powder blue princess of death. 🦋👑🩸

“Violin? Because it sounds like ‘viol-ence’”

Dark Urge, College of Swords Bard. Bloody thirsty, Over powered, redeemed Durge, madly in love with her own Murder Elf Man.

🎨 @nyachooh on X , @snowfolly , and @moonidraws on X

[fandom-trash-xl]

Is it weird wanting to see how an alien character bleeds in Dragon Ball because you want to know what color they'd blush- and it's Dragon Ball so you know there's a higher chance they're going to show them bleeding than blushing

[arty-holly]

I caught up with the bllk manga and it is a 5 course meal with the way it is serving rn.

Rin's moment came and it is mind blowingly perfect. I could’nt ask for more and there are so many delicious details it's terrific.

The title of this chapter is very interesting to me for reasons. Because Rin as a character is shown to be connected with death and suicide. Infact his 1st character defining line is " Soccer is a battle to the death". Later we find the seed of this thinking in little Rin. He's a weirdo who flings himself at pigeons at toy blocks and a completely opposite mentality to the other kids. The ultimate monster who fights someone stronger, gives his all, and then dies is incredibly cool to him. He hopes to be someone like him in the future . So is it really coincidence if the title of his chapter has a clever wordplay with a famous author who was also suicidal and who wrote a book called " No longer human"?

Now Dazai Osamu was an remarkable author and coincidentally (those who watched Bsd will know) he strived to do double suicides with the women he was in love with. So is it really coincidence that the words that comes out of Isagi’s mouth are " I'll die with you!"? Are you all seeing the romantic connotations here guys?👀

Moving on, just the general remarkable-ness of these recent chapters is blowing my mind.

To see Isagi, the master adapter, arguably the best person in Blue lock who can analyze others to perfection floundering at the anomaly that is Itoshi Rin is so great. This is the first and only time Isagi has been unable to decipher the thought process of another person to this extent. It's gonna make the time when he does get through Rin so much more satisfying. 💚

And its too sad that Rin is so chained in by his feelings that he can't kick a goal his teammates would kill to have because of his own mind( bro needs a therapist fr). It's so baffling to others watching from the outside, but to Rin, it makes perfect sense. It's the way he's almost begging for someone to come, someone to break in and-

The image of Isagi literally swiping away Sae’s phantom, almost reassuring him that he's here, he's real is too beautiful. When Rin is about to lose everything, Isagi is the one who is there. I'm pretty sure Loki would've benched Rin if he threw away a goal again, so Isagi is the reason Rin is still playing in this match. Just the visual framing in this panel is too good.

Do I need to say more?

The way Isagi's eyes look so bright as if he's giving hope to Rin. Rin's EXPRESSION 😭(All we need are some flower petals)

Tell me this isn't poetic beauty, come in my face and tell me this isn't the epitome of romance.

Regardless if it is romantic or platonic, I still adore the way they're written into each other’s arcs. I wasn't the one to notice this, but if Isagi had collided into Rin and Rin had not scored, Isagi would've been red-carded instead of being let off with a yellow card. ( His head was definitely not all there in this moment)Isagi Yoichi, thank your stars your lover is a genius , bro would've been cooked otherwise.

And at the end,

We see the old Rin again, finally enjoying the game he worked his entire life for. (Off topic, but he looks so cute and gorgeous here) and the catalyst for that is none other than our protagonist.

Isagi is the light that brings hope to Rin and Rin is the centre, the ideal for Isagi’s growth. They saved each other.

All of NEL hasn't been exactly amazing but Kaneshiro's writing peaked in these chapters. There is so much said in every panel, so much emotion expressed in each drawing, It's incredible.

[just-call-mefr1es]

tuna for @kwicksowa s tea partyyy:DDDD !!!! oh and mercurys there

TW FOR BLOOD AND GORE (its blue but still)

its so prettyyyyy>w< this is the fic btw

[tunastime]

Recovery One

Washington undergoes experimental surgery: installing Project Freelancer's AI program into his head. Epsilon tries to break his way out of Washington's skull. Washington deals with the symptoms of a thing that wants nothing but to escape.

aeuhmmm so I got a little silly with the freelancers again and decided to write something about what wash and epsilon might've gone through before it was extracted for obvious reasons. this is chapter one! tagged this pretty heavily on ao3 but tw for blood, injury, medical procedures, emotional hurt/comfort, and trauma. (3238 words) (read it on ao3!)

The walls of the Mother of Invention seem colder tonight. It's like Washington's body is a heat source, and the hard beds of Recovery One are the sink, drawing every last shred of warmth from where his flimsy surgical clothes meet cloth. He can feel the handful of sensors stuck to his skin, along the inside of his left wrist, keeping careful track of his heart rate, his oxygen, and his blood pressure. The base of his skull is still aching, a thrum that settles equally in the channel of his spine. 

Cold, shivering, curled pathetically on that hard mattress, Washington is trying to sleep. He's twitchy, stomach twisted into rough knots, and every time he shuts his eyes the spinning of the world only gets worse. The gravity on Invention is generated by a massive column of constantly pulsing electricity, but if Wash were to step foot onto the ground below him, he's certain he'd float upward far too quickly. Or fall face down. One of those would definitely happen. 

He tries to breathe through the wave of nausea that passes. It's all a byproduct of the chip in his skull. The voice is quiet for now. They're fighting to use the same body—his body, with all its human joints and mostly untorn muscles and surficial bruises and just a handful of really broken bones. It hurts like something electric shudders just under the first few layers of skin, or like someone took his nerves and ran them through the shredder. He kind of feels like the paper in the shredder, or the shredder itself. Or maybe the paper when it’s half in the shredder and half out. When's the last time he held a piece of paper? Did people still shred paper? He breathes again.

He's under a 24 hour watch. Twenty four hours of this. He screws his eyes shut and the ship around him swings back and forth on a pendulum. He digs his fingers into the muscles of his shoulders and tries to breathe through it. The stars start to fade after a moment of breaths through his teeth. North used to joke about how anxious Theta made him—that swing of artificial fear through his nervous system, how he had to breathe through the waves of adrenaline to keep himself level. Little spikes happened now and then, making a purely perfunctory condition ten times worse, but North seemed to nurture himself until the feeling gave way to something productive. 

Wash isn’t having that much luck. 

It wasn’t something easy to pin down. He wasn’t just anxious, or sad, or angry. He wasn’t happy, or disgusted, or a middle combination of the emotions he knew how to regulate. It felt like a swirl of everything, of nothing, completely out of his grasp. The AI—Epsilon—was having a field day as he tore open the synapses of Wash’s standing memory and tried to make room. And Wash was fighting back. The lines had already begun to blur and Wash could only assume the after-effects were due to that unalignment, that unmeshed surface. Epsilon needed a blank slate. It was the only thing Wash wasn’t able to offer.

When he breathes again, his stomach turns violently. He lurches, hands grasping at the cool bedside, swallowing hard. His hands shake as they hold onto the smooth surface below him. Okay, fine—eyes open. Another breath out of his teeth. He can taste sour in the back of his mouth. 

The world is foggy when he opens his eyes again. He drags himself up slowly as his head continues to spin like a wobbly top. The top sheet comes with him, wrapped over his shoulders as he drags himself into the bathroom. There’s a moment where he wobbles, stepping forward for the first time, socked foot firmly set on the floor. He can’t even think—the quiet that was there seems to settle into a background of whispers he can’t make out. He speaks out loud to himself, trying to get a word into his crowded brain, or to force himself to step forward.

“I need a drink, that’s it,” he says, in a voice he’s not sure is entirely his own anymore. He swallows again. Anything to get the taste out of his mouth. He can hear that echo of a voice bounce around inside his skull as he drags himself forward uneasily.

“Please,” Wash manages to garble out. “I can’t… I can’t help you.”

He manages to stumble to the doorway of the bathroom, sheet left crumpled at his feet as he braces hard on the edge of the sink. His breaths come fast and hard as he stands upright, fingers white-knuckled where they grip the countertop. The world tilts, and he feels his body slump into the wall  beside him. The white light of the room does little to obscure the sheen of sweat on his face, or the way his hands shake as he tries to turn on the faucet. He cups his hands. The water is cold on his flushed and feverish skin. He presses his cool, damp palms to his eyes and drinks from his hands. Washington breathes. The world seems to settle as the cool air hits his skin. He’s not seeing double for now.

The moment of reprieve is short-lived. His stomach folds over itself, rolling a cold, then hot wave across his skin as he doubles over the sink. The voice inside his head is slamming against the walls of his skull like it could break through. He can’t understand the words, how they crush and morph together against the new spike of pain behind his eyes, but it sounds like screaming. Something scared, and horrified, and desperate, pleading. But maybe that’s him. 

He gags. The rest of his dinner comes up in the sink. He coughs, trying to swallow it back down, nose stinging. He heaves in a breath. His eyes water and he doesn’t stop them from dripping off his cheeks. 

Breathing heavily, Wash drags his hand over his face. It comes back damp, still shaking. He can taste iron in the back of his throat. When he looks in the mirror, eyes dark and sunken, it’s like he can barely recognize the face looking back at him. Wash shuts his eyes tightly. He holds to the edges of the sink, breath shuddering and whistling as he inhales. More tears fall; fear, grief, nothing actually his. 

“I can’t—” he says, he sobs, as the voice—Epsilon—pleads. Pleads for him to make space, to be something other than he is, to let him out, to let him go. “They won’t—” 

Across the room, there’s a quiet knock on the door. He jolts, eyes darting to the closed door. Another knock. Wash brings up a shaky hand, wiping the tears from his chin. He rinses off what he can from his hands, pulling tissues to dry his face. He can still taste the film of bile in the back of his mouth. Washington steadies, blinking his eyes fully open.

“Wash, it’s North. Came to check up on you.”

North. Oh. Wash shudders as he laughs, just a little. Sure. He leans back from the sink, lowering himself gingerly to the floor to grab the sheet. As he steps carefully to the bedside, he replaces the sheet and begs that he finds his sense of composure before he opens the door.

“Coming,” he manages, voice wavering.

He makes his way around the bed, hand braced slightly on the wall as he steps over. The door slides open as he stand in the doorway.

North is standing in his pajamas, a concerned sort of pull to his face. He smiles a little when Wash opens the door, but Wash is too busy staring at his own socked feet and North’s boots to really notice. North’s voice is soft when he speaks. It reminds Wash of the one time South blacked out during dive training and North wouldn’t leave her side.

“How’s it goin’, buddy?” North says gently.

“Best day of my life,” Wash jokes, laughing weakly. North huffs out a laugh, folding his arms.

“I know they’ve got you under watch, so you’re in good hands,” he says, inclining his head. “How’s the headache? The tingling? Anything blurry?”

Wash takes a second, sighing and shutting his eyes. It’s funny that North would say that, isn’t it. He gets the shuddering feeling of something not his own as he stands propped against the wall, trying to hold himself up.

“Still painful,” he manages, pressing his hands to his eyes. “Everything’s blurry.”

“Yeesh—” North says, sucking in a breath through his teeth. “You’re taking it slow though, right?”

Wash nods.

“I’m trying to,” he says. “Best I can given the circumstances. It’s hard to sleep with all the…” He waves his hand around listlessly around his head, as if trying to get his point across. The voice. The emotions. Whatever chugged through his memory and forced itself in. It was an almost-physical, painful sensation. North nods knowingly. Wash doubts that he knows much at all.

“I’m sorry, Wash,” North says, his concern sincere. “It’ll get better with time, though. You’ll have a few days to settle in before the Director sends you out on missions, I’m sure.”

Wash nods again. It’s the most he can really do. His head feels like it’s full of soup gone sour.

“Right,” he says slowly, the words thickening in his mouth to a paste. “Right, I hope so.”

North smiles. He can tell, all of a sudden, as he does every time North summons Theta to the front, how right he was for his AI, how much the nurturing nature he so eagerly kept hidden blossomed when it was needed, when it would be properly appreciated. That smile alone settles a warm swirl through Wash’s chest, trickling into his lungs and his heart. The same happens when North reaches out, cupping his shoulder with his broad palm and squeezing, just enough to feel the heat of his hand. He jostles Washington slightly as he does. Wash manages a smile, huffing out through his nose, his eyes falling shut again as he lets the comfort of touch sink in for just a moment. As North draws his hand away and Wash straightens, North says:

“Alright, I’ll let you get back to resting, okay Wash?”

Wash hums in response.

“You let me know if you need anything. We’re all just down a floor—I’m sure York and I wouldn’t mind stopping in.”

Wash sighs, finally pushing himself to a stand, away from the wall. He doesn’t say anything, but a creeping realization settles in the pit of his stomach, right next to the warmth that used to pervade his joints. He swallows. Instead of feeling nothing, he feels burning in the back of his throat, up his nose. He nods regardless.

“Good deal, buddy,” North smiles. He nods, just a curt bob of his head. “Alright, I’ll be seein’ you.”

“I—” And all of a sudden, the feelings pervading, the ones not his own, rear their head. He swallows roughly, trying to make out a sentence. He mumbles out his next words, vision blurring. “Please don’t—”

“Wash?” North asks, startling, the twinge of concern now laid thick in his words. Wash startles too, blinking hard. What was happening to him? He shakes his head, turning it from North for a moment as he wills himself back to the present. He isn’t leaving, North lives here. He won’t just abandon him. But he can still feel the weight of the word goodbye. The weight of see you soon.

“Sorry, I’m just…” Wash shudders out a sigh, trying to find a viable excuse. “I’m on edge I guess. Don’t worry about it.”

North’s eyes widen.

“Wash, your nose—” he says, moving forward to help him. Wash takes an instinctive step back, cupping his hand around his chin. He can feel the warm dribble of blood now, the taste of iron in the back of his mouth. He shakes his head as he keeps North at arm’s length, turning to fetch tissue from the bathroom. 

“It’s fine,” he croaks out, fumbling for the sink. He runs his hands under the warming water, tipping his head forward. Blood drips into the sink but his eyes are screwed shut too tight to see it. Wash can barely hear North’s voice above the running water, but he hears the door to his room slide shut. Reaching for the tissue, Wash swabs gingerly at his nose, still tasting the metallic tang on his teeth. As he turns back to the room, North is hovering at his bedside, concern written across his whole face. Wash watches his jaw work, his upturned eyes wide and searching Wash’s expression. Washington shakes his head.

“It’s fine,” he says again, barely a sound at all. He jams part of the tissue up his nose, swallowing back whatever was left in his mouth. North gestures to the glass of water still half empty at Wash’s bedside. Wash sits, his legs giving out beneath him, and he drinks.

North takes his time getting to the space in front of him, circling the end of the Recovery Bay bed like Wash were an injured animal about to bite him. Luckily for him, Washington feels far too heavy to move any of his limbs, as if all the energy had been siphoned out of him and into the air, leaving it charged and staticky. He couldn’t find the strength to bite even if he tried. He smooths his hand over the pant leg of his hospital clothes in calculated movements. The scratchy fabric is so thin he can almost feel his body heat through it. Or lack thereof. 

“I don’t know how fine it is, Wash,” North says, folding his arms. He leans against the arm of the chair across from Wash, not exactly sitting, but not really standing. “I certainly wasn’t getting nosebleeds like that with Theta.”

“Well,” Wash manages hoarsely, shutting his eyes tight again. “With all due respect, Theta was a little more… stable.”

“Epsilon’s unstable?” North asks. Wash flinches. He can feel that paper shredder sensation again as he shrinks back. “Wash?”

“It’s okay,” Wash mumbles. “It’s just—side effects.”

North’s face grows taut and stern. When Wash flicks his eyes up to read his face he’s met with a strong set to North’s jaw. North shakes his head, sounding unconvinced.

“It’s not supposed to be this bad,” he says. He drums his fingers against his arm.

Wash sighs. The sound is curt when it leaves his chest. It’s all the energy he has left to expel before it dissolves into an empty hollow in his chest.

“It’s nothing,” he says.

“Washington,” North starts, leaning off the chair and moving toward the bedside. Wash curls further over his lap, as if trying to move away from whatever suggestion North could have for him. It’s not something so easy to fix. It’s just. It’s just—

“It—” Wash takes a long, laborious breath in. He feels something very small break inside his chest as he breathes out, his exhale shuddering. His vision goes blurry in the few feet in front of him, from knees to floor, that he can see. “I don’t—”

“Hey…” North soothes. He lowers himself to Washington’s side, hand coming to cup his shoulder. Wash leans, half intentional and half not, into the touch as North squeezes his arm.

“The memories aren’t mine,” Washington babbles, unintelligible to anyone but himself. “I don’t want them in my head.”

“I know,” North placates regardless. And for a moment, it feels like he means it. It doesn’t really matter if he does or doesn’t. The arms that come around him are strong and warm and solid and friendly as Wash makes contact with the hollow of North’s shoulder. He doesn’t mean to collide and fall so easily, but the arms around him hold on, and hold firm, and he begins to think through the haze of memories not his own that he really didn’t have much say in the matter. North draws him in regardless and Wash sinks himself into his side. He cries and no sound escapes him. He squeezes his eyes shut. Faintly, he can hear North whistle out a breath, through the shff of fabric as he slowly and gently drags his palm over the line of Washington’s shoulders.

“I just need it to stop,” Washington chokes out. It doesn’t matter who’s speaking. The relentless tug of war continues on in his head, even if he can’t hear it, even if it won’t really surface. It doesn’t matter who wants their memories back. It just matters that his body feels like he’s been electrically shocked: drained, shaken out, and hurting.

“Breathe, Wash,” North soothes. Washington does as he’s told, the air scratchy in his throat. He shudders out the breath, trying to keep each stable and even. North doesn’t say anything for a while. He lets Wash breathe and lean into his shoulder, and the silence gives Wash a moment of reprieve as his mind goes quiet. He just focuses on breathing, in through his nose and out through his mouth. North leans just slightly back into him, cheek resting on the top of his head. 

Wash blinks his eyes open. He stares into the middle distance with his vision still blurry, and North’s weight against him keeps him, rather than whatever threatens to invade his memory further, grounded. Wash makes an unintelligible sound as North sighs.

“Great, Wash,” North says lightly. “Doing great.”

“Well, I feel like shit,” Wash manages, almost amused.

North hums softly in agreement, but doesn’t really respond. His hold around Wash grows a little tighter, though, firmer around his shoulder and forearm as Wash sags. His eyes shut again as his breaths remain even, face pressed to North’s shoulder. He’s a bit too large for them to properly fit together, even as they sit side by side on the bed. He lets go of a long breath as the rush of previous anxiety, the new bubbling fear, and exhaustion slip out all at once. In their wake is a pit of nothing, absent of emotion, in his stomach. Tired lingers instead in the same space, around that nothing. He can feel his body grow heavy against North and he has half the mind to mention how tired he actually is. But North hasn’t moved, regardless if he’s noticed or not, and the hand on his shoulderblade, and the head resting against his, remains. The world goes blissfully soft for a moment, his body heavy and his mind quiet. It’s only when he blinks his eyes open again that he realizes he’s lying down. North is gone.

He squints at the room around him, lifting his head slightly. He’s on his back with the sheet draped over him, comfortable against the pillows. For once, his body and head don’t ache, and whatever voice that might be screaming is silent. When he lifts himself further, the room spins, tipping violently this way and that. Wash lets himself back down. For now, he decides that the comfort he has is better taken than lost, and he shuts his eyes.

The world goes muted and grey around him. His body sinks to the mattress.

He has a feeling he won’t wake again for some time.

[maxbegone]

all so human with our guards down by maxbeonge (88.2k) — completed

“Constant fear is debilitating,” Alex tells him later on. The sun has risen, though it’s barely prominent through the dark clouds in the sky. “Even in the world we live in now, you need to find the things that make it feel…normal.”

Of course, Alex isn’t even sure that makes much sense, and he thinks about doubling back on what he just said with something stupid and word-vomitty, whatever pops into his head first, but Henry beats him to it. Much more suitable, and it puts Alex’s mind at ease:

“I’m starting to think you’re right.”

The world ended three years ago. No more all-night study sessions, no more drag brunch and mimosas, no more societal expectations.

But out of everything Alex was expecting from an apocalypse, Henry sure as hell wasn't it.

[gauloiseblue]

I'm obsessed with them now 😩

Ref:

[dreadfutures]

Death is an Open Door | Dragon Age Fanfic

Rated: T | M!Mahariel & NB!Mahariel | Length: 8k, oneshot.

Art commissioned from @eldrtchmn.

Old Wardens told tales of long-gone companions and how they knew it was time to go. When hair thinned and nails grew sharp; when bone spurs sprouted or muscles began to hunch; when the eyes grew milky and the veins grew dark, and the light of the sun burned like the Maker’s wrath… that was when a Warden was a Warden no longer. Mahariel had never known old Wardens. Mahariel traveled at night.

A gift fic I wrote for @ammoniteflesh <3

Written for the annual Dragon Age Fan Fic (DAFF) discord server's April OC Swap. I was SO excited to receive Ghila to write a fic for and had to place my own Mahariel in stark contrast - and uncanny comparison - to Ghila's experience with the Blight, and vice versa.

We both commissioned @eldrtchmn for our ghoulish Wardens (above). Please keep an eye out for commission openings, and follow on all socials! No one does dark fantasy/souls better IMO.

[yuenity]

You ever vehemently disagree with something that the majority of fandom seems to accept as fanon

[apicelladonna]

Musings on the blood troth's fight or flight

aka me rewatching the FB2, FB3 while folding laundry

I wanna read deeper regarding the blood troth , blood pact created by Albus & Gellert. Atm I know so little about what has been offered in the movies. And it hurts my brain and wallet.

I have so many questions about the implications of the blood troth's "defense mechanism" ( 'sensing the betrayal' of the other party of the magic oath and choking the life out of them)

What are its limitations with the given definition by Albus? How sentient must it be to discern the right amount of thought to be considered as betrayal? The right amount of physical force needed to 'reinforce'(?) or remind the party member about the terms of their blood magical oath.

Because if every couple had an intense argument that subjected their version of the troth to the breaking point, it would defeat the purpose of making the magical binding and keeping your partner alive til death do you part. Divorce would be cheaper.

What's to say this is another version of the Unbreakable vow? But stronger and more intimate? Considering you wouldn't need a 3rd party presence for a Blood pact from what we've seen so far. Unless Abeforth's goats were there somewhere.

Is it less deadlier because the blood troth doesn't truly snuff out the other party's life if he/she doesn't go through their agreed terms of the contract/marriage?

And what of its advantages? I think when those two starry eyed young teens created the blood pact, it had more implications to strengthen their bond. Perhaps a shared strength of magic? Up to what extent though? If the blood pact had been flawless til the end what would've been the other wonders it bestows the two lovers?

Or what curse? (*Insert suspense sfx*)

This is giving corkboard level of research and I have my final requirement deadlines ahead-

[xenonsreturn]

Garrus Gets Legos

A Mass Effect Story

This story takes place after Shepard “dies” at the beginning of Mass Effect 2. Shep and Liara are a couple and Shepard has an 11 year old daughter from a previous relationship, Ridley (sometimes referred to as RJ). Liara has adopted Ridley in Shep's absence.

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

"Hello, Garrus. This is Liara calling. I hope you are well. I was wondering if I could ask you for a favor. I need . . . well, I need someone I can trust. I have a project, an important project I am working on and I need to be away from home for an evening next Thursday, but I cannot bring Ridley with me. If you are not otherwise occupied, would you consider watching her, spending the evening with her while I am out? I believe the human term is babysitting, which I do not understand, because Ridley is neither a baby, nor should she be sat upon. When I talked to her about it, she said she would be willing to “hang out” with you. I don’t understand this term either, especially because it would be incredibly dangerous, considering the level we live on. At any rate, if you are free, I would very much appreciate it. Just don’t sit on her or allow her to dangle out of our windows. Thank you, Garrus. Please call me back."

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

Garrus stood at the comm in his apartment, waiting for his call to go through. After a few moments, a familiar face – well, mask, really – appeared on the screen.

“Hey, Garrus.”

“Hey, Tali.”

“What brings me the pleasure of your call, G?”

“Well, I need some help.”

“You do? That’s unusual – not that you need help, but that you would ask for it.”

“Now, wait a minute –“

“Just teasing. What’s going on, Garrus?”

“Okay, well, I’m looking for some sort of gift for Ridley. Liara asked me to watch her next Thursday. I want to bring something.”

“Garrus Vakarian, babysitter.” She chuckled. “Okay. What sort of thing?”

“I don’t know yet, but I’m afraid if I just show up empty handed, we’ll just stare at each other . . . and I want to make a better impression than that. I hope I can . . . I mean, I’d like to help with Ridley, for Liara, and for Ridley, of course, but also . . . for Shepard.”

Tali sighed. “I know you miss Shepard. We all do. But she’s gone, Garrus. You have to let her go . . . as hard as that is.”

“Yeah, I know. I’m trying.”

“But now you’re trying to somehow connect with Shepard through her daughter.”

He opened his mouth to respond, then closed it again. “Well, yes, I guess that’s true.” It was difficult to admit, and he hadn’t thought that’s what he was doing, but now that Tali said it . . . well, she had a way of getting to the point. “But also, I think Ridley needs more than just Liara, and I . . . I think being part of that would honor Shepard’s memory. It would be what she’d want. But also, it’s been awhile since Ridley’s seen me, and what if she doesn’t like me? Or we don’t have anything to talk about? I mean, she’s been so lonely and withdrawn since Shepard – since she . . . ”

“Since she died, Garrus,” said Tali sadly.

Garrus took a deep breath. “Yeah, since she died.” He looked at the floor. “Dammit,” he muttered. “It’s still so hard to say.”

“I know. It’s hard for all of us.”

“But it’s so much harder for Liara. And even worse for Ridley. Hence, the gift. A toy or something. I want to try to give her something else to think about, something she can maybe sort of lose herself in. Liara wants her to be able to connect with her roots, so it has to be something made by humans, but something we can do together. Like a game, maybe. Or a puzzle. She’s good with puzzles.”

“How about music? Liara has mentioned more than once that Ridley shows an aptitude for it.”

“Yeah, but that makes one of us. No rhythm, see?”

“You know, I have seen you dance. Don’t sell yourself short, Garrus. You’ve got moves.” He could hear the smile in her voice and he felt his face smile back. “Okay, let me see what I can do. Talk to you later.”

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

The next morning, Tali called.

“Hey, Tali.”

“Hey, yourself, Garrus. I think I can help you out.”

“Fantastic! Thanks. How’d you do it?”

“I found a shopping VI on the extranet and hacked it to widen the search parameters, and then I put in all you told me about what you were looking for.” She paused. “It took me four hours.”

“Tali, I think I love you.”

If Tali blushed under her mask, she gave no sign of it.

“What did you find?” Garrus asked.

“Quite a lot, actually. Puzzle games, strategy games, word games, building toys –“

“Building toys. She’s a creative girl. Let’s start there.”

“There are several made on Earth which utilize mass effect technology to create a virtual space to be populated by virtual creatures, designed by the player.”

“Hmm. Can we try something a little less, um, virtual? She seems to really enjoy the tactile, something real.”

“Well, there is one that you both might like. It also has a connection with Earth’s past. When I found it, I thought it would be perfect, but getting a hold of it is going to be a little more involved than the others.”

“Okay, what is it?”

“They were called Legos.”

“Lay Goes?”

“Yes. They were interlocking plastic blocks that could be connected in almost infinite ways, made on Earth in the late 20th and early 21st centuries. They were immensely popular. Here, I’ll send you a feed.”

An ancient video started playing on the monitor, showing human children building vehicles, creatures, houses . . . and plenty of other, harder-to-define, objects. Garrus watched for approximately ten seconds.

“That’s it. That’s perfect. Where can I find them?”

“Well, that’s one of the problems. They haven’t been made in over 150 years, and they are very difficult to come by, even on Earth.”

“Difficult, but not impossible, right?”

“Right. I looked into it last night. There is an art collector on Bekenstein who has quite a variety of Legos in his collection, and has offered them for sale on the extranet. Considering their scarcity, the price is fairly reasonable. It seems the best choice – or at least, the best place to start.”

“Sounds good. I didn’t have anything planned for the weekend, anyway.”

“What about next weekend? You free?”

“Uh, I don’t know,” said Garrus, puzzled.

Tali sighed. “Never mind.”

“Thanks, again, Tali.”

“No problem, Garrus. Let me know if you need anything else. You know I’m here for you.”

“I know. Thanks.” He disconnected the feed.

“Well,” he said to the empty apartment. “I guess I’m off to Bekenstein.”

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

The billionaire’s house – no, mansion – was impressive, to say the least. So much wealth, on such obvious display . . . well, Garrus's time in C-Sec had made him suspicious. And not a little uncomfortable.

The art collector, dressed impeccably in a tailored, tasteful suit, strode forward to greet him.

“Hello, Mr. Vakarian,” he said in a clipped accent Garrus could not identify. “Thank you so much for your inquiry. I believe we have exactly what you are looking for.”

“That’s good news,” said Garrus, eyeing the security protocols out of habit. They were impressive. “I’m so glad you were available to meet me on such short notice, Mr. - ?”

“Hock. Donovan Hock, at your service.”

Garrus could not help but grin. “Well, that’s a refreshing change.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I’m just used to being at other people’s service. Especially people with your . . . assets. Never mind. Just a joke.”

“Ah, well. Step this way, Mr. Vakarian. I have the collection on display for your perusal.” Hock turned back to Garrus. “May I ask, what prompted your interest? A toy, from Earth’s past? Unusual for a turian, don’t you think?”

“Well, I’m . . . uh, babysitting a human kid in a couple days and I just wanted to bring her something from her roots. Plus, this kid . . . well, I have a feeling she’ll really like these Lay Goes.”

Hock stopped. “Ah, Mr. Vakarian, I’m afraid I must correct you. They are not called Legos. They are, collectively, Lego. The word is already plural, you see?”

“Hmm. But there are a lot of them, all different. Each piece is a single Lay Go.”

“I’m afraid that is not correct. They are Lego Bricks and Toys, or Lego Elements. I have done extensive research on the subject. The Lego company was quite adamant about the way their brand name was discussed.”

“Well,” said Garrus, deciding in that moment that Donovan Hock was, in fact, an arrogant prick – and Garrus was going to call them whatever the hell he wanted. “Okay. Lead on.”

Hock wound his way through the opulent home, pointing out various priceless works of art along the way. Garrus nodded at all the right moments, although he truly couldn’t care less. In fact, this place was giving him a bad feeling all over.

Finally, they arrived at a heavy security door, which opened at Hock’s approach.

“You keep your toys under some pretty impressive scrutiny,” said Garrus.

“Yes, toys, certainly. Have you ever seen a child deprived of his toys?” Asked Hock. “I was. And I stopped at nothing to get them. And now, even as an adult, I make sure that will never happen again. But there’s more in here than just toys, my friend.”

The door opened upon what had to be one of the largest museums Garrus had ever seen – although, truth be told, he hadn’t seen that many. Works of art and historical artifacts from a thousand worlds were preserved and on display, behind glass or, in some cases, effect fields.

“Well, I have to admit, I’m very impressed with the size of your collection,” said Garrus. “The diversity, too. A lot of races are represented here. Wait,” he said, thinking of Liara. “Do you have any Prothean relics?”

“Oh, a few,” said Hock.

“I have a friend who might like to study them sometime, if that would be all right.”

“Certainly. When our business is concluded, let’s get the contact information set up and they can visit whenever they like. Ah,” said Hock. “Here we are.”

He pointed at a large display case. In it were probably a few thousand small, multicolored plastic blocks, sticks, and other pieces.

“Wonderful,” said Garrus. He took another look at them. “Hmm. They’re a little smaller than I expected.” He glanced down at his hands. “Oh, well. They’re perfect for . . . my charge.”

“I’m glad they are to your satisfaction. You have the credits?”

“Right here,” said Garrus, pulling out a datapad and handing it to Hock.

Hock examined the pad, performed a transaction, and a broad smile crossed his face. “Excellent. The Lego are yours.”

“Great. Now,” said Garrus, looking at a large empty space in the museum, directly ahead. “What’s missing there?”

“Oh, there is a large piece I just made room for, which I hope to acquire quite soon. In fact,” said Hock. “You are going to help me do just that.”

“What?”

The sting of the dart hit Garrus in the neck. His hand reached up to the wound, and dizziness started to overcome him. He fell to his knees.

“It’s nothing personal, Mr. Vakarian,” said Hock, his voice sounding distant and fuzzy. “It’s just that you yourself are worth so much more than the price of the Lego.”

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

There was some sort of bell that would just not stop ringing. An image of soldiers, their boots marching through mud, kept swimming in and out of focus. He was aware of a dull ache that wrapped itself around his head and penetrated his skull. Every part of his body felt heavy and listless as he slowly awoke from the feverish dream.

“Ah, Mr. Vakarian,” came that clipped voice again, still sounding far away, like it came from the other end of a tunnel. “Glad you could join us.”

“Fuggoff,” slurred Garrus. His hands were bound behind his back, and hi s legs were shackled.

Hock gave a chuckle, sounding a little closer now. “Such spirit. I see why you made so many enemies. No compromise with you, eh?”

With tremendous effort, Garrus lifted his head and said, “Fuck. Off.”

“No, I don’t think I will. See, my friend, when one makes enemies, as you so diligently have, those enemies tend to, well, flock together.” Hock lowered himself to meet Garrus’s eyes. “And they will pay, gladly, to see you suffer.”

Garrus tried to spit at Hock and succeeded only in drooling on his own chin.

“Please, Mr. Vakarian, try to maintain a modicum of decorum. The poison introduced into your system will break down within a few minutes. Then you will be able to spit to your heart’s content. And you will be able to feel this,” he pinched Garrus’s arm. “You see, the people who want you, want you to really feel what they - well, what I have in store for you. It just won’t work if you’re numb.”

Garrus glared at Hock. The art collector stood up and turned his back on his captive. “Ah, Mr. Vakarian,” he said. “You are wanted by four people - well, four groups, actually, and they all have rather sizable bounties on you.” While Hock was talking, Garrus shifted his attention around the room. His vision was still a little blurry, but he could make out cameras, a guard, a door. The guard was armed, assault rifle in hand, pistol in holster.

“At first, I thought of just offering you to the highest bidder. That would go a long way to getting the piece that I want – a piece that, like your Lego, also has a connection to Earth’s past, I might add.”

Garrus was feeling sharper by the second. He subtly flexed his arms, testing the cuffs at his wrist. They were solid, connected to the chair, but separate from the shackles on his ankles.

“Then I thought, well, everyone enjoys a show. So I made them a deal. For all four of the bounties, they could tie your arms and legs to different vehicles, and then they could just . . . pull you apart. Each group could take a different piece of you.” Hock turned around. “They agreed so quickly. We didn’t even have to negotiate the price. In fact, I already have the payment.” Hock smiled. “Either they are naturally bloodthirsty, or . . . well, maybe you just bring that out in people.”

“Yes, well,” said Garrus. “I guess I have a knack for that. Just like you have a knack for being a lowbrow motherfucker, pretending to have good taste.”

Hock’s smile disappeared. “I beg your pardon?”

“You heard me. You have no appreciation for anything you’ve got. You don’t have any Prothean relics – if you really think you do, then whoever sold them to you lied and you didn’t know any better.” Hock’s face had darkened like the sky before an oncoming storm, and his hands had clenched into fists. “You’re just a spoiled brat who collects what other people tell him are worthwhile,” Garrus went on. “It’s all just . . . toys to you, so you can feel important, like a big shot. But I bet all the people who come here are laughing behind your back. Because they know you’re really just a little boy, hoping the grown-ups will let him play.”

Hock’s fist slammed into Garrus’s face. At that moment, Garrus dislocated his left thumb and pulled it free of the cuff on his chair.

Hock glared at Garrus. “It’s been a long time since I hit another man, but that was worthwhile.”

“Yes, I’m sure that brought back memories of grade school, where you hired bigger kids to hold down the little ones, so you could really show them all what a big man you are.”

Hock hit him again. Garrus took the impact, allowed it to throw him backward, and swung his legs up, over his head in a reverse somersault as the chair fell over backwards with a clatter. In a heartbeat, he was on his feet, shackled though they were. He swung his right arm - and the chair, still attached, slammed directly into Hock’s stomach. The man doubled over with a grunt, and Garrus brought his left fist down onto Hock’s head. Hock crumpled to the floor. Garrus spat at the unconscious billionaire – successfully, this time.

The guard already had his rifle trained on Garrus, but the turian held the chair in front of him as the guard got off a single shot, which buried itself in the chair’s frame. By then, Garrus had closed the distance and pressed the top rail of the chair into the guard’s throat, holding it there until the guard turned pale, his eyes rolling back into his skull. Garrus held it there a moment longer.

“These close quarters, should have kept your pistol out, slung your rifle over your back,” he said to the unconscious guard. “Amateur.”

He was prowling the corridor less than a minute later when the alarm went off. “Oh, crap.”

He grabbed the pistol and fired into the chain between his feet. Now, about this chair . . . He looked down at the guard, searching for ideas. One obvious one presented itself immediately. “Oh. Keys. Well. Maybe I’m the amateur.”

He had no bearings, no way to see if he was heading in the right direction for the landing bay. There was a doorway up ahead. He threw himself to one side before he opened it, keeping his stolen pistol up and checking the rifle over his shoulder.

The door opened onto a walkway above the museum. Garrus glanced down, finding the door he’d come through earlier almost immediately. Unfortunately, there were a dozen guards below, as well. What I wouldn’t give for a sniper rifle right now, he thought. The last one would be gone before the first one hit the floor.

He thought he saw movement on this level, too, just ahead, out of the corner of his eye. He started forward, then a man stepped out, a few yards ahead, pistol in hand. Garrus started to bring his own up, knowing even as he did so that the man had the drop on him, that he was dead. The man fired, twice.

Garrus froze, feeling a tightening in his belly as the bullets . . . went by his ear. He turned and saw one of Hock’s men behind him, a couple new holes in his face, drop to the floor.

The guards below drew their weapons and fired. Garrus traded his pistol for his rifle in one smooth motion and returned fire, dropping four of them in seconds.

The other man dropped to the floor and tossed something down towards the guards. In two seconds, it exploded, shredding men and priceless artifacts alike.

The man stood up. “That oughta do it.’

Garrus turned back to the other man. “Uh . . . thanks?”

“My pleasure,” the other man smiled. He was asian, with close-cropped hair and a single line of a goatee from his lip to his chin. “Anything to throw a monkey wrench into Hock’s plans.”

Garrus relaxed. “Well, then, you’re my kinda guy, Mr - ?”

“No names,” said the man. “I’ve still got work to do. And so do you.”

“Yeah, I’ve got to get the hell out of here.”

“Yes, but first,” said the man, grinning, “don’t forget your Legos.”

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

Garrus carried the Lego case toward the landing pad.

Almost there, he thought. Seems too easy.

As he approached the nearest ship, he heard a voice behind him.

“Where do you think you’re going, Vakarian?”

He turned around. There were seven mercs there. Blue Suns, Eclipse, Blood Pack, and another group he didn’t recognize. All armed to the teeth. A human in Blue Suns armor said, “We paid good money to see you torn apart. Now we’re gonna make that happen.”

“Ah,” said Garrus. “You know, you guys should really start working together under a single name. Should call yourselves ‘The Cowards���. Making a rich guy do your dirty work for you. Taking on one guy with seven, all hiding behind your guns.”

“Fuck you, Vakarian!”

“Yeah, yeah,” said Garrus. “Besides, you can’t pull me apart alive if your shoot me first. Come on, there’s seven of you. Surely you can take me together, hand to hand.”

The mercs glanced at each other.

“If you don’t, you know you’ll always know you backed down, took the easy way,” Garrus goaded.

The mercs put down their weapons.

“Okay,” sighed Garrus as he cracked his knuckles. “Who wants it first?”

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

Twenty minutes later, a badly wounded, but exhilaratingly alive Garrus was prepping the stolen ship for departure.

“Hang on, kid,” said Garrus as he lifted off. “I’m on my way.”

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

The door chime rang, finally, and Liara tried to send a smile at Ridley. “That would be Uncle Garrus.”

Ridley looked at her momma. “Great,” she said, her voice flat.

Liara felt her heart drop. She knew Ridley was upset and felt – once again - abandoned. If only I could talk to her, tell her what I am trying to do . . . But she knew she couldn’t. If she got the girl’s hopes up that there was a chance to bring her mother back, and then it didn’t happen, it would just further damage her. And Liara felt Ridley had been damaged enough. The galaxy is so . . . cold. So she could take the pain of Ridley’s mood, if it meant protecting her from disappointment. She sighed and went to answer the door. It would be nice, she thought, so see a familiar face.

When the door opened on his face, however, it wasn’t so familiar. She gasped. “Goddess! Garrus, what happened to you?”

“You should see the other guy. Or, guys, actually.”

The turian’s face was bloody and bruising. One arm was crudely bandaged, and . . . “Garrus, is that . . . is that a bullet hole?”

“It’s not so much a hole as it is a scrape. I’m okay, Liara. I just need a little medi-gel and I’ll be good as new. Well, good enough, anyway.”

Liara’s hand went to her mouth. “Oh my goodness,” she said. “Well, come in.” She offered a hand, and Garrus took it. He limped into the apartment. “Sit down,” she said, indicating a chair at the dining room table. “Ridley?” she called. “Can you get some medi-gel from the bathroom?”

“Fine,” said Ridley from the other room. “What, did you get a paper cut?”

Ridley appeared a few seconds later, scowling, but then she dropped the medi-gel at the sight of Garrus. “Oh!”

“Hi, kid,” he said, managing a grin. “Don’t worry about me. Just had a little . . . detour on the way back from getting you a present.”

“A present?”

“Ridley!” snapped Liara. “The gel!”

“Oh, right!” said Ridley, picking it up the floor and handing it to her Momma.

Liara wasted no time in applying the gel to the turian’s many wounds. Garrus’ mandibles quivered a bit when she touched the bullet graze, but he made no sound. Ridley helped a bit and looked on until she was sure her Uncle was okay, then disappeared back into the other room.

Liara whispered, “She has been so clingy, questioning everything I do, but when I ask about her, she barely says a word. I don’t know what’s going on in her head – and I’m scared to ask, because I think I’ll just push her away.”

“My sister was like that when she was about Ridley’s age,” said Garrus. “Seemed to live in her own little world . . . Population: One. Don’t worry, I’m sure she’ll grow out of it. Just keep doing what you’re doing – which I know is hard. Just so, if she decides to talk, she knows you’re there. But yeah, don’t push. For now.”

Liara sighed. “It’s so hard to be patient sometimes.”

“Sounds like Shepard rubbed off on you some, Liara,” Garrus chuckled.

Liara caught herself, and grinned. “Maybe she did, at that.”

When she was done and he was properly bandaged, she asked, “Are you sure you’re okay to stay with Ridley?”

“Absolutely. After what I went through to get these, there is no way in hell I’m not playing with RJ.”

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

“You mentioned a present?” said Ridley, after Liara had left.

“I thought you’d never ask. Go sit at the table and I’ll bring ‘em over.”

Ridley did so and Garrus brought out the Lego case.

“So, Ridley, these,” said Garrus proudly, “are called Lay Goes. They were made on Earth, by humans, a long time ago.” He dumped the contents of the box onto the table with a clatter. Multicolored plastic pieces spilled across to Ridley.

She was unimpressed. “Uh. Thanks.” She picked one up. “What do they do?”

“Well, it’s not so much what they do, as it is what you do with them,” he said. “See, they kind of fit together, and you can build things with them.”

“What kind of things?”

“Pretty much whatever you want.” He grabbed one block and attempted to snap it on to another. His large fingers made this task more difficult than he had expected. “Hmm. I wish they were a little bigger,” he muttered. He started to wonder if this had been a good idea. She obviously couldn’t care less. He tried to contain his growing disappointment. He hadn’t gone through all this to give up now. “Should be perfect for your hands, though. Give it a try.”

With a noted lack of enthusiasm, she picked up two pieces at random. She turned them over in her hands, looking at the bumps and crannies. “Hmm,” she said. She snapped them together. “Oh,” she said. She grabbed another block and fit it onto the other two with a click. “Oh!” she said again, her face lighting up as she started to see the possibilities. “Ooooh.” She grabbed a handful of pieces and started to put them together.

Garrus smiled as he watched her and saw the wheels turning in her mind, and he relaxed. He’d been right – this was perfect for her.

“What do you say we build something extraordinary?”

Garrus picked up the pieces and clumsily attempted to work with them while Ridley built away. He was thrilled at how much Ridley was enjoying this, but he himself was having trouble fitting the small pieces together, and it was a little frustrating, particularly because this toy really appealed to his need for order and detail. It was an incredible, yet simple, design. Eventually, he limited himself to the largest pieces he could find and did the best he could. But he kept glancing back at Ridley. She was building . . . and building . . .

“Oh, yeah!” she said, her eyes glued to the pieces, her fingers nimbly constructing at random. No, not at random, Garrus thought – there was already a pattern emerging.

He had to ask. “What is that you’re putting together, RJ?”

She didn’t take her eyes off her project. “I have no idea, yet, but this is so fun!”

He got up to get them both a snack. When he came back, a bowl of Tierrot Root chips for himself in one hand and a slice of banana bread for Ridley in the other, he suddenly let out a yell.

“OH GODDAMMIT MOTHERF-“

He slammed the bowl and the plate down on the table and hopped on one foot over to the wall, steadying himself with one hand.

“Uncle Garrus! Are you all right?” Ridley’s forehead creased with concern as she half-rose from the table.

“Ah, yeah, RJ, I’ll be fine,” panted Garrus. He bent his knee and looked at the bottom of his foot. Gingerly, he reached down and extracted a bright blue cube from his biggest toe. “I just . . . stepped on a Lay Go. Ah, man,” said the turian. “That hurts like hell.”

He looked down, and saw a half-assembled smattering of Legos where he had stepped. “Oh, no, RJ,” he said as he picked them up. “I smashed it.” He sheepishly handed it back to her. “I’m sorry.”

She was trying, but failing, not to laugh. “Sorry, Uncle Garrus.”

"It's okay. Just don't tell your Momma I said some of those words."

She took it and turned it over in her hand. “That’s okay, Garrus. I can put it back together in just a sec. Wait,” she said. “No, see this? I can take this part off,” she did so, “and add it back over here,” she snapped the part onto the ever-growing assembly in front of her on the table, “and HA!” She smiled. “See, it’s a cave now!”

Garrus’s jaw dropped. This kid was something else, all right.

In the end, her Lego creation turned out to be a partially synthetic dragon (a cyborgon, Ridley informed him) attacking a starship because the starship had accidentally gotten too close to the dragon’s eggs. Garrus marveled at the complexity of the set, especially considering the girl had only started playing with Legos just over an hour ago. And he was particularly impressed with how she had constructed an entire story around her project. While her hands had been building the model, her mind had been building the story.

Garrus suddenly felt an enormous wave of love for Ridley. He had not felt so happy since before Shepard died. To see her daughter playing . . . just playing . . . brought him a feeling of immense joy that he hadn’t realized how much he’d missed. And he knew that, if Shepard could see Ridley now, she’d be smiling.

Garrus finally gave up working with the Legos himself (damn huge fingers, stupid tiny blocks) and just contented himself with watching Ridley play, occasionally offering suggestions or asking questions.

“How’s school these days, RJ?”

She was now working on what was becoming a pretty close Lego approximation of the Destiny Ascension.

“It’s okay. Music is my favorite, of course, but we only get to do that twice a week.”

“Ah, music. Love listening to it, can’t play or sing or dance worth a damn.” He sighed. “Got any friends?”

“I have two. Katora and Holden.”

“Let’s hear the scoop.”

“Well, Katora and Katie and I share a study pod together. She’s asari and pretty neat. I help her with her homework sometimes. Holden is human and we’re in math class together. He’s blond and smart and he’s good at math and science and he talks a lot and he’s, um, really cute.” The words came out in a rush as Ridley turned a deep scarlet.

“Well,” said Garrus, giving no indication whatsoever that he’d noticed her response when talking about a boy. “They sound like cool kids.”

“Yeah, they are.” She paused, and looked at him. “Can I tell you a secret, Uncle Garrus?”

“Of course.”

“Promise not to tell Momma?”

“Well, that depends on the secret. Will this secret hurt anyone?”

“No.”

“Then, yes, I promise not to tell your Momma.”

“Okay.” She took a deep breath. “I really like Holden. Like, really. A lot.”

“Ah,” said Garrus. “I think I see what you’re saying, RJ.”

“Yeah,” said Ridley. “He makes me laugh a lot. He’s super funny. He’s always making up stories. Sometimes, I hear him just singing a song he’s just making up as he goes – and the words rhyme at the right time.”

“Kind of like you, just now,” chuckled Garrus.

Ridley turned an even deeper red. “Stop it!” she giggled.

“Sorry,” said Garrus, grinning. “But I’m not surprised you like that he sings.”

“Yeah,” she said, smiling. “Anyway, at first I just thought he couldn’t shut up – like maybe he had a condition - but then he would remember things that I’d said like a week before. I think he listens almost as much as he talks.”

“Well, that’s a rare thing,” said Garrus. “So why’s this such a big secret? Why can’t you tell your Momma about him?”

“She’d never let me be his – I mean, she wouldn’t want him to be my – well, she wouldn’t like it if we were . . . more than friends.”

“Have you talked to her about him at all?”

“No. No way.”

“Well, then, how do you know?”

Ridley sighed. “Because Momma wants me to stay her baby, forever. But I’m growing up. I’m not a baby.”

Garrus looked at her. “Well, that’s true. You are growing up. And I know she’s proud of you. It’s just that . . . well, you’re very special to her, RJ. You mean the world to her – the galaxy, even. And you have to remember, she’s an asari and asari kids don’t grow as quickly as human kids do. So it’s a little scary for her to see how fast you’re growing up. Maybe she feels it’s a little too fast for her.”

Ridley thought for a moment. “You think that’s true?”

“Yes, I do. She can take her time doing things because she’s going to live for over a thousand years, but your lifetime is barely a blink of her eyes.”

“But it’s my life, and I’m not an asari, and I’m growing at human-speed.”

“Of course you are,” he said. “But really, I think she’s scared of losing even a minute with you. She wants to savor every moment of it because she knows that time has a way of slipping away from us. She knows how life can change in a heartbeat. I mean,” he cleared his throat, “she already lost your mom. I think she’s scared to death of losing you, too.”

He could tell this last had an impact on Ridley. She stopped, the Legos frozen in her hand, and she stared out the window, focused on nothing. A full minute passed in silence.

“I . . . I didn’t think of that,” said Ridley. “Sometimes I forget that Momma lost her, too.”

“Try to remember,” said Garrus gently, “that it’s hard for her, just like it’s hard for you.”

Ridley gave him a sad little smile. “I’ll try, Uncle Garrus.”

“Good. In the meantime, why don’t you invite Holden over to play sometime?”

She flushed again. “Oh, I don’t know . . .”

“Invite Katora over, too, then, if that makes it a little less scary.”

“Hmm.” She turned the idea over in her head. “That’s a good idea. They get along, too . . . although,” she grinned slyly at him, “not too well.”

“There you go.”

“You know what else?”

“What’s that?”

She smiled. “I bet he’d really like Legos.”

“You think so, huh?” She nodded. “Good,” he said. “Then you’ll have something to do together when he comes over.”

They played together without speaking for a few moments, each enjoying sharing the other’s silence. Then Ridley piped up.

“Uncle Garrus?”

“Yeah?”

“Why are you still wearing that?” She pointed at his face.

“Huh? Oh,” he said, reaching up to touch his visor. “I don’t know. I pretty much always have it on. I needed it earlier, when I was . . . getting your Lay Goes. It helps me out when I . . . run into trouble.”

“Are you expecting to run into trouble now?”

Garrus chuckled. “Heh, no. Unless you want to fight me for the last bit of ice cream.”

“Come on, you can’t eat that anyway,” she laughed. “Why don’t you take it off?”

“I . . . don’t know. I guess I’m so used to it . . . “

“Well, give it a try.”

Garrus looked away, then back at Ridley. He could face down mercs, but taking off his visor . . . still, here she was, Shepard’s daughter, challenging him. And here he was, trying to build her up, trying to show her courage, when she needed someone to look up to . . . He reached up and unfastened the visor, then looked at her.

She looked at him for a second, then turned back to the Legos. “See, that wasn’t so hard.”

If only you knew how hard, kid, he thought. But why?

“You look weird. Like, you’re not yourself.”

“Well . . . uh, thanks,” he said.

“I’m just used to . . . “ she said, then she looked at him. “But this is how you really are. Underneath.”

“Hmm,” said Garrus. “Well, I guess so. Maybe that’s why it’s hard for me to do.”

They looked at each other, then each looked away.

“Did you really beat up seven guys?” Ridley asked.

“Well, not so much ‘beat up’ as ‘make them sorry for getting in my way’.”

“But, seven?”

“Maybe I should have said seventy. And a thresher maw.”

She smirked, and Garrus thought, She looks exactly like Shepard, and he felt a pang deep in his heart.

“You’re gonna have a lot of scars,” said Ridley. “Well, a lot more, anyway.”

“Yeah, well, maybe. Most of them will heal up fine.”

“What about this one?” She pointed at a deep, thick line on his forearm.

“Yeah, that one . . . won’t. But that’s okay. See, I got that one helping your mom.”

Ridley turned away. “Did she end up hurting everyone she touched?”

Garrus reached out and gently turned her face back to his. “No, she inspired everyone. To stand up and fight for something more than themselves. It’s just that, sometimes, that means you get hurt. But the galaxy is a better place because of the things she inspired us to do. Besides, I don’t want to die without any scars. Means I lived through something. And your mom knew a thing or two about that – hell, she could have taught a class in it. She had a few scars, too.”

“But there was one thing she didn’t live through.”

“Yeah.” Garrus swallowed hard and let out a breath. “I could tell you how brave she was, but you’re probably sick of hearing that. And you probably wish she hadn’t been so brave, anyway. I know I do.”

Ridley ran her thumb over the edge of a Lego, then pressed it into her palm. Softly, she said, “I really hate Joker. And I kind of hate her for going after him.” She looked into the turian’s face. “Didn’t she know I needed her? Wasn’t I more important than him? Wasn’t I more important than her stupid duty?” She almost spat the last word.

“I know,” said the turian, quietly. “I was mad at Joker, too. Still am. Should have followed orders, left his post – ah, but then, he loved the Normandy. I mean, loved it. Maybe almost as much as we,” he had to remind himself to use the past tense, as much as he hated it, “loved your mom. And he wanted to save it.”

“It was just a stupid ship!”

“Yeah, it was. He made a bad mistake. The worst. Your mom would have punched him in the face, if she’d . . . ah.” He took a breath and let it out. “And when she . . . when she died . . . as much as I missed her, I was also furious with her for being so damn brave. Because the galaxy was a better place with her in it. And I was a better man, for being her friend.” He put his hand on her shoulder and looked into her eyes. “But there is something you need to know. She loved you. Maybe she didn’t know how to show it all the time, but you were more important to her than anything. Everything she did, as brave as she was, she did because of you, for you. So you could have a better life, a better future. So you could have hope.”

“But I needed her!” Tears were running down her face in tiny rivers.

“I know. But maybe . . . maybe she never understood that. Maybe she never believed that anyone needed her. Maybe she never believed that she was anything special. The best never do, I guess.”

She looked at him with an expression of equal parts bewilderment and despair.

“Maybe being brave,” he said. “And doing her duty, was her way of showing you how much she loved you. Maybe it was the only way she knew how.”

“Couldn’t she just tell me once in a while? Or just . . . be around?”

“For her, that might have been harder than charging into a thresher maw nest.”

“But she was supposed to be so brave. Why was it so hard to talk to me?”

“Well, there are different kinds of courage. Being brave doesn’t mean you aren’t scared – it means you are scared, but you do what you’re afraid of anyway. Your mom wasn’t scared of taking a bullet, or getting a scar – so maybe it was easy for her to see everything as a battle. But just talking to someone she cared about, letting them see how much they meant to her . . . well, I don’t know, but I think that scared the hell out of her. And I know." He took a deep breath. "Because I'm the same way."

“I don’t understand her. At all.”

“I know. But I know you loved her. And I know she loved you. Maybe that’s what love is – just . . . trying to understand the people who are important to us. Even when they make no sense.” He sighed and picked up a Lego. “It’s not like these. I wish life could fit together as perfectly as these things do.” He looked at her. “She would have loved seeing you play like you did tonight.”

“I just . . . miss her.”

“I miss her, too.”

“I don’t know why I even miss her. She was barely around at all when I was little. I was always just a burden to her, like I was a duty.” She stopped and wiped her nose on her sleeve. “Maybe I should have stayed a duty,” she muttered. “Maybe then I would have been more important. But then . . . when Momma . . . she talked my mom into letting me stay with them. And I started to think . . . I started to hope that maybe I wasn’t just a burden after all. Maybe we really could be a family. And maybe someday, I’d get to know her.” She looked at him, and he could see the pain crease her face as the tears started anew. “But now I never will.”

There was nothing he could think of to say, so he just enfolded her in his arms, feeling helpless to soothe this wounded girl. She sobbed into his shirt.

“We’d just started to –“ she sobbed. “I barely had her at all when I was little, and then we got this chance to be together, and now she’s gone! She cheated me out of herself! Because she made Joker, she even made strangers, more important than me! I’ll never know her, I’ll never know what’s it’s like to have my mom love me anymore! I’ll never know what it might have been like someday . . . and I’d just started to wonder what it could be like, growing up with her around . . . and now I’ll never know.”

And Garrus, his arms around Ridley, sobbed as well. Sobbed because he missed his friend, sobbed for the pain in this girl, and in Liara, and in the rest of the crew. Sobbed because they all had to carry on, without their friend and commander. And together, they cried . . . until at last, they fell asleep, their arms around each other, Ridley breathing deeply against the slow rise and fall of Garrus’s chest. And that’s how Liara found them when she returned, well after midnight. Her breath caught in her throat at the sight of them, and a single tear fell from her eye, but she could not sob as they had, for the loss of Shepard and the need to be strong for Ridley had built a hardness around her heart. She clenched her jaw and closed her eyes for a moment, then fetched a blanket and tucked it over them, the turian warrior and the human girl.

Liara went to bed, but she did not sleep for a long time.

[stareiiez]

𝑭𝒍𝒐𝒘𝒆𝒓 𝑷𝒆𝒕𝒂𝒍𝒔 & 𝑩𝒍𝒐𝒐𝒅

-- seven

Leonard Church ( Epsilon) x Reader

Lavernius Tucker x Reader

note: GETUP RVB FANS I'm here to serve something that's been sitting here for two years. Who's ready for restoration??

content: angst. slow burn relationships. love triangle. potential character death. smut in later chapters. pining. hanahaki disease. blood. bodily fluids. female reader. dark topics are used here a lot. 2.1k words.

The once steady thump- thump- thump- of your heart shattered at the image of Church standing in front of you. His presence, short but broad nearly blended into the lilac-altering shades that were painted on Doc's walls. You blink, once, twice, thrice, four or five times until the burning of your lungs quells your brain to force oxygen to filter into your nose and down your esophagus.

Your lungs fill, expanding in your brittle ribcage that tickles against the lung sacs. The carbon monoxide you exhale sounds shaky as it flows out of parted, chapped lips. You can't help it, not one sense of you, for the most part, is stable in this situation. You can nearly see the small, rusty wheel cogs turning in his brain as his helmeted head flows from your ashen face to the flower sitting calmly in Doc's hand. The smell doesn't hit him, it can't hit him because he's an A.I.; well .... 'ghost' for the most part. Your stomach turns as his head tilts back to you once his vision is glued to the wilting flower. Its petals were curling inwards like the oxygen surrounding it was lethal and would only kill it the more exposure it got to it. 

"Well?" after a beat of silence, he speaks up again. His voice nearly makes you flinch, but with Doc by your side, you can't do much but slowly press your weight into his forearm armor. "What's with the flower? Actually, fuck that, what are you two talking about?"

His feet, soundless against the hard steel floor, take three steps to the two of you. His head tilts back and forth between the plant to yours, slowly turning, ashen face. You can only blink, sometimes you don't even dare to break the shocked eye contact you have with the pale gold visor of Church's helmet. "I'm waiting." His voice drips in sarcasm, and the heady impatience in the underlying tone of his words are only magnified when his hands are planted on his hips. 

Doc clears his throat, his hand instantly curling around the flower in his bare palm. His nose wrinkles at the feel of the velvety soft petals crumbling and growing damp and squishy in his fist. "She was just showing me the first real flower that she managed to grow out here. Who knew stale old cave water could grow marvelous things! "

Church turns his scrutinizing gaze away from you just long enough to have his pale eyes look Doc up and down slowly. So slow in a way like he's trying to read out every single cell in the medic's body. "I didn't know you were into flowers, Doc."

The latter throws Church a smile, one that looks so nervous and not genuine, but he's trying his damn best to get all eyes off you and your borderline panic attack. "Sure! Botonology was going to be my new major if I didn't get immediately accepted into med school and shipped out here. Donut even offered to help me run my little flower shop when we get back home after this cruddy war." Doc stutters nervously, his cheeks flushing at the vain attempt to lie his way smoothly towards Church.   

If you were in any right mind, you would have had a mark of your palm in the middle of your forehead from how hard you would have facepalmed. Instead, you can only breathe, count to ten in your whirring head, and try to come back to reality as fast as humanly possible. Your head tilts and catches the glint of light that bounces off Church's visor. He hadn't even been listening to whatever bullshit Doc spewed out of his mouth. He was busy watching you, studying, trying to figure out why you looked so tense and why your chest hadn't moved since the first moment he had even appeared in the room. 

"Can I talk to you for a moment--" Church reaches for you, his��fingers don't even have the chance to grasp at you because you're moving your arm away from his transparent touch. "Alone."

"Are you kicking me out of my room? You can't do that! I'll tell Sarge and he will . . . he'll come to yell at you and ---"

"It's fine, Doc." Your voice breaks the nearly growing ramble that leaves Doc's mouth, his cheeks are red and his glasses are growing just a tad hazy from how much he speaks. "It'll be fine."

Doc blinks, mouth snapping shut with the loudest clack of his molars striking against each other in abrupt shock. He blinks twice or three more times until he scurries out of the room. Your eyes faintly trail after the back of Doc's head. He doesn't have time to even turn back to you and offer some silent look of support before the sliding doors have closed and locked behind him. Church's part, how he hasn't grown aware he can hack into the ' mainframe ' of Red Base and manipulate objects by his will is a shock. The idiot has grown smarter. Your head tilts. The corner of your mouth lits in a soft curve upwards, shoulders shrug and you silently have one moment of smug to yourself. Shocker.

However, that feeling goes away when Church swims into your vision and his visor is locked onto your eyes. You knew his own were trained on you. The light color of his irises would be trying to drink your expression in. Figuring out emotions and trying his fucking best to start up a conversation. If he wasn't dead he would have approached you like some fucking feral animal that was backed into a corner, fear in its eyes and ready to pounce on whoever was there to help it. 

You probably look like that feral animal. You haven't bathed in a couple of days ever since your coughing fits have turned into full-on vomit moments of colorful flowers. You couldn't sleep. Nightmares of drowning on dry land while blood and flower vines would seep from your nose and open mouth, your eyes would roll back and be poked out by sharp rose thorns that would rapidly creep from your body. 

It was like hell on earth, and for some reason, Church was your Lucifer. 

"Are you starting some kind of garden with Doc in the caves? You know they're used for Tucker to masturbate in right?" Church quips, his voice breaking the short moment of silence between you two.

"Do you think I care what Tucker does on his own?" More importantly, do you care about what he sexually does on his own? No. No, you don't. 

"More importantly did you just decide to pop up because of my little 'garden adventures' with Doc, or is there something else you needed." Your voice sounds snappy. The longer he is here, standing around like he's the second dumbest person on the fucking planet. The more you start to ache. 

Nausea smacks you around nearly as fast as the rate Church's hand tries to reach for your own. To hold and caress in that soft little way he used to do. For someone that was such a bitch boy. Who whined, complained, and threw temper tantrums if things didn't go his way or his team brought him to temperamental suicidal thoughts. He could always melt some of you into his open palm like putty.  

Some part of you yearns for that feel of warm skin on your skin. Nerves fizzle, your skin twitches and you swear you nearly close your eyes just when you're about to picture a smooth palm grace your fingers. Hell, you would even take his hand to your cheek. A soft hand, fingers brushing against your cheekbone. Those same fingers tangling into your hair or brushing a strand away from your features. Your nose twitches briefly and you nearly hallucinate the smell of gunpowder, metal, and faint cologne. It smells like Tucker. 

Your eyes blink the unfocused look you have in your colored orbs. The temporary daydream you have about the one fucking man who touched you, and not managed to have flowers sprout in your lungs, has ended. What you could have pictured as smooth and soft pale-colored skin was replaced and shifted back to the see-through baby blue of Church. 

It's disappointing. Not only disappointing but it's weird how desperate the human body is when they crave physical contact or warmth. Your own body has you craving Tucker rather than the man who's trying to figure out what in the hell is wrong with you. It seemed like if you could close your eyes once again, really squeeze them shut, and pretend like Church didn't even exist in front of you, you could imagine the rich and earthy tones of Lavernius Tucker. 

What the fuck. 

Instead, Church is standing in front of you, concern etched in his eyes behind the visor of his helmet, and it's only growing more in the zeros and ones that make up his pupils. A sharp inhale leaves your lungs. You wish you could crumble the same way as the way the flower folded so easily against Doc's palm. You wanted to be ended rather than deal with the sharp questioning eyes of your situation. 

"I'm concerned about you, and I never get concerned about anyone. You should be lucky." You couldn't help the scoff that leaves your bleeding lungs. Well, soon to be bleeding lungs.

"Except for Texas, glad I share the same area of concern with an old flame." Church flinches, his digital frame laps in the way those fuzzy vertical lines ran over an old TV screen. Nostalgia.

"It's different with you. You don't infest my brain. You also don't beat the shit out of me whenever I breathe too loud next to you." A smile would crack behind his visor if he could muster it. It's forced at best, just to try and ease the scowl you have on your face. " Just---- . . are you, healing? Feeling better? We can call someone if Doc isn't help-" 

"NO." You bark. The thought of involving more people in your disease is the nightmare you wish not to experience. The UNSC would take you under the knife and scalpel. They'd treat you like some freakish science experiment and run tests before they ever attempt to find some cure for you. They'd make you worse before they decided to be humane enough to make you feel better.

"No, I'm okay. Besides it's only been a couple of days at least, I'll heal. Besides you get worse before you get better, right?" Your voice softens around the edges. It's a sign that has Church exhaling heavily like he, himself, was in your shoes and stressed behind compare. His frame wanders closer, golden visor tilting to look closer at you. 

"Right. Well enough of asking about you, aren't you going to give a fuck about me and my travels as being a full-on ghost?" The tension between you two drastically shifts, it's a lot lighter now that the subject changed. It's accepted quickly, you don't have it in you to be mad he's back to his old selfish self once again. Your mouth tilts up into a small smile. 

Lungs wetly rattle with a chuckle you grant him. If 'ghosts' could experience warmth from somewhere in their cores; Church would feel it. He'd give anything to feel the small flutter in his heart again whenever he witnessed the soft crinkles in your eyes and nose when you laughed because of him. Tex never laughed around him like you did. It was always rough and demeaning when she laughed at him. Your laugh was a drink of water for a man who didn't know he was dying of thirst. Something something, poetic bullshit. He just liked it when you lit up in amusement around his presence. That's all. 

"Let me hear it. Tell me all about where you've been and if you've scared the shit out of anyone that deserves it." Your eyes soften in the corners as you focus your gaze on his armor. The walls that were surrounding you have lowered enough to let your shoulders lower from around your ears. The knots that have formed in your neck and back ache less now when you two settle into your banter back and forth like you used to when Church prattles on about his adventures in his 'haunts' around Blood Gulch. 

It feels perfectly normal for the first time in what feels like forever.