#but goddammit i want my funky little fics

[sad-leon]

I swear

If ao3 is still down in the morning i'll just post my one shot here

[evening-art]

@naffeclipse Cryptids and their killing blows. :-]

Mildly hyperfixating on this fic now oop aksgsksh-- It was rad to have an excuse to draw funky creatures and the doppelgänger is always fun! <3 I had planned to draw y/n facing down the doppelgänger as they deliver the fatal wound, but I couldn't get it to look right and I really liked how the cryptid looked, so I left it at that. Ripperoni. </3 Also, there's a scene that popped in my head that I wanted to draw, but my hands wouldn't cooperate, and I am out of drawing spoons, so have a small written blurb:

You stare down the animatronic -- its eyes blank and lifeless, such a horrid contrast to how you'd known them -- then your gaze lifts to the dark shape attached to it, unable to decide what emotion to settle on. Horror? Anger? Betrayal? Despair? What are you supposed to feel after you had caught it trying to hide inside your friend -- no, not your friends, just the animatronic body it had been possessing all this time...

All.

This.

Time.

It had noticed you standing there just a bit too late. The demonic...thing...had stiffened before craning its neck to look down at you with what you don't want to believe is guilt. You don't want to believe that this cryptid, so similar to the one that tried to destroy you, is your friend. You don't want to believe that you'd grown so close to the same kind of creature that caused you so many sleepless nights--

Oh god. It had even been there during your night terrors -- the source of them observing you through each one they'd been present for. The thought makes your stomach twist. You realize distantly that your hands are shaking, grip tightening around the weapon in your hand that you'd just used mere hours ago during your latest hunt, that you'd been so quick to grab after realizing your friend had been missing and fearing that the cryptid hadn't really been killed, only to find that you'd been protecting one much, much worse.

"Heart..." The demon starts, its tone far too close to pleading in two painfully familiar voices overlapping. You cut it off before it can lie to you more, glaring at its twisted form curled over the metal husk that you can't bear to look at anymore.

"Don't," you grit out, trying not to let your voice tremble. "Don't you dare call me that. You don't get to call me any of those little pet names anymore." You swallow thickly and blink back pitiful tears. You're not going to cry. Why would you cry over a cryptid? They'd never cry over you as they tear you to ribbons -- you should know, seeing as you couldn't save everyone on your hunts, after all...

You steel yourself, hardening your glare as you demand, "Why? Why did you do it? Why trick me -- why toy with me all this time? Did you have fun? Did my stupidity amuse you?" Your empty hand raises to your forehead and you rap your knuckles against your skull, frustration now clawing its way to the forefront of the whirlwind of ugly emotions stirring in your chest. "Goddammit, how could I have been so oblivious? Right in front of my face -- so goddamn obvious!" A wry laugh forces its way out of you. "What an idiot I am! It's a wonder that I haven't managed to get myself killed yet!"

The cryptid's grip on metal shoulders tightens, its second set of hands twitching and fidgeting restlessly. It rasps out your name, leaning forward slightly ever so slightly. "You are not a fool. We never meant to--"

You jerk back and raise your weapon, cold metal glinting in the moonlight. You point the barrel of your pistol to the middle of its chest. Your heart is pounding and you can't seem to calm it. The demon flinches and its gaze flicks toward your chest. Heart. Of course.

"Don't. Move." Your face twists up in an odd mix of terror and rage and it's all you can do to keep yourself from immediately pumping this creature full of silver bullets, not caring in this moment if they will or won't kill it. The betrayal, fear, and outrage you feel are all-consuming. "If you move a single inch closer to me, I won't hesitate to shoot. When we first met I told you I'm a cryptid hunter, right?"

"I take care of the scary things."

[aftgficlibrary]

best fics of 2018?

This is so subjective so some of our staff are gonna put our 2018 favs here below!!

Cassy

This is my favorite fic ever and the author just started updating it again so im in tears all the time 

i’m here right now (just be here right now with me) by Talls (M | 27,606 | 3/7)

Neil first meets Andrew with a racquet to the stomach in a locker room when he’s eighteen. Andrew first meets Neil with a hushed conversation on a beach in California when he’s five. They still manage to meet on rooftops, fall in love, find family, and heal together, just not quite at the same time and definitely not in the same order.

(In other words, Andrew is the Time Traveler’s wife.)

This fic is so soft and pretty

Translation Errors by SensationalSunburst (Not rated | 3,127 | 1/1)

“Andrew doesn’t love me,” Neil said simply, “So if he has a love language, I don’t know it.”“Oh, honey.” Allison drawled, “You don’t actually believe him when he says he hates you, do you?”

Lucky by sunrise_and_death (T | 4,328 | 1/1)

At thirteen, he’d lived in eleven different cities, gone by as many different names, and seen his reaper twenty-eight times. Some people would have called him lucky.

Live Once More (This Time Will Be Better) bypurpleeyesandbowties (T | 2,457 | 1/1)

Very carefully so as to not wake his roommates presumably sleeping off a night of regrettable choices, Andrew pulled a notebook towards him and opened to a fresh page to make a list. Two lists, actually. Changes to make and things to keep the same. Thankfully, it didn’t take long to sort out what was important.

To change:get off pillsno Kathy no Seth dying (Neil was upset)no Thanksgivingno winter at Evermoreno Baltimorekill Riko soonerkill Nathan myself

Keep the same:get Neil to the Foxes

Maz:

changing tides - titanic au by missbolton (M | Incomplete | 4/5)

When Nathaniel Hartford boards the RMS Titanic, it is a death sentence. He will be shipped to New York with his brutal father and his soon-to-be wife, Lola. There’s no escape.

Until he meets third-class artist Andrew Minyard.

if you’re lost you can look (and you will find me) by paleromantic (T | Incomplete | 5/?)

Neil Josten jerked awake, his cigarette falling from his fingers as he did. The frigid air bit at his arms, his neck, his face, but he didn’t notice, too busy looking around.

“What the fuck.”

or

Neil and Andrew wake up back in Millport, and get the chance to start over.

I’m Just Killing Time by thesaroscycle (T | 10,666 | 1/1)

He was sat in the most comfortable armchair in the back, the book in his lap closed but well-worn and dog-eared, one of the things that annoyed Bee to no end. His glasses sat on the table next to him, along with the hot chocolate Bee had made earlier in the morning that had gone cold. He stared out the window into a cloudless blue sky, squinting at the late morning sun and blurry trees. It was getting warm enough outside for the frost to melt on the grass, and late enough for people to start coming in. He couldn’t wish more for fall, when the sky would be gray and the chill would last all day rather than just early morning. Everything seemed to be holding its breath for the coming summer, for longer days and warmer mornings. Andrew couldn’t be less excited for summer; of all their town’s 70-degree-high summers, it was still hot enough for Andrew to melt in his stubbornly consistent black wardrobe.

Paper Skies by exybee (T | 4,662 | 1/1)

Andrew’s a quiet librarian who treats his library much like how he treats his person. He spends his time searching for the color blue in hopes of finding something real, but when he meets Neil Josten, he finds that maybe blue isn’t the only thing out there.

Or, Neil’s a kaleidoscope of colors, and Andrew gets a lesson in self-care.

Atlas:

Honey, we should run away by allyasavedtheday ( T | 8,836 | 1/1)

“We’re moving on soon,” his mom says casually as she’s plating up their food. As if it’s an inconsequential detail and not something that rocks Neil to his core.

“Why?” he asks, keeping his voice calm and measured like she taught him to do if he was ever taken.

“We’ve been here too long,” she says like it’s obvious, setting down a plate of pasta in front of him.

“It’s only been ten weeks,” he can’t help pointing out. Ten weeks with Andrew. Ten weeks that aren’t enough.

“That’s over two months,” she retorts, neatly spearing a piece of pasta with her fork. “Two more weeks and we’re leaving. Just as soon as I have everything organised.”

*

Andrew and Neil meet when Neil is on the run with his mother.

Show Me How You by smokesprite ( Not Rated | 6,825 | 1/1 )

“They thought they would stop the show; they thought they could cut the act, but Neil had been sulking around too long now to not know where all the necessary equipment was. He was a ghost, and he would do the ghost dance, goddammit.”

Neil is a ghost with a house to haunt, but the Moxie Foxy Burlesque Troupe refuses to be chased off. If you can’t beat em…join em.

Aaron:

stay as long as you need by lolainslackss (T | 2,955 | 1/1)

The soulmate timer counts down to your soulmate’s death. Apparently, Andrew’s soulmate doesn’t have long to live.

Oh, Catastrophe by TheKingIsDead (witch_lit) (T | 1,447 | 1/1)

Aaron and Katelyn are at a concert and Aaron can’t shake the feeling that the drummer is familiar.

it’s a long way down byionlyloveyouironically (T | 6,506 | 1/1)

The sound of rushing water, the moon overhead, bare feet on a muddy riverbank, and a weeping woman reaching a dead hand out. 

Scout

A Mewment Like This by fuzzballsheltiepants (T | Incomplete | 9 Works)

tenuous by undertow (cendal) (M | 7,431 | 1/1)

Neil Josten is trying to learn to be a normal person. He has an apartment and a cat. He goes to therapy every Wednesday. He has friends and attends their study group regularly. He eats lunch with his best friend’s brother.The hardest part is letting people in, but he thinks that one day he’ll get there.Series: Part 1 of all of me wants all of you

The Continuing Adventures of the Nine-Nine by gluupor (G | Complete | 10 Works)

A series of short, ridiculous, mostly plotless stories featuring the Foxes as the cops of the Ninety-Ninth Precinct.

Back to the Start by fuzzballsheltiepants (T | 29,277 | 11/11)

Andrew has been on his pro team for 6 months when he takes a ball to the head. Neil flies to Boston to see him - only to find that Andrew doesn’t remember him.

Rachel

Funky Happenings with the Fox Family by dobbypussypopper (Not Rated | Incomplete | 17/?)

naughtygayweedcrime: did I rlly just see neil say woke

naughtygayweedcrime: what a surreal timeline we live in

dumbfool: allison is trying to teach me how to meme so I can get hip

naughtygayweedcrime: bless your poor soul

davidwymack: sometimes I regret living

davidwymack has muted exyllent, damnwilds, + 7 others for 30 minutes

The Real Folk Blues by moonix, nefelibata (E | 42,365 | 4/4)

Captain David Wymack and the bounty hunter crew of the Bebop spaceship might be a little out of their depths chasing down the infamous hacker and notorious runaway Neil Wesninski, whose bounty exceeds even Kevin’s wildest dreams. Worst of all, Andrew might actually enjoy it.

/Graphic Depictions of Violence

a world alone by ephemeralsky (T | 54,850 | 6/6)

“It will not be cheap,” Andrew finally says.

“I know,” Wymack says. “Two bottles of Johnnie Walker sound good to you?”

“Four,” Andrew says without missing a beat. He thinks about having to deal with Nicky later on, about the additional work he has to do, and decides that he will not do anything for less.

“Three,” Wymack argues.

“Four or we have no deal.”

Wymack mutters something about blood-sucking hooligans under his breath before he concedes with a, “Fine.”

(or: a High School AU where only some of them are high-schoolers)

[squidshadow]

mmmmm okay its still real language hours, soo,

(this got long. under the cut for u)

[[MORE]]

modocts sound library is pretty limited and its made that way by design, i dont use the full alphabet since the ones i dropped can just be replaced w other letters pretty easily? (w the exception of l and r as my very limited basis for modink is still using sounds in japanese)

i think its still possible for me to make it tonal? it might make sense w the librarys size and all. and splat is generally music based (for some reason, music squids? im not complaining) ig although id like to make inkling like that as well. but then theres the issue of tonal languages being very. like... alien to me. just bc im a native english speaker who has never encountered one before, but i do think theyre very fascinating. to people who actually do speak tonal languages im sure i just sound stupid skjehsje but...!!!! still

then theres the issue of transcribing it? i dont want numbers in text, thatd be dumb. i could use accents maybe, but isnt that more stress than anything else? maybe periods or something at the start of a sentence, but thats just fucking ugly. and modoct is made to be a read language rather than spoken bc u know. its for a fic series. and now that i write it out it sounds very dumb.

if i do make it tonal id have to rework a loooot of the grammar i have done now. verb negation would prob be dropped as well in favour of some funky tones or w/e. i might make inkling tonal + more melodic since i failed to do that w modoct. modoct sounds a little rougher than inkling despite its sound library. i think ive been using 'ts' too much, but i cant....help it. its a fun noise. i like her.

melodic tonal inkling w lots of 'r/l' (id write it as an 'l', but its an aveolar tap) maybe some 'f's, 'm' and 'n'? 't' and the occasional 's' or smth. i like the current double vowel thing w modoct and i can transfer that to inkling ('aa,' for example, is not pronounced like a heavily stressed 'a' or a held-out 'a,' but rather 'ah-ah', so 'laasov' would be 'lah-ahs-ov' w 3 syllables, 'ah' as in arm, 'o' as in 'on', but take my pronunciations w a grain of salt bc i have vague traces of a long island accent / trans: i dunno) but at the same time im not quite sure..? i think the double vowel thing (and 'ts') is sort of modocts thing. maybe vowel length indicates tone..? but shit like 'faasoluuv' (or, god forbid, 'faaasoluuv') looks ugly as balls. i want these to look nice goddammit!!!

i could use accents? or... what the hell are they called, dipthongs? diphtongs..? smth like that. i dont have spellcheck on my phone bc i turned it off, eat shit, samsung. like the diff between 'o' and 'ö' is pitch, right? im not too familiar w ipa sounds unfortunately although im trying to learn.

i could also just. drop the tonal thing. BUT ITS COOL ALSO but also also im a dumb lil idiot uwu and words are hard. itd be such a fucking pain for me to speak but thats ok bc its written! something like that kwhzhehs...

im just kinda saying shit. dont mind me..!!

[waveridden]

FIC: now i’m a stranger

Cib doesn’t need mandatory grief counseling. He doesn’t. And he’s not going to get anything out of this support group, either. A Go On AU. 3.5k. Cib/Parker, Cib&Autumn.

content warning: discussion of grief/death, pre-fic character death

AUcember || title lyric || Ao3

#

On what’s supposed to be Cib’s first day back at work, Sami Jo sits him down and says, “You can’t come back to work.”

“What?” Cib scoffs. “Uh, I’m here, can’t get rid of me now, it’s my new home.”

“That’s what we’re trying to avoid,” Sami Jo says patiently. “We’ve got people filling in for the show while you’re gone, so you don’t need to worry about us.”

“I wasn’t worried about the show,” Cib says, because he definitely has bigger things to worry about than the show. He loves his job, sure, but not as much as he loves - well. “I’m telling you, I’m ready to go, lemme play some funky fresh music.”

“Cib,” Sami Jo says, and then nothing, like that’s supposed to prove her point.

“I’m fine,” Cib insists. “Back at work, lemme on the air, ready to get back flying-”

“Cib,” she says, and he knows what’s coming next just from the horrible, gentle way she says it, “your husband died.”

“I am well aware of that,” Cib says, sharply enough that he hopes it hides the stab in his chest at the reminder. “I’m just saying, the best way to deal with this is for me to cruise on through.”

“You can cruise.” Sami Jo slaps a paper down on her desk. “Cruise right on down to this support group.”

“To what?”

“Support group,” Sami Jo repeats. “You’re gonna talk about your feelings.”

Cib snorts. “Uh, I don’t even talk about my feelings with you.”

“I know,” Sami Jo says, and Cib feels… bad, for a second. Sami Jo might manage the radio station, so she’s his boss, but she’s also his friend, and this is the kind of thing he should be relying on his friends for. But he doesn’t need that. Because he’s fine. “But it’s going to be better if you talk to strangers.”

“I would never.”

“You’re a radio DJ, your job is talking to strangers.”

“No,” Cib says, “my job is making strangers listen to me. Totally inverted.”

“Yeah, invert this.” Sami Jo turns the paper around on her desk. “Ten sessions. Get this signed. I found the numbers of a few local groups, you can pick whatever ones you want, go to however many you feel like. But you have to talk to someone about this.”

Cib snatches up the paper and looks it over. It looks pretty solid, like it’s the kind of thing he can’t fake or get out of doing. “But-”

Sami Jo sighs. “Listen, I didn’t want to do this, but I’ve gotta pull out the big one here.”

“Ooooh.” Cib leans back in his chair. “C’mon, big one.”

“You gotta promise not to kill me.”

“Sure, sure.”

Sami Jo drums her fingers on the desk and then looks Cib square in the eye. He barely has the time to think oh, shit before she says, “Parker wouldn’t want you dealing with this alone.”

“Fuck you,” Cib says on autopilot, because he is completely over hearing the words “Parker wouldn’t want,” before his brain catches up. “You don’t get to-”

“Tell me I’m wrong.” Sami Jo leans back in her chair. She at least looks contrite, but her jaw is stony and set. “Come on, Cib, tell me I’m wrong.”

He can’t. He can’t, and she fucking knows it, because Parker is- fuck, Parker was the one person who made Cib want to feel shit, and talk about the shit he was feeling, and made it all feel okay. And Sami Jo is the closest he has to that, now.

“Ten sessions?”

“I won’t even call bullshit if you get them magically all done in a week,” she says. “This is partly management shit, partly because I’m worried. I just need to know that you tried.”

He looks back down at the sheet. “Can I quit?”

“Sure,” Sami Jo says. “Bye.”

“Do I still get paid?”

“Cib-”

“I’ll go,” Cib says. Before he can regret it. “I’ll go.”

Sami Jo sighs in relief. “Thank you.”

“Now, can I work today, or-”

“Go home.”

“Nope.” Cib loops a foot around one leg of Sami Jo’s desk. “I live here now, and you’re working on my new bed.”

“You’re not sleeping on my desk.”

“I’m sleeping on my new bed.”

“Get out,” Sami Jo says, but at least she’s smiling when she says it.

#

Cib… hasn’t been doing so great lately.

Which is fine by outside standards. His husband died twenty-nine days ago and most of the time that weight isn’t too heavy to carry around. He can cook his own food and show up at work, and act like he’s supposed to. In fact, if you look at him without knowing him he probably looks like he’s in damn good shape. Like he’s functioning.

Maybe that’s the red flag, to the people who know him well.

But the thing is, Parker’s fucking dead. And all Cib can see are the places that he isn’t anymore. He hasn’t thrown out the groceries that Parker bought the weekend before, even though they’re turning brown and probably literally rotting. He hasn’t cleaned up the pile of Parker’s laundry in their closet. He hasn’t really gone in their bedroom in the last month, honestly, because all that’s left is empty space and he’s so tired of empty spaces.

(There’s a voice in the back of his head that sounds like Parker. It’s the voice that tells Cib that it’s okay to slow down and grieve, that he doesn’t have to pretend he’s fine if it means sleeping on the couch and getting that permanent kink in his neck that he always complained about. It’s the voice that tells Cib to take goddamn care of himself.

Cib ignores that voice. Because it’s not Parker, so there’s no point in listening.)

#

The leader of the life transition support group is a tall, skinny guy named Steven who looks like he thoroughly doesn’t want to be where he is. Cib can relate.

“We’re gonna get started in a couple minutes, so take a seat,” Steven says, gesturing at the the circle of seats that are set up. “And-”

Cib holds the paper out. “Sign this?”

Steven skims it and then raises his eyebrows at Cib. “So you’re being forced into this?”

“My job thinks I’m handling grief poorly,” Cib says, trying to convey how completely laughable that is. “I’m fine! I’m back at work after a month, baby, I’m golder than a goose.”

“Wow,” Steven says. “You really, really need external help processing your emotions.”

Cib laughs. “Good one, Stevie.”

“Don’t-”

“Sign the paper?”

“I’ll sign it at the end of the session,” Steven says, in a brooks-no-argument sort of voice. “If you stick around. You gotta actually show up.”

“Wow,” Cib says. “That’s bullshit.”

“Thanks.” Steven motions at the chairs again. “Go.”

Cib goes. There’s an empty chair next to a woman with long hair, gazing into mid-distance wistfully. Cib decides he likes her immediately and plops down. “So what’s up with-”

“Wasting your time, dude,” says the guy on the woman’s other side. Cib leans forward, and he shakes his head. “Autumn doesn’t talk.”

“Why not?”

“That’s for her to tell you.”

“Uh, I don’t know sign language, and I can’t read, so that’s not going to work.”

“Tough,” other guy says. “She’s nice, it’s too bad you can’t understand her.”

Lightning-fast, Autumn raises a hand and smacks on the other guy’s leg, hard. He lets out a yelp and rubs his leg, glaring at her. Autumn doesn’t say anything, or even look at him, but Cib can still somehow tell that she’s laughing at the guy. She’s definitely, definitely his favorite person here.

“So what’re you in for?” Cib asks. He tries to make eye contact with Autumn, but she’s busy with her whole not-looking thing, so he skates his eyes across to the other guy.

Other guy blinks at him. “Well, see, I used to be a Water Warrior, back in the day, back in ‘nam-”

“James,” Steven says warningly, sitting down in a chair across the circle.

James deflates. “Okay,” he mumbles.

“Tell Cib why you’re here.”

“Because I’m a pathological liar,” James says, in the tones of someone who has had this conversation countless times. “And apparently it’s disrespectful to the actual Water Warriors to say you used to be one of them, even though-”

“We’re still working on it,” Steven says, mostly to Cib.

Cib nods wisely. “Sounds like you’re, uh, still in the shallows of this problem.”

“Treading water, as it were.” Steven sighs. “Goddammit, isn’t one of our rules no puns?”

“No puns!” repeats a blond guy, glasses askew. He blinks once or twice and focuses on Cib. “You’re new.”

“Maybe you’re the new one,” Cib says.

“No,” blond guy says forcefully. “I’ve been here before.”

“One of the rules is no confusing Jamie,” James stage-whispers. “It doesn’t take much to do, so you gotta avoid doing it on purpose.”

“What if Jamie’s confusing me?”

Jamie’s entire face contorts. Steven’s shoulders sag. “Wow, you are… not gonna make this easy for me, huh?”

“I have never made anything easy,” Cib says, because he’s pretty sure it’s true. Might be the only completely true thing he says for this whole meeting.

“Fine,” Steven says. “Cib, you’re the new guy here, introduce yourself. What do you do, and why are you here?”

“Easy.” Cib leans forward. “I’m Cib, I’m a radio DJ, and no, I will not play your bar mitzvah, although I do own two and a half guitars.”

James raises his hand. “Half a guitar, is that a ukulele?”

“Excellent question!” Cib points at him. “It’s literally half a guitar.”

“Which half?”

“Not the half that works, I can tell you that.”

“Cib,” Steven says tiredly. “Why are you here?”

“Because my job’s not letting me work till I go to ten of these.”

“Life transition, asshole, what is your life transitioning?”

Cib opens his mouth, meaning to say something else glib and deflecting and win these people’s hearts over a little more. And instead, his traitorous mouth says all in a rush, “My husband died last month.”

Everyone - well, everyone except Autumn - does that… thing that they do when someone says something horrible and grief-stricken. That thing where it’s almost like they’re sighing “oh” even if they don’t say anything. James’s face melts into something worried. “Man, I’m sorry, dude.”

Cib considers saying “s’okay” for a second, but honestly, it’s not okay, and he doesn’t want these fucking strangers to know that. He’s going to have to tell Sami Jo what a disaster this is so she doesn’t make him come back.

“Okay, that’s a start,” Steven says, completely unhelpfully. “We’re not gonna push it, clearly everyone in this room is repressing something-”

“What about you?” Cib asks.

“My life transition is leading you assholes instead of being in the film industry.” Steven shrugs. “But people have graduated from this group before, so I must be doing something right. Let’s talk about our week in review, guys, we’ll see what actual progress we can make.”

Autumn’s fingers flutter against where they’re resting on her thigh. Somehow, Cib gets the impression that that means she doesn’t want to be here. “Me too,” he mumbles, and the corners of her mouth tick up into a smile.

#

The session is awful, but Cib gets his paper signed, and he’s known how to forge signatures since he was in middle school, so he can get the rest of that shit taken care of real quick. He’s almost gone - actually driving away - when he sees Autumn standing on the curb, not looking like she’s going towards anyone’s car. And it’s not like he has anywhere to be, so he pulls over to the curb and rolls his window down. “Hey!”

Autumn doesn’t say anything, but she doesn’t look away, so Cib takes that as an opening. “You need a ride?” He unlocks the door and waits a few seconds, and sure enough, Autumn slowly opens the door and climbs in.

Cib hands her his phone. “Put in your address, I’ll get you where you’re going.”

It takes a few seconds, but Cib’s GPS chimes out, and he starts driving. It’s not a part of town that he visits often, but it’s not like he goes out driving in Los Angeles often. Especially not lately.

“So if you mind me asking,” he starts, about five minutes into the drive, “you can… hear, right?”

When he glances over, Autumn nods and brushes her hair back. There’s a hearing aid in her ear, and Cib doesn’t know anything about hearing aids, but it looks nice.

“Sleek,” he says appreciatively. “And you can understand words?”

Another nod. Cib nods with her. “That’s cool, that’s cool. You know, I’m a radio DJ, I play music for people, so I’m really fucking bad at listening, but if you don’t talk, I think we get along fine. Or can you talk?”

Autumn doesn’t react for a minute. Cib’s about to shrug it off and start critiquing whatever radio station he can find (because whatever it is, he can definitely critique it) when she says, softly, “Not much.”

“That’s fine,” Cib says, because it’s fine. “I’m used to being the talker, you know? Talking has more wisdom than listening, which in turn has more wisdom than fishing, not that I have anything against fishing, it’s a relaxing time, but-” Autumn laughs, quietly, and Cib can’t help but laugh with her. “Yeah, I know, fishing is bullshit.”

She shrugs at him. Cib grins. “I don’t go fishing much,” he says, because if they’re on this, they might as well stay on this. “You know, teach a man to fish and he never works a day in his life, but I work too much to go fishing. It’s the ultimate ironing. And my husband-” and there’s the way his lungs seize up, the way his brain screams to abort mission, the normal shit he has to push through as part of moving on- “fucking hated fishing. Said it was too much waiting. Which was crazy, because he was-” he hates past tense, more than anything- “the most patient person I ever knew.”

“It’s boring,” Autumn says. Her voice is still soft, a little rough, and she’s not quite looking at Cib, but there’s a smile at the edge of her mouth.

Cib glances at her sidelong. “You go fishing a lot?”

She shakes her head.

“Ever?”

Autumn shrugs.

“I kind of miss fishing,” Cib says, more to himself than to Autumn. “Should go sometime.”

“You don’t think the group will help,” Autumn says suddenly.

Cib, in the process of braking for a red light, has to stop himself from slamming the brakes. “Uh, that’s because it… didn’t.”

“But you’re talking.”

“Well, yeah, I’m making conversation, giving you a ride home, that’s polite, isn’t it?”

Autumn shrugs. “You said more now than there.” And then, like that’s too much for her, she moves her hair back over her ears and tucks her feet up onto the passenger seat.

Cib glances at her. “What’re you in for, anyways? Loss? Life change?”

“Nervous breakdown,” she says, muffled by her knees. “I go because I need to practice being in a room with people again.”

“You doing okay in here with me?”

She nods. “Keep talking?”

Cib glances back at the road and tries to breathe through it. It’s the kind of thing Parker would say when he was tired, or when they were on road trips, or when he just wanted to hear Cib… talk. He loved listening to Cib talk.

“About anything?” he asks, and barely sees her nod again. The light turns green, and Cib takes the deepest breath he can manage. “I don’t actually like fishing that much. I don’t think anyone does, not when you have supermarkets with fish you don’t have to catch yourself. Not that I ever eat anything I catch - it’s California, I’m pretty sure anything I catch would be toxic to my liver and my dick.”

Autumn laughs again, face still tucked up against her knees. She’s smaller than Parker, way smaller. The seat is still moved as back as far as it could go. He used to complain about how long his legs were and how there wasn’t enough room in it. Autumn is tiny, compared to the space Parker used to take up. She’s not the same as him. But she still fills up some of that empty space.

He thinks, in passing, that she might be the first person he’s had in this car since Parker.

“I’m serious!” Cib protests, and he feels like laughing, something swelling up in his chest even though he wants nothing more than to sob. “I’m not gonna put anything in my mouth that doesn’t have steroids and antibiotics in it. It’s not healthy.”

“Anti-vegan,” she mumbles.

“Anti-vegans unite!” Cib throws a fist in the air, and it’s a shitty, stupid joke, but she smiles at it. “Gonna go to meat-packing plants and counter-protest the protesters!”

Autumn contributes maybe half a dozen more words for the next fifteen minutes it takes to get her home, but she looks… better, once they get there. Cib pulls to a stop in front of her apartment and she looks at him - not quite at him, maybe a little bit over his shoulder, but still towards him - and says, “Thanks.”

“Yeah, no problem.” Cib drums his fingers. “How do you get to the group normally?”

“Uber, if I’m feeling okay.” She looks away and tugs her hair down over her face. “Steve, sometimes.”

Cib doesn’t want to go to this shitty support group again. He doesn’t need it. He knows that. But for some reason, he says anyways, “You want me to pick you up next week?”

Autumn blinks at him a few times. Cib shifts in his seat. “You know, just- listen, I’m a successful, rich dude, I have the time to spare and drive you around a little bit. Would it help?”

She blinks again and then slowly nods. Cib hands her his phone. “Send yourself a text or something so I can figure out when to come and pick you up.”

“Thank you,” Autumn says, voice small.

Cib looks away. He doesn’t know how to deal with this. “Yeah,” he says, and tries to ignore how rough his own voice is.

#

It’s not even a conscious choice. He doesn’t do it on purpose or anything. But as soon as he’s in the house he makes a beeline for the garbage bags, and then the fridge, and he dumps all the shit in there. The rotting bag of salad and the cucumber that’s basically liquid and everything else. Parker had been talking about - fuck, he should probably remember, a stir-fry or a primavera or something. Made jokes about how neither of them knew what a vegetable was anymore.

Cib dumps it all in the garbage and then takes the garbage out to the curb and then gets inside and locks the door and drops to the floor immediately. Autumn’s number is still in his phone, waiting for him, and he should probably text Sami Jo and tell her about how shitty most of the group was so she knows he went. He should probably make some progress on that.

“I’m proud of you,” says the ghost voice of Parker, in the back of his head. If Cib closes his eyes he can almost imagine him there, sitting next to him, one hand resting on Cib’s arm, a knee pressed up against his, fuck. “You’re doing good, you know that?”

“I miss you,” Cib says, hoarse and too damn honest. “So much.”

Ghost Parker squeezes Cib’s wrist and he wishes more than anything it were real. “Yeah, you too.”

It’s a couple hours before Cib can pick himself up off the floor. But he gets up anyways.

#

Steven doesn’t say anything when Cib and Autumn walk into the group together the next week, only raises his eyebrows. (Autumn said maybe a sentence during the whole car ride, but he gets the feeling he’s still going to be the one who heard her talk the most today.)

“Listen,” Cib says, voice low. “I don’t- I still don’t think this is right for me.”

“But you came back,” Steven says.

After a second, Cib nods. “This bullshit might work.”

“That’s my approach to my whole life.” Steven reaches out and squeezes Cib’s shoulder. “You’re gonna get through this, dude. This group is good people, even though we all kind of suck.”

“Including you?”

“Oh, absolutely including me, haven’t you met me?”

Cib grins. “Steve-o, I think you and I are gonna get along just fine.”

“Gross,” Steven says, and he’s not smiling, but Cib can feel him smiling anyways. “Go sit down.”

“Aye-aye, cap’n.” And Cib goes over to where Autumn is, where she has a hand on a chair next to her. Like she’s saving space for him.