#but i’m tired and my brain is getting stuck on feeling small and inadequate

[zstraps]

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[sebthesnipe]

Starlight

February Prompts 2/27

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The February Collection on AO3

My Dearest Procyon

Other works by me

Prompt: Karma / Kneel

Ship:  Logicality

Note: I had planned on writing another chapter of My Dearest Procyon but a friend seemed to be having a rough day so I wrote here some fluffy Logicality instead. 

Logan sat at his desk, back straight with perfect posture as his pen glided across the paper before him. It was late. Far later than Logan typically allowed himself to stay up. He set a strict schedule for himself and he tended to ensure that he stuck to it. 

Still, as he glanced at the clock on the shelf above his desk, he frowned. 02:14 AM. His bed time had passed over four hours ago. He adjusted his glasses before focusing back on the written words that seemed to fail him. 

���Dear, 

Dearest,

My Dearest Patton,

I have recently discovered, I have come to realize, I have many things that I wish to discuss with you, but I do not know where to begin. I have never quite been very skilled at discussing things of an emotional nature. To my good fortune, you have always been there to guide me in the direction needed when the occasion arrived for such things. 

I unfortunately find myself to be inadequate in your presence. I can not begin to describe to find to express Despite my intellect and extensive vocabulary, words fail me. It appears that despite my many attempts to discuss the topic of my experience lack of emotional response physical and emotional reaction to your presence, I have failed. 

I fear I may have made things worse by attempting to gain some insight into expressing my troubles by speaking to Roman. He does seem to have an innate ability to woo our more somber friend.  He claimed that I was incapable of speaking to you about these responses due to his state being ‘shook’. Though, I am not quite certain what he means and why he claims ‘shaken’ is grammatically incorrect, but he made his point clear. 

It appears that while I am in your presence, I am unable to think properly due to a number of chemical reactions. I will admit, I had pursued research on the topic for fear that whatever the cause of my lack of judgement, this perpetual state of incoherence may prove to be permanent . Roman assured me that this is karma though it is still unclear as to what Hinduism has to do with any of this. 

It would appear that when I am in a close proximity to you, my brain releases dopamine, adrenaline, serotonin, estrogen, and testosterone creating an intoxicating mixture that, in Roman’s words, causes me to ‘ghost’ anyone and everyone near me. I am unsure about his choice of vernacular, but his point was clear. 

It is apparent that I care for you a great deal more than I have ever cared for another person. You are the figurative star at the center of my solar system. You shine more brightly than the sun itself. Every time I am gifted with the sound of your laughter, my heart breaks with the overflow of emotions the sound causes.

Furthermore, to compare you to a star is admittedly unfair. Though I have a passion for astronomy, the sorrowful beauty of a star could never measure against your own. Stars are dying structures billions of years away from Earth. Most of which have already died and remain ghosts in the sky. You are nothing so morbid. 

Your light and beauty are everbright, never to be extinguished even within the test of time. Your warmth and protection, the light and beauty you bring out from within all of us, these are qualities which will never die. Therefore, you can not compare to a star when a star will inevitably fail. 

I fear that even these words prove to be insufficient withmy intention. I am no poet and I do not pretend to be such. However, I am not ashamed to present another poet's words to assist me in my attempt at disclosure. 

The words of Geoffrey Chaucer come to mind when I think of the way you affect me. His poem, Rondel of Merciless Beauty, seems to express my feelings towards you adequately:

Your two great eyes will slay me suddenly;

Their beauty shakes me who was once serene;

Straight through my heart the wound is quick and keen. Only your word will heal the injury

To my hurt heart, while yet the wound is clean—

Your two great eyes will slay me suddenly;

Their beauty shakes me who was once serene. Upon my word, I tell you faithfully

Through life and after death you are my queen;

For with my death the whole truth shall be seen.

Your two great eyes will slay me suddenly;

Their beauty shakes me who was once serene;

Straight through my heart the wound is quick and keen…..”

Logan read the words once more, taking in the numerous lines of red ink, striking through unnecessary sentences. His frown deepened before he tore the page out with a frustrated huff. He crumpled the  page violently between his hands, tossing it into the already overflowing bin next to the door. 

This was utterly hopeless! He was not some romantic protagonist in one of Roman’s poorly written romance novels! There was no reason he couldn’t just walk up to the smaller man and confess his feelings like an adult!

A knock at his door made the lanky individual start, heart pounding against his chest in surprise. He glanced at his clock once more: 02:17 AM. No one should be up at this hour. Even Virgil tended to be in bed by now. 

He pushed to his feet, pulling the end of the tie that hung loosely over his shoulders from where he had unfastened it in his frustration after his seventh draft of the letter. He deposited the wrinkled silken fabric onto his desk before moving to curiously pull open the door. 

Patton stood just outside the fairly spacious bedroom dressed comfortably in his cat onsie, a steaming mug in his tired hands. He peered up at Logan and offered a small tired smile. Logan’s heart stopped.

“Well, hiya,” Patton greeted, his usually chipper voice a bit sluggish with sleep, “I saw your light on, on my way to get a glass of water. I figured you’d probably be up with one of your late night projects so I brought you a cup of joe, Lo,” he chuckled, shooting Logan a wink. 

“I-I…” The taller man stuttered, face flushing in panic, “I.. Yes.”

The answer to a question Patton most certainly didn’t ask, had his brows furrowing. It was obvious that Logan was once again short circuiting, but Patton graciously chose not to comment on it. Instead, he offered the warm mug out to the larger man, giving him another one of those million dollar smiles Logan had just been writing about. The taller man practically swooned.

“You’ve been staying up well past your bedtime lately, kiddo,” Patton commented, glancing down at the bin next to his roommate and the crumpled papers scattered around it. “What a mess! You really have been working hard, haven’t you? I worry about you sometimes,” he continued kneeling down to pick up one of the balls of yellow stationary. “You’re such a busy bee. You really should allow yourself more rest, bee-cause sleep is important,” he laughed as he started unraveling the page, “What are you working on anyways?” 

Logan willed himself to move to no avail. He needed to get the paper away from the smaller man! He needed to do it now! Despite his attempts, Logan’s arms remained stubbornly where they were, both gripping the ceramic mug in his hands so tightly that his knuckles were pale. 

His body heated with embarrassment as his gaze became glued to Patton’s gentle features, taking in the way his forehead dimpled as he concentrated on what he was reading. 

Logan could scream if his body wasn’t betraying him in such a horribly demented way! Why was he allowing this?! This could ruin their friendship! This could be the last time he would be allowed to see Patton because he allowed his emotions to get the best of him! He needed to shut them down and shut them down now!

“Oh,” Patton breathed softly, sending a spike of terror through Logan’s heart. “Oh my.” The spike dug deeper causing the gangly geek physical pain. 

“Patton, I can explain-” Logan rushed, finally finding his voice.

“I had no idea you felt this way,” the smaller man breathed, peering up at his roommate, gaze glistening with the threat of tears. 

Logan was no longer convinced that a ‘spike’ was a good analogy. No, he was fairly certain that his heart had just been hit with an explosive ice grenade. He had made Patton cry! He would never forgive himself for this! He deserved-

“This is beautiful, Logan,” Patton added softly, lifting a hand to wipe away the tears, stopping Logan’s panic in its tracks. “I wish I had known…”

“You… You think so?” Logan asked lamely, the cup shaking slightly in his hands.

“Of course!” Patton chuckled, pressing the wrinkled paper against his chest. “Are all of them like this?” He asked, glancing down at the piles in awe.

“Well… To some degree,” the taller roommate admitted, taking a step back to glance at them as well. “Some are admittedly more composed than others.” 

“Logan…” Patton’s voice cracked around the word, the tears beginning to flow more freely now. 

Logan set the mug aside quickly, unsure of how to respond. He was not very good at comfort, that was Patton’s department. He reached out for the smaller individual, knowing Patton prefered physical contact.

“I’m so sorry, Patton. It was not my intention to upset you!” he rushed.

“I’m not upset, Logan,” Patton chuckled wetly, covering his face. “I’m just so happy. I thought I… I didn’t know you… I didn’t know you could feel that way, much less about me!” 

Logan blinked at him in surprise. Patton wasn’t upset? No, he could see the small dimples on his cheeks that usually were an indication of his large grin, even though they were currently hidden behind his hands. Patton was smiling. Relief washed through the taller man.

“Patton, may I,” Logan paused, still unsure of himself but feeling his own happiness warm him. “May I embrace- oof!” 

He barely managed to get the word out before Patton was slamming into him, arms tightly wrapping around Logan’s waist. The little man was surprisingly solid against Logan’s chest as he returned the hold. 

Patton buried his face in his roommate’s dark polo, his tears leaving small damp stains as he breathed in the earthy scent of wood and lavender that always seemed to cling to the other man. It was a comforting sensation that Patton had often found himself thinking about late into the evening when he was unable to sleep.

They remained that way for some time, hovering in Logan’s doorway silently, clinging to one another as if they letting go would cause them to drown. 

“Does this mean, if I were to venture an inquiry, to say, dinner this Friday, you would be inclined to accept?” Logan asked finally, flushing.

“Yes! Of course!” Patton replied without hesitation, pulling away just far enough to peer up at him, face beaming with happiness that caused Logan’s breath to hitch. How could one man be so breathtakingly beautiful?

Without a thought, the taller man’s hand lifted to Patton’s check, bending low to brush his lips against the small peak of the other’s nose. 

La fin...

Taglist: 

@hiddendreamer67 @hiddendreamer67 @gilby-the-geek-girl

[writerpyre]

Addendum: Skyhook

So. I’ve been writing this tiny thing on and off since Skyhook came out oh four-and-a-half-years-ago where’s the damn time gone!?, and I finally managed to get it finished tonight. Amazing what an age without looking at this thing -- and randomly getting vibes while trawling through @lenle-g’s old fanart -- can do, but here; have a oneshot everybody.

 *An addendum to the end of Skyhook, because no bloody way did he not get saddled with anything remotely health-endangering. It made me quite indignant, but what can we do about animation budgets and not scaring small children?, but anyway. :) As usual, I only do this for the joy, not money. Many thanks as always to my beautiful beta (co-writer), LexietFive; who, without her encouragement and love, I wouldn’t still be doing this stuff. Love you L. xx

Enjoy. xx

~

John is starting to feel rather unwell by the time he ushers Fischler and his recently-fired associates through the final airlock between Thunderbirds Three and Five, an hour after he'd locked the nosy creatures in the galley to stop them from ferreting out the secrets of International Rescue. His head is pounding, his skin aching, and his scalp to his toes and everything in between feel hot and heavy and painful. His limbs feel like they weigh several tons, even despite the lack of gravity, and his throat feels thick and tight; every inhalation feeling like a wholly unnecessary effort. His heartbeat slowing as the still-lingering adrenaline from the rather unorthodox rescue finally burns out, John lets out a weak sigh of relief as the airlock between finally seals shut behind his three unwelcome guests.

He loves 'Five, but he is heartily sick and tired of spinning around in that damned gravity ring. The ache is intensifying swiftly now the excitement is over. His brain feels like it has been scrambled from the pressure of being flattened against the panels, and has been since he managed to pick himself off the ground, and his right arm and shoulder are pure bruise from where he'd been slammed down in the process of reaching the cut-off switch. Seems to be a rather recurrent event as of late, he muses wearily. At least last time it was only 3Gs, Alan having managed to slow down the spin with Thunderbird Three before the still-malignant EOS turned him into a John Tracy pancake, but still, after that one he'd had a pressure headache and vision problems for three days. He wasn't pleased to be repeating the experience so soon.

Sucking in a painful, stuttered breath against his battered, bruised ribs, John gives himself a moment to regroup, promising himself that he'll do a systems' check shortly, just as soon as the station stops whirling around him. When that started exactly, he's not sure, but he thinks it must've had to do with the black-out he had in those moments before he forced himself upright to deal with the reverse thrusters. This is why he doesn't do gravity all that often, it always screws him up for the rest of the damn day!

"Thunderbird Three to Thunderbird Five, are you there, John?" And there goes that plan. His eyes flicker open and John grimaces as he forces his arm up to bring his comm. level with his face, wincing as his head and neck throb with the motion. That's gonna get irritating real fast...

"Thunderbird Five, reading you strength five, 'Three," He contemplates sitting up and addressing his siblings and their holograms properly, but his eyes and his entire body are turning swiftly into agony right now, so nope, stuff it. It's only Scott and Alan, having come up to fetch the high-ballooning mis-adventurers - crapped-up second engine and all. They won't care.

"Planning on turning us and the Space Invaders loose anytime in the future, Johnny? We're kinda stuck til you release your grip..." John blearily watches Scott's eyebrows rise up his forehead as his sibling takes him in, lolling on his back in midair, and he blinks painfully as a wave of nausea-induced dizziness rolls over him, his eyes shuttering to half-closed with no warning. Yup, definitely time for a nap before those checks...

"Make EOS do it..." John mumbles chokedly, forcing them back open, and his older brother just looks at him, with that ridiculous expression he gets when the Terrible Two are being morons and he can't believe they can be so childish. "I'm tired..." He isn't whining, he isn't, but some part of him says that he should probably be alarmed, especially when his head is aching so, but right now, John just doesn't have the energy to devote to it. He feels all sick and wobbly and... eurgh.

Something's wrong, he thinks as the pain suddenly spikes enormously, forcing him in on himself with a cry of pain, and Scott seems to have had the same lightbulb moment as John, because his brother is suddenly hollering rather inadequately for Alan, and it's all John can do to roll himself over in the air before he's throwing up the gorgeous, floating chunks of what only a few hours ago, there were two rather delicious breakfast bagels and his morning vacuum flask of coffee. John groans and clutches his stomach, his ears ringing as his body convulses, the undersides of his eyelids tinged red by pain.

Wonderful, motion sickness at the very least; bloody centrifugal and gravitational forces have gotten him, goddamnit, and so suddenly too, which means it's a bad bout, because he's not experienced that since he went through astronaut training, years ago. Apparently twenty-five Gs and more can do that to a guy. Yup, his rather muddled, normally-intelligent brain remembers that right now, at least. Yummy.

John retches again - because that thought is definitely not appropriate right now, when he's dirtying up the pristine, sanitised atmosphere of his beloved 'Bird - and he wonders absently where the hell EOS is, as, quite abruptly, the chilled hands of John's older brother are on his arms, pulling him into an upright position and away from the contents of his stomach. He flails blindly, because dear God, his head is killing him, but John tries to wriggle away regardless, because those damned idiots in Three's passenger bay are far more important than him dealing with a bit of nausea... Or not, as the case may be...

Deny it, and it’ll be all okay… Yep, sound advice, Tracy.

It doesn't seem like Scott has gotten that memo though, because he only grips John tighter and pulls his head back firmly but carefully, straightening the slighter man out, literally forcing him to gasp for air to regulate his breathing. That only makes it harder to bear the pain, rapidly growing stronger now, like the veil on the shock of what happened barely half an hour ago and the damage he has apparently inflicted upon himself has fallen away, leaving raw, naked agony in its wake.

"Easy, John, easy..." Scott mutters in his ear. "I know what you're thinking,  but none of them are hurt but for a bit of altitude-headache, and right now, you're coming down with us whether you like it or not. They can wait til we've got you settled in 'Three, and then you can come home and Brains can check you out; you're shaking like a maraca."

Coughing, his eyes streaming even as he grips his brother's arms blindly in dizziness, John glares up weakly at the fuzzy form of his eldest sibling. Scott knows his thoughts on that matter - he knows that John much prefers to spend his time up here unless he has to be elsewhere, and right now, John doesn't want to. He'll be fine once he gets an hour or so's nap, EOS - whenever the apparently-absent AI deigns to reappear - can mind the shop for anything desperate, but so help him, he isn't going to move from his 'Bird, thank you very much, Scott Tracy!

"There will be no arguments, John." Said AI, almost as if she's read Scott's mind, is suddenly right in John's burning face with her green-blinking camera lens, making him squint painfully at the light. "Your body temperature has risen and seems inclined to do so further, your pupils are dilated and unwavering at this time, and if my data on this subject is indeed correct, you are suffering from the condition called Non-Impact Concussion. There are indications of the presence of stress fractures in your subclavian, thoracic, pelvic and cervical regions, and thermal heat readings signify that there is an abnormal level of swelling radiating from the area surrounding the axillary nerves in your right shoulder. Medical treatment on this is strongly advised. Sensors compute that you also may have microscopic muscular, bone and tissue damage, particularly in your internal organs and within your skeletal system... This must be assessed. Scott Tracy,"

The AI that John shares 'Five with suddenly turns her 'face' to his brother, who seems to be containing John and his wobbly limbs now, rather than restraining, much to his puzzlement. John is stuck by an absurd flash of irritation that not only has his body and 'Bird turned against him today, but so has his supposed companion... Brilliant.

"... From what I can determine," The AI continues doggedly, the high whine in John's ears making him cringe, "This situation is not life-threatening to John currently, but according to my calculations of duration and pressure in relation to the fragility and subsequent mortality of the human form, it is suggested that he does not return to work until he is satisfactorily sound. This coming period will be very... What is the term? Unpleasant. It is recommended that he be closely supervised and examined to ensure that there will be no complications. For this, John needs to leave this station and seek appropriate treatment."

"You need some time to rest at the very least, so no arguing." Scott murmurs, his voice raspy and thick in John's left ear. "There are no ifs, buts or maybes about it. You've endured freaking twenty-five Gs of gravity in one hit, and I can tell you right now, you're not in good shape, Little Brother, even if your brain is too scrambled for you to realise that yourself."

And oh shit, Scott actually sounds concerned, God help him, John realises, closing his eyes painfully. That certainly means that something isn't connecting right for him right now, because though they might tease and mock Scott and call him 'Smother Hen' and all other assorted samples of you're-too-overbearing-for-your-own-good teasing, John and the others know that Scott doesn't outright order them around outside of a rescue unless something is actually very wrong.

And yes, somewhere in his shit-that-freaking-hurts brain, John knows the reality of all those things that EOS listed off. He learned the ramifications of that amount of gravity on the human body years ago - twenty-five Gs is nothing to sneeze at - but quite honestly, right now he's in so much pain that it's starting to engulf his rational, sensible mind, and he doesn't really want to uncurl himself from where he's hunched over his screaming ribs and cramping stomach. Lost in the burning waves of pain shooting through him now his body has stopped spinning, it's suddenly all he can do to not pass out properly. This is going to be interesting...

##

Without being aware of it, John realises that he has indeed blacked out, because when he's opened his eyes again, it's to find he's strapped firmly into one of 'Three's jump seats, with the hard ridge of a cervical brace digging into his chin, and the firm, almost painful pressure of the restraints holding him securely in it. Struggling to force his fluttering eyelids open properly - yeah, that should not be as hard as it is right now - John can feel the shuddering of the ship underneath him, and he can barely restrain himself from moaning as his entire body protests the whirligig sensation. Strangely enough, his head, while still feeling like it has the Mole digging through it, feels a little less raw and abused, but the rest of him still feels like an elephant sat on him. And his stomach is still rolling. Fantastic.

Somewhat winning the battle to focus his vision, John is aware that there is sound around him, the voices of what he assumes are his brothers as well as the life-support machinery and the piloting systems, but it's not until he lets out a sharp cough and a subsequent, burning gasp of oxygen, that he realises that Scott is almost right above him.

"Hey Starman," Scott's accompanying smile is strained and relieved at the same time, and John wants to wipe it all away - because his brother being relieved means that John has scared the pilot, and John doesn't like frightening his brothers, any of them... "Nice to have you back." Scott's hand comes up out of nowhere to press into John's dishevelled, sweaty hair, gently carding through it, and John feels more than a little confused and disconnected, because, he should be able to pinpoint what his limbs are doing, and holy effing crap does it actually hurt to breathe right now...

Oh, yeah right; no more microgravity... Blurry eyes, nausea and freaking, disorienting weight on top of him again... Cos returning to earth and all sucks even when he's healthy and hasn't been crushed by his own gravity ring... Why'd he do that again? What a stupid idea.

"Mmmm." John agrees with his brother belatedly, because again, the breathing thing, and good, sorta-numbing drugs apparently affect his ability to make coherent sounds. Not to mention the solid, thumping agony of his head, even despite the clear attempt at pain relief... "Di'nt, w'nna lea'e, Sco'..." He tries to frown - because why did they move him? - but his face scrunches in pain as the hot jagged edges of his shoulder and ribs decide to arc up, and his attempt at displeasure rapidly turns into a fiery ball of ouch.

Well, it was worth a try... He thinks miserably, trying not to let his stomach rebel again - a bad idea in hypergravity...

"Yeah, I thought so," Scott seems to commiserate with him, even if he can't understand him - jee, thanks Scoot, John loves being humoured when he knows he's incoherent - but then his brother brings up a bottle of water into his rather patchy line of sight, and John suddenly is so thirsty that all thoughts of annoyance are crowded out of him by the sheer, one-track gratitude he feels at that fuzzy realisation.

Reaching out clumsily for the receptacle, John can't help but feel irritated as Scott gently but firmly pushes his aching, painful arm back down and holds the bottle to his lips. Not a baby, Scott, he finds himself thinking somewhat irrationally, even as his mouth clamps to the bottle, his tired, burning, painful body mass literally demanding he drain it dry; he feels so dehydrated and parched.

John grimaces slightly as he forces himself not to gulp at the water, summoning the last bit of strength as he sips. By the stars, the water feels so good, he can almost swear he feels it soaking into his tissue. Feeling greedy, he forgets himself and tries to take an extra big swallow of the liquid, before grunting angrily as Scott suddenly pulls the bottle away.

"Nuh-uh, Johnny, no more yet, unless you want to be sick again?" His big brother's voice is low and full of compassion as John feels him sweep a hand over his forehead on the pretence of smoothing away that cowlick curl of red-gold hair that never stays gelled back for long, but exhausted and ill as he is, John isn't fooled, Scott is fever-checking. All four of his younger brothers know the signs, though it's been a very long time since he himself has been on the receiving end of Scott's worry.

Weakly, John attempts to pull away and wreaks his own undoing as the quick movement forces the mother of all headaches to rip through his skull. The pounding ringing, burning pain resonates behind his eyes, through his very brain it feels like, pushing down his nose and through his ears  with such intensity that he can't help but let out a strangled squawk as he forces his hands up in the air. He needs to know what seems to be sluggishly flowing on his face, surely he didn't drop water on himself?

"Oh, shit!"  Scott's voice sounds strangely far away and thickly muffled as John squints painfully through narrowed eyelids, trying so hard to bring the rocket's lounge into focus. He feels something soft and thick mopping at his tingling, sore eyes and covering his nose as his body convulses with the agony he's being forced to adapt to. "Close your eyes, John,"  Scott orders, a note of fear penetrating John's thoughts despite the fuzzy thickness of his ears.

John obeys, he's not stupid, he knows what's happened, that the sharp movement has caused the built up pressure in his head to vent outward, that he's probably perforated his eardrums, that the thin straw like liquid mixed with earwax is running from his ears, and that his nose is definitely gushing with blood, hence Scott's concern. In fact he'd hazard a guess that the sclera of his eyes are now pink and watery, possibly even bleeding out slightly from his ever-increasing blood pressure. As an astronaut, he is well-versed on the dangers and what to expect. So is Scott.

He gropes out suddenly, clasping Scott by the forearm. "H'w b'd is it?” He grunts.

“Blood pressure has skyrocketed dude,” Scott’s voice is tight with worry. “Your heart rate is way up and your respirations are shit. Deep breathing exercises now, you're not having an aneurysm just because you wanted to see what it felt like to try and separate your elements John, do it.”

“Was that a science joke, Scott?” John wheezes incredulously, because that wasn't bad at all. Not like usual. Huh. What's the world coming to?

John feels himself choke painfully with amusement, and immediately regrets it. Laughter is a spectacularly bad idea. He sucks in a breath, and well crap; that’s the end of him isn’t it?

Dizzy is an understatement, John thinks fuzzily.

Hello, darkness.

“Hey, hey! No you don’t,” What must be his brother’s hand snaps sharply at his cheek, and John startles; torn between anger and confusion as his eyes snap open to meet his older brother’s determined stare. “You are not passing out.” Scott orders, voice fully infused with Field Commander deliberation. “You can take an order; your WSA training says so, Starman.” His brother tells him, with a sudden, sly smirk. “Don’t blink out on me now; not after we’ve nearly got the blood stopped and all.”

John is still confused and dizzy, but his amusement returns at his brother’s quip, which gives him some optimism that this nasty little episode might stop soon. Once his body stops throwing a temper tantrum, at any rate. Urgh.

Scott’s brusque love tap seems to have cleared his head a little, however, and blinking a little, even as his brain seems determined to keep bashing itself against the inside of his skull, John’s attempts at deep breaths seem to be at least reassuring Scott. The fear in his face has disappeared, in any case. Phew.

John realises that the older man is still clamping a cloth from the medkit over his nose, careful to not obstruct his mouth, and he can still feel the unpleasant, gritty wetness of his ears leaking awfully down the sides of his neck and into his suit, but at least the nausea has lessened a little. Awareness of his own body comes flooding back with the return of cognizance, and John frowns as he realises both his hands are held in a one-hand vice grip in Scott’s left, and that there’s that hard ridge of the neck brace cutting into his chin again. Ew. The awful feelings retreat a little, to be replaced with an awful lot of oh-hell-no, when he realises exactly what the plan is next for him when they finally get back to Earth.

Honestly, he should’ve seen it coming, and it’s inevitable and needed, but it doesn’t mean he has to like it! He hates being carried out on stretchers. No-no-no no-no-no-no! Shit.

Scott seems to have read his mind, and has a sly, half-amused expression on his face, just barely concealing the undeniable look of sheer relief still lingering there. John knows that it’s because once again, he seems to have scraped himself out of yet another life-threatening situation by the mere skin of his teeth. Gordon has joked in the past that if John were an animal, he’d be a cat, by virtue of the fact that he seems to have an inordinate amount of lives to chew through, what with all his assorted mishaps. He has to get through the damn medical tests and examinations first though, and it isn’t fair, because it’s not like he does these things on purpose.  Not like the idiot younger three, and Scott, who didn’t get his nickname from Dad for no reason. The man fell out of a tree when he was a teenager; too busy trying to see the planes at the airfield, for crying out loud!

John’s eyes widen further as he realises that once they’re all reassured he really is actually okay after this jaunt (not that he feels that way right now, he’s going to be stuck in bed for at least a few days, especially with these ribs, he just knows it), his three younger brothers are never going to let him live the repeat of his out-of-control-hamster-wheel antics down. Not to mention his idiot of an older brother; don’t you dare to pretend otherwise, Scott Tracy!

Huffing out an indignant breath, as Scott suddenly breaks out into full-on-laughter at his epiphany -- still trapped in the dual vice-grip of his brother’s firm restraint and the pain of his battered body -- John can only make a face of resignation.

Jerks. He thinks. Jerks; the lot of them.

~

Fanfiction.net // Ao3

[totallyexhausted]

It’s Not What It Seems (Part 1/?)

There were three things that Erik Lehnsherr was unquestionably certain about:

1)      The car he was currently driving was most likely stolen.

2)      Charles lied to him, thus forcing him to trek it all the way back to Manchester with Peter, alone.

3)      There was something undeniably wrong with the kid.

 Erik turned on the windshield wipers and stole another sideways glance at the young speedster. A few hours ago Peter had been on his 2nd box of Twinkies, which was conveniently stolen from the shitty gas station they had stopped at, and on a 12-hour spiel of mindless and seemingly endless chatter. Now however, the 19-year-old had settled down to an uncomfortable silence and, what seemed to be, a restless nap. The kid was pressed against the window, his legs crammed against the dash unable to find room for his lanky form, sleeping slightly, and wearing an over-sized hoodie he had found in the trunk of the car. At first Erik had been thankful for the silence, because after being packed into a tiny car with an ADHD kid who changed subjects faster than he could run, the kid was beginning to aggravate him. He had inwardly cursed Charles, feeling the telepath probing his mind, trying to sense the situation; and Charles consistently telling Erik to calm down, take a breath, he’s just a boy. Boy or not, Erik still wanted to kill him, repeatedly. He just. Wouldn’t. Shut. Up.

It wasn’t until he had opened his 3rd box of Twinkies, and finished his 4-hour rant about how Eurythmics “Sweet Dreams” was the greatest song of all time, that he started to quiet down. At first, Erik had assumed the kid was finally falling asleep, but when he glanced in Peter’s direction he was surprised to find him looking out the window and playing with one of the cords that connected to his headphones. The silence continued awkwardly for several hours until Erik had stopped for gas, realizing that the kid was asleep. He had walked around to Peter’s side of the car and stood there with an eyebrow raised. The young speedsters face was gracelessly pressed up against the glass, his breath fogging up the window slightly. His silver locks were sticking up in every different direction, and his goggles hung loosely around his neck. He looked so young and innocent, like a little kid and not a 19-year-old. Unfortunately, it wasn’t until Erik had tried to rouse the kid however, that he knew something was wrong.

At first he had tried waking Peter with a few shakes on his shoulder and calling his name. When that failed however, Erik mustered up enough room in the tiny compact car to punch the kid in the arm, hard; Peter yelped, bolting upright and rubbing his shoulder. “What’s your problem man? Can’t a guy get some sleep around here?” Peter said giving Erik a menacing glare.

Erik glanced over at him uncomfortably, slightly caught off guard with how bad the kid sounded. His voice was rough and hoarse, but whether it was from sleep-induced coma Peter had been rudely awaken from, or the fact that he was coming down with something, Erik didn’t know. Erik punched him gentler this time, “Are you alright?” he asked turning his attention back towards the road, missing the small flash of pain that crossed Peter’s face as he shifted once more in the uncomfortable seat.

Peter eyed Erik before turning back towards the chilly window, “Why dude? You’re not going soft on me, are you?” He heard Erik suppress a chuckle. Peter pressed his head harder against the window trying to push his headache away, and swallowed thickly, feeling his stomach turning. His headache had started behind his eyes, barely there, but now, it had spread down his neck and embedded into the bone of his jaw, hammering across his cheekbones. He glanced in Erik’s direction to see him shake his head, “No, I just would rather not have to deal with anything that would prevent us from getting back to the institute quickly… like a sick snot-nosed brat.”

Peter sat up straighter at this comment. He was almost 20-years-old, far too old and experienced to be referred to as a brat. “I’m not a kid,” he said sharply, feeling the rough words drag against his sore throat. He winced slightly and reached for the radio dial, hoping beyond hope that it would work this time. No luck. Erik cleared his throat, “I didn’t say kid.” Peter shot him another glare and leaned back against the cold window, trying to stop his body from shaking against the lukewarm air that barely whispered past the vents. “Besides,” he said softly, closing his eyes, “I can’t even get sick. It’s has to do with genetics or chemistry or some shit. My cells regenerate quickly, so it would be basically impossible to get sick.” I hope, he added inwardly.

After a couple of minutes he was back to his pitiful sleep, leaving Erik to mull over this comment. Was it true he couldn’t get sick? He knew when Peter had broken his leg fighting En Sabah Nur it had only taken about 2 weeks to heal completely, but was it physically true that the kid was incapable of getting sick? Unfortunately, we’re not sure, a voice echoed in his head; Erik jerked the car left and slammed on the brakes, caught off guard with the telepath’s sudden resurface. “Charles,” he growled, “What do you want!” Usually Erik could feel Charles picking through his brain but, considering he had been momentarily preoccupied, he hadn’t felt him this time.

The car rattled again, vibrating the whole frame and Erik gripped the steering wheel harder, thinking for the millionth time today, that the car was going to fall apart. They were stuck in the middle of nowhere, 10 hours away from Manchester, in the dead of winter with a shitty car that seemed to run on willpower alone, and a broken AC unit which meant minimal heat. He still didn’t understand why Kurt couldn’t come get them. Or why Peter couldn’t run them back. Or why Charles couldn’t fly his big fucking fancy war jet down here. Hell, he was the reason they were in this mess in the first place, the least he could do was give them a fucking ride back.

Yes it is true that his body regenerates faster than mine or yours, but I fear the question is, how much is Peter able to take before his body no longer heals itself quickly, Charles said softly. Erik let out a half-choked scoff, “You haven’t performed any little experiments on him yet?” He closed his eyes briefly as the words left his mouth, knowing they were wrong. Charles was known to push his mutants to their breaking points to better prepare them for the future and strengthen their power, but not once has he performed hurtful experiments deliberately. Erik should know this better than anyone. I would never endanger him Erik, nor would I ever dream of intentionally endangering any of my other pupils, Charles remarked sternly. Erik scoffed and clenched his teeth together trying to think of anything else but what he was suggesting. He gripped the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white, looking at the rearview mirror wobble slightly from hidden anger, knowing Charles was already aware of his next thought. You are suggesting that being forced to drive back to Manchester alone puts Peter in danger… of you, he whispered softly, oh my dear friend. Erik’s blood boiled, the car began shaking again, and small metal splinters were beginning to break from the useless frame. His mind flashed to Nina, seeing the fear in her eyes as her father was being taken away, seeing the light go out in her eyes… if only she hadn’t known him… if only he had left them when she was born, then she would still be alive. He didn’t have time to drive some stupid kid back to Manchester, nor did he have time to play Charles’s stupid mind games. The mission had failed; the girl was dead, just as his daughter was dead. He had let both of them down, and now, because he was unable to protect them, he had no one. He couldn’t protect Peter, he didn’t want to protect Peter; Peter wasn’t his kid.

Erik could feel the inadequate metal frame twisting under his rage, he could feel the metal breaking from the car piece by piece; the car beginning to jerk, desperately trying to power through the wintery hell as it was being torn apart by an unknown force. Erik! Stop this! Charles yelled. Erik sucked in a breath, the car stopped shaking, the mirrors stopped seizing and the metal objects that had peeled from the car’s frame fell to the floor softly. Erik sucked in another sharp breath feeling tears pricking his eyes as Nina’s face flashed across his mind. Oh Erik, you are perhaps more capable than you know. There is a reason I sent you and Peter to find the girl, just as there is a reason I cannot send someone to come get you, Charles said softly. I cannot undo what has been done, the girl died, it wasn’t your fault. Neither was Nina’s death. Erik, you are not a weapon, you are not an enemy, and you are not a danger to those around you… unless you choose to be. But Erik, know this, to me, you are and will always be a friend.

Peter groaned slightly, curling in on himself and shifting again trying to find a comfortable spot for his long legs. He felt like shit, and the jerking of the car wasn’t helping anything. He pressed his head harder against the window and wondered if Erik even knew how to drive. The car continued to jerk, and Peter could feel the tires sliding lazily against the icy roads. His stomach turned again and Peter swallowed loudly. He’d only been sick once since he got his powers and even that was barely a headache. But now, his head was killing him, his stomach was making him regret three boxes of Hostess products, and despite being wrapped inside a warm hoodie that was at least 2X bigger than he was, he was still cold.

Peter swallowed again, and straightened a little in his seat. His felt saliva drowning his mouth and he groaned again as his stomach tightened, “ugh, Erik man, pull over.” Erik turned the windshield wipers back on as sleet began to fall, and looked over at Peter. The kid was hunched forward, his hand pressed against the dash, his headphones still wrapped around his neck loosely. Sweat was beginning to drip down his pale face. He coughed harshly, covering his mouth with his hand, hoping to stifle the rough sound. Peter swallowed again, “Erik- Erik, please-” He didn’t get a chance to finish his sentence. Peter lurched forward, expelling whatever stomach acid and digested food was trying to leave his body. Erik jerked the car, and cursed loudly. He pulled to the side of the road and sat there for a second, unsure of what to do. Peter groaned as he lurched forward again, coughing up pre-digested Twinkies and whatever else he had possibly eaten that day. Erik cleared his throat, and pressed his hand firmly on the speedsters back, hoping that he was able to bring a small amount of comfort to the puking kid. Peter sucked in a breath and closed his eyes, stopping any tears from falling because there was no way in hell he was going to cry in front of Erik… no matter how miserable he felt. He coughed loudly, feeling his stomach churn and pressed his hand harder against the dash.

Erik sat there, awkwardly patting the speedster’s shoulder, and inwardly asking Charles for help. He had no idea what to do. If Nina was here, he would step into action and try to make her feel better or even make her laugh but, this was some random kid. He cleared his throat again as Peter let out another harsh cough. “Easy… easy kid… Peter, easy” he said softly. Peter sucked in a breath, trying to calm his stomach, trying to stop shaking. Erik pulled his hand away; sweat was beginning to soak through Peter’s over-sized sweatshirt and despite the coolness of the air, Erik could feel the heat radiating off the teenager.  

“I- Shit, I’m I’m s-sorry man. Fuck, I’m really sorry.” Peter slurred, leaning his head against the window and closing his eyes. God his head was spinning. When was the last time he was this ill? Fuck, when was the last time he was sick? His cells regenerated faster than normal- he shouldn’t get sick, right? He crossed his arms over his stomach, hoping the pressure would help relieve the remaining nausea. He coughed again, swallowing the acidic taste of vomit, wishing he had some water to wash the taste out of his mouth.

Erik gripped the steering wheel again, turning back towards the road, “Look kid, we’re only a few hours out, just- we’ll be there soon. Alright?” Erik said, turning back towards Peter. The kid was an utter mess. He was leaning his head back against the headrest; his forehead was pressed against the window. His loose curls were plastered to his forehead; his headphones had slipped off and fell to the floor, nearly missing the mess that decorated Peter’s shoes and the floor of the shitty car.  He nodded weakly, curling further in his seat, trying to make himself small. All he wanted to do was sleep. He never knew he could feel this bad. He shifted again in his seat, the smell of the car was enough to make him sick again, and he winced slightly as his right side lit up with pain. He closed his eyes and focused on the sleet beating against the window.

Erik started the car and sat there drumming his finger against the steering wheel. He glanced at the sign across the road that told him he was at least 20 miles from the next town, 9 hours from Manchester. You can’t keep going, Charles said softly.

I can Charles, and I will. Look we are only a half day’s drive. We’ll be there before midnight. Surely the kid will be fine, Erik thought. He heard Charles sigh, Erik, look at him. Erik glanced over at the slumbering kid once more and winced. Vomit decorated not only the entire passenger side but Peter’s clothes as well. It was not a pleasant sight, and Erik felt sort of sorry for the boy. Pink had crept onto his face, painting his cheeks, letting it be known that the kid had a fever. He could hear the rough ragged breathing coming from Peter as he struggled to breathe through a congested nose. His silver locks were a chaotic mess and stuck up in different directions. He glanced back towards the road, gripping the steering wheel once more, fighting the urge to break it in half. Erik, he needs to stop. He needs rest. I don’t know what causes this illness because I’ve never seen him sick. If you push him further, who knows how worse he could get. Who knows how worse he will get.

Erik scoffed, Charles, we don’t have time for this! I don’t have time for this! The mission is over, we need to get back. I need to get back! I don’t have time to play dad to a strange kid! You said this was the last mission and then I could leave. You said- Look- I’m not tending to a stupid-

I know what I said. It can wait for a few days, and so can you. Erik, look at him. He needs to rest. What would you do if he was Nina?

Erik cursed again, and stared at the sleet falling from the sky. He glanced back over at Peter to find the kid staring at him through half shut eyes. Peter stifled a cough and wiped his nose with his sleeve. What would you do if he was Nina? Erik sighed, “Look… kid… the weather is getting pretty bad out here and Charles thinks there might be a blizzard or something heading our way. So, um, I think we should call it a day, okay? We’ll pick up where we left off tomorrow, bright and early.” Peter mumbled something as he shifted in his seat, turning back to look out the window. He just wanted to lie down and maybe a new change of clothes. His head was spinning and the heat that coursed through his body was making it hard to concentrate. He closed his eyes again as Erik pulled back onto the main road and headed towards the nearest town.

  �iYH2