#but i'm really not interested in a 'who suffered more' thing

[leolithe]

I haven't visited Warframe Wiki in MONTHS let's catch up a bit and reminisce about Lotus Eaters :D

Seeing "Natah/Lotus/Margulis" together on the wiki in a new quest 🥹.....

the Operator, Drifter, Lotus system family........ I love when they're shown to care for each other. I really hope there's more opportunities for them to just respond and react to each other. After the Hex quest I'm more than certain DE can meet the demand for affection from our OG Tenno family.

We should all be collectively freaking out about the sentence, "The Indifference is affecting the Lotus now".

It is so cruel, for a character who was constantly dehumanized, accused of being unfeeling, uncaring, evil... who all this time, struggled to prove that she cared, that she was as human as everyone... to get consumed by an embodiment of the very thing everyone tried to vilify her for. I am scared for her.

So the Lotus system can hear: their headmates' voices, the Indifference's call, the cries of Void Angels, the sounds of "Devils" that we don't know if they're alluded to as physical entities yet, and the cacophony i can only imagine that is the calls of life. How she hasn't suffered a sensory overload is incredible and heartbreaking.

I'm so, so, so happy DE is explicitly writing plurality into our Space Moms. It cemented the Lotus system as my favourite characters of all time... There's never been a character I met that was this thematically cohesive, this conceptually interesting. She's just so, so, so good.

I think it's so cute that the Lotus system refers to their body as their "shell"....... with how crustacean-like Natah is, I also described her body with words like shell and carapace in my fics before so this just makes me smile big big ^_^

I like this line. I read it as DE not at all regretting the direction they went with in regards to the Lotus' story. She was abused, she was hindered, mocked, and constantly punished for doing the one thing she wanted to do: Love her family, the Tenno. And the system saying this out loud is an unflinching point of confidence, that they know they were deeply wronged.

However, I do admit I would've liked to see a bit of Natah/Lotus/Margulis' reflecting on their past actions and what they were forced to do. This quest admittedly doesn't seem like the best place for an "I feel guilty about the things I did when I thought I was right, or when I was under the control of another" emotional beat, and this kind of subject (a victim's conflicting feelings after traumatic events) needs to be handled carefully and with enough time for nuance. So I'm content with sitting with it for now.

I still sometimes see people struggling with the point that Margulis is straight up just living inside Natah's/the Lotus' body. Like, yes, the Original Margulis was executed before the Old War, and the situation she's in right now (being a Human Mind in a Sentient Body) really is the Ship of Theseus dilemma... but idk i feel like accepting that the Lotus system feels and remembers the pain of the Jade Light is easier than making the "how Natah/Lotus will never be Margulis" speech again.

Besides, I think the "Natah and Margulis are formed from Lotus' perspective of them" theory/headcanon is enough to explain why Margulis is with them... but somehow I don't think plural concepts are well-known to the average person lol

The idea of all 3 of them mourning Margulis' death but not wanting to change it is just. OOOOOOOOUUUGH... my heart....... Margulis chose to die but she was never allowed her death. Margulis chose to die but she can never regret it. The system was shaped by everything they faced, all the good, all the bad, and they know taking anything apart means losing themselves. They don't want to lose who they are... they don't want to lose each other........ WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

I read a comment somewhere that pointed out something I missed: The Tenno are all about taking one's pain away. What would they do about someone who wants to keep her pain? Someone who is in the early stages of Rell's situation, face to face with the Indifference? ....... Lotus nightmare sequence please? :3

No, Lotus..... I don't............. :<

I'm very scared to find out what her deal with the Indifference exactly was. I hope it shatters my heart.

I do wonder if DE is gonna mention Rell again now that the Lotus system took up his role. I still hold onto that Copium that Margulis was framed for casting him out, or that there was something from other perspectives that we were missing regarding how these two treated each other... Regardless, I think it would be nice for us to see the Lotus system reflect on Rell and what happened to him.

My Working Theory for the future of the Lotus System is that she'll continue guarding the Origin System from the Indifference, but not without consequence. When Lotus ascends to Godhood and takes up that gatekeeper role, she's gonna be in close proximity to the Void. I think there might be an arc where she accepts the Void and all its flaws into her body, a la Dark Matter in Pokemon Super Mystery Dungeon :P

Leave it to a Sentient AI plural system to be The Great Sentient Queens of Multitasking :P

I want to know more about what other people observe about her SO BAAAAAAAAAAAAAAD. I WANNA BE THE ONE OBSERVING HER BEHAVIOURS, I wanna see more of her facial expressions, her little twitches, her posture, her quirks, her attitude changes when she switches. I want to hear more of her singing, I want to be there to comfort her, I want my Tenno to talk to her and I want her to respond in kind.

I just want MORE LOTUS and I now have dangerously high expectations for her writing and the way she's going to be portrayed in future quests. DE is setting up something huge and I can only hope the time it takes for them to finally release it manages to temper my expectations.

Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. I need to end post now. Oh Space Moms. We love you so so so much.

[transmutationisms]

Did you like season 1 of severence? I'm halfway thru it and though I think the concept is good I think I'm doomed to be disappointed bc the writers/show runners are not going to be communists about it

yea the labour politics do become increasingly strained and annoying (as i believe @familyabolisher once wrote, "who cleans the severed floor?") but also on a more facile level i just didn't think it was a particularly good show lmao. like it works best when the sci-fi concept is being used to exaggerate and satirise the affective demands placed on workers—with of course the eternal caveat that the show is only about white collar office workers, while much of the commentary, like their elaborate self flagellation rituals, would actually be more incisive & effective if it were applied to the aforementioned blue collar staff, service workers, &c—but then by the end of the season it's fully veering into oc/cult sensationalism in ways i just found boring & lazy.

there are also writing decisions that seem ill planned, like for example if they wanted pete and gemma to be characters they should have just written them as characters rather than doing these fakeout death reveals, which would have also made mark's development stronger (whatever his name is gives a good performance relative to the material he's given, but it's soooo silly how much mark suffers from "is characterised by things we are told are true but which in the writing are repeatedly demonstrated not to be true" syndrome lmao). i also just think patricia arquette's character is badly written and weirdly performed. some of the cinematography is fun but some of it is sort of generically glossy in a way that aesthetically signifies 'prestige tv' and little else. i don't really see a second season being good honestly i just don't think it's set up well.

on the broader cultural level i am v interested in what seems to be a loose trend of films and shows motivated by anxiety over internal conflict or psychological multiplicity—think inside out, the substance, severance, etc. the conceits in these properties are to elevate feelings of ambivalence or internal inconsistency to the point where the psychology actually fractures into wholly distinct individual entities; i don't think it's coincidental we see some of these concerns at the same time as the popularity of psychiatric discourses that either ignore or purport to resolve such internal conflict, and that pathologise multiplicity as non-functional, anti-social, and economically unproductive. severance does at least gesture in the direction of foregrounding economic alienation in the etiology of this unease, but again the further it goes into the stupid literal cult shit the less i think those ideas are likely to be interrogated to any interesting ends. yknow, it just becomes recuperative work at a certain point, where there's a shift from using the severed floor to comment on its physically existent counterparts, to using the severed floor to comment on "hey wouldn't this be fucked up?" & this show simply doesn't slay hard enough for me to care if it's the latter

[kaibutsushidousha]

What are your thoughts on orihime?

Ichigo's little group of friends exist to be basis of Bleach's arcs. The Soul Society arc is envisioned as Rukia's arc, which is a no-brainer because Rukia is a Shinigami. The Lost Agent is envisioned as Chad's arc, and even if it fails that role, the choice is understandable due to Chad being a Fullbringer. The Blood War is envisioned as Uryuu's arc, obvious again because Uryuu is a Quincy. But Orihime is a Fullbringer, so realizing what makes her fit at the center of the Arrancar arc requires a little more thought.

Well, I'd say the answer can be found about as early as possible. Orihime simply isn't like any other character in the good side. A whole lot of characters in Bleach have tragic pasts, but only Orihime is shown having a tragic present. The other Karakura people have comfortable houses with providing families. The Seireitei is a high class place directly contrasted with the poor Rukongai. The Visored and Xcution are united communities. Unclear about the Quincies in Silbern because we never the status quo there before the times of war.

Meanwhile, Orihime lives alone thanks to cutting ties with her parents at age 4 and losing her brother at age 12. She survives out of part-time jobs and financial support from distant relatives who determine how much money she gets based on her grades. The status quo of Bleach is pretty rough on her, and if I'm not forgetting anyone, her alone. She's doing what she can to survive under a constant threat of hunger, which is something Bleach otherwise only portrays as the lifestyle of a Hollow. I'll get back to this later.

The point here is that Orihime's life sucks. But that's not a thing that ever shows. Orihime in public is just a silly airhead constantly presented as the most cheerful person around. Her screentime in normal school situations is marked by her filtering her unpleasant reality with outlandish imagination. Her antics make her look really stupid, but we're shown that she isn't as she has 3rd best grades in their school. Intentional as her silliness is, she can't afford to be a bad student because that affects how much bread she gets to every month, as mentioned above.

And Bleach wastes no time explaining why she's like that. Still in volume 1, it's already established that Orihime spent her whole life being protected by others. First Sora, then Tatsuki, and now Ichigo. And because she grew up like this, her greatest wish is to not be a problem.

She let Sora bite her because life going on without him was being a problem to him and having to protect her was being a problem to Ichigo. She puts on a smile at school and keeps her conditions a secret to avoid being a problem to anyone who could care about her living situation. She let Ulquiorra take her because she didn't want to be a problem to anyone willing to fight Aizen for her sake. Her experience in Soul Society should have told her that this last one would backfire tremendously, but in her moment of weakness, she couldn't fight against her ingrained habit of avoiding being a burden.

Another key point of her early characterization is obviously her relationship with Ichigo. He was just a cool funny guy at first, until Sora's incident made him interesting, so she asked Tatsuki about him, and only really started caring after hearing about Masaki's death. This happens in a volume where she takes the cover and her opening poem is "If I were the rain [...] could I tie hearts together?". The rain is the symbol of Ichigo's grief, and Orihime falls for Ichigo by associating the lost of his mother with the loss of her brother. She connects best by relating to suffering, which shows later in the many, many, many times she's shown healing Arrancars after years practically living like a Hollow when in the world of the living.

This is kinda of a sudden change of topic, but things are sorta moving in chronological order here and the next big checkpoint is Orihime's first fight, so I'll conclude the talk about her position there and now talk about her powers.

Orihime gets Shun Shun Rikka, a Fullbring centered around rejection of events. Like Bleach abilities tend to do, this power goes incredibly well with Orihime's established characterization. Reality sucks for her but she keeps things by rejecting it through her filter of imagination. She can attack with this power, but it's best suited as a shield (preventing causing problems for others) or healing (making people forget their problems).

She then proceeds to not do much in Soul Society, then early into the Arrancar arc, she loses to Yammy and gets to negatively compare herself to Rukia, who did well in her first on-screen fight ever. Her feelings of uselessness pile up and compound into the 5 lives scenes, which as I already told you before, I consider the emotionally powerful dialogue Kubo has ever written. Not much to comment on it, the moment speaks for itself.

For Orihime, the bulk of the Arrancar arc is spent interacting with Ulquiorra. It's a really challenging experience for her because Ulquiorra has zero emotional depth. He was an ancient Hollow with no eyes, ears, nose, or mouth, being unable to perceive the outside world until Aizen broke his mask. Starrk, Barragan, and Grimmjow's backstories establish that Arrancars inherit experiences from their Hollow selves. Breaking their masks didn't change who they are. But Ulquiorra has no experiences because his Hollow life was spent entirely in the nothingness of himself.

Orihime has always been engaging with people through a smile-shaped web of lies, social conventions, and bravado, but Ulquiorra still haven't experienced humanity enough for that to work on him. He responds only to cold truths, so Orihime's typical conversation strategies are proven useless. It forces her to change her ways. She can only teach him about the heart by being honest and direct. Arrancars are about literal broken masks, but Orihime makes herself part of their story by having her metaphorical mask broken.

After that, we have the Lost Agent arc, which doesn't really take Orihime further (and doesn't really need to since Arrancar was her main focus arc) but does an amazing show of progress for post-Ulquiorra Orihime by introducing Riruka, a tsundere who hangs with Orihime a lot. While Riruka is as full of walls and bravado as Orihime originally was, this Orihime gets to be effortlessly vulnerable, recapping her horrible backstory to her new friend, being called creepy for her apparently fake smile, and clarifying that she actually can smile for real because she was already saved from her past.

The final arc doesn't do much with her aside from putting her in the final boss battle, so I guess I'll use this space to talk about how her progression in combat participation feels really well-paced. She goes from being squarely away from major action in Soul Society to not interfering with the fight but making a point to stay near the battle vs Grimmjow to start tactically throwing shields vs Ulquiorra to getting Ichigo actively ask for her help vs Ywhach.

Ok, that last is probably more about Ichigo himself having learned to ask for help 10 minutes ago after cringing at Uryuu's inability to rely on his friends and taking him as an antithesis model (pun intended).

But still, I love this kind of step-by-step character growth model, it reminds me of how Yugi and Atem's dynamic grew from Yugi unaware to Yugi aware to them starting to talk to them working together vs Pegasus to Yugi dueling alone to Yugi defeating Atem. Always great to see an author commit to a flowchart of development like that.

[frogsinflannel]

Oh my god! Something I want to say to you is that you made my entire morning 🥹 and you are so so sweet and I see you like spn TOO! 😍

And I know it didn’t give the option to request a story BUT I am going to do one anyway so I can get that good fluffy angst you said you could write 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️

Buck butt dials Tommy while babysitting Jee

I think you can squeeze some of both out in there 😂🫶

Aww it's nice to know I could spread a little bit of happy! I'm glad. And haaaa, yes, spn is my special interest/hyperfixation/the fandom that just won't quit.

Thank you for the prompt! I love it. I wrote a lot of this while in the waiting room at the vet's, so I make no promises about the quality. Also oooof, writing kids. How does Jee talk in canon? I could not tell you.

#

Tommy groans and presses his face further into the couch cushion. If anyone—and he does mean anyone—needs anything they’re going to be shit out of luck because he’s cutting himself off from the whole damn world until his next shift.

But it’s fine. He’s fine. Everything is real fucking fine.

And then the phone rings.

The temptation to ignore it is strong, but there is the chance it’s something important. And if it’s not, then he can hang up unceremoniously. Maybe that’ll be fun. (Yeah, things are so “fine” that his bar for fun is on the ground.)

He grapples for the phone where the default ringtone is blaring on his coffee table. Without giving the screen more than a glance he answers, pulling himself upright.

He rubs the back of his neck and sniffs. “Hello?”

There’s nothing but muffled noises from the other end. Great. Tommy sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose.

“Hello?” He tries again, gruffer, voice pinched with anger.

And then a bright voice lets out a bubbling laugh—a child’s easy, cascading giggle. And oh goddamnit, he thinks. He knows that giggle.

“There you are!” another voice says, and it’s so familiar, so dear, that his whole chest squeezes. “What are you doing, huh? Thought you could steal uncle Buck’s phone?”

“For pictures!” Jee-Yun says. “I wanna show mama the cookies.”

“Well we can’t take pictures while they’re still in the oven. We’ve got to let them cook.”

Tommy’s heart plummets down into his gut. He knew it wasn’t outside the realm of possibility that he would have to hear Evan’s voice again, but he hadn’t expected it to be so soon. And he hadn’t expected him to sound so happy and open. Tommy had braced himself for cold or indifferent, maybe even some repressed suffering or quiet with a splash of bruised dignity. He'd been ready for that. The usual b-roll of disparaging self-talk was already set to play.

You hurt him. He's better off without you. You knew it wouldn't work out and look what you did, you tried again anyway.

He had not been prepared for a reminder of why he'd cared for Evan so much in the first place. That buoyant smile he wore, the sparkle in his eye, that heart so big it threatened to tear the very seams of him open. Tommy had done one better and taken the seam ripper to Evan himself.

He should hang up. His hand clenched tight around his phone.

No, really. He should hang up. This isn't meant for him. This is a domestic moment just between Evan and Jee - a cute kid and her kind, goofy uncle who's apparently helping her make cookies. It's invasive, he knows, and Tommy hates himself a little for it. (The self-talk A-side features such hits as "stupid bastard," "I'm worthless aren't I" and the seminal classic "fuck you, Tommy, you don't deserve to be loved.")

But he doesn't hang up.

He holds his breath instead and listens, hoping for even a crumb of the man he was falling in love with. That some part of him aches for still.

"More cookies!"

"Oh you want to make another batch?"

"Yeah, with more chocolate chips. All the chocolate chips!"

Evan laughs and Tommy wants to wrap himself up in the sound. "Well, uh, looks like we've got a bag left so we can at least use those chocolate chips. Wanna whip up some more while these are in the oven?"

Jee claps and cheers and Evan laughs again. To Tommy it's a shot right to the heart. "I like cookies," she says. "I'm going to eat them all."

"Well you can have them, Jee. I'll pack them up and you can take them home to your mom and dad."

"Dada says he doesn't want any more of your baking. He said he's had so much cake he's made of cake."

"Made of cake, huh? You know Hen made your dad a cake of himself once?"

"Yummy!" Jee and Evan giggle together and Tommy sinks down onto his couch and tries to fight back a smile. At this point he's invested. He needs to hear more about those cookies. Will they really use the whole bag of chocolate chips? What about the ones in the oven? What flavor cake would Howie be? Yeah, sure, maybe it makes him kind of a creep to stay on the phone after a butt dial - especially since he's the one who dumped Evan - but he feels like an asshole anyway so he might as well embrace it.

"But you'll take the cookies, right?"

"Uncle Buck! Yeah! My cookies. Make more!"

"Hmm." Evan laughs again, but this time he sounds bitter. Tommy wants to run to his truck right now and go wrap him up in his arms. "I don't think I'm going to stop baking anytime soon. You know, I... I had a friend. A really, really special friend. But we aren't going to be seeing each other anymore."

"Aww, that's sad."

Tommy can just imagine Evan leaning in and giving her a quick hug. "Thanks, sweetheart. It is sad. And so every time I think about him, or want to call him... I bake."

Jesus. Another shot to the heart. Bodied by talk of some fucking pastry is an embarrassing way to go. He puts his hand to his mouth to keep from making a sound.

"You must miss him a lot. I'm sorry, Uncle Buck."

"It's okay." There's a pause, with only the sounds of whatever they're doing in the kitchen. The clink of a glass mixing bowl. The rustle of the bag of chocolate chips. Maybe there's eggs, a container of brown sugar, a sweep of dusty flour across the soft plain of Evan's cheek. "I do miss him a lot," Evan says, and his voice is quiet. Tommy has to strain to hear him well. "I think I... Being an adult is hard sometimes, Jee. You can't just say sorry. I don't even know what I did wrong. But I think I could have loved him. Maybe I do love him."

"Mama says love's the secret ingredient. Is that why your cookies are so good? Because you stuff all the love in them?"

"Yeah, Jee. If Tommy doesn't want my love, that means there's that much more for you!"

And that's it. Tommy thinks he might throw up. Another hit, right in the net, a fucking hat trick to destroy him. He can't listen anymore. He hangs up, like he should have done right from the start. Then he tosses his phone onto the other side of the couch - but he overshoots, and it skids across the arm right onto the floor. It lands with a thud and with his luck it's probably broken.

Tommy lays down, hands pressed over his eyes. It's probably broken.

Yeah, he thinks. It's broken.

[flyingfortress1]

Tidbits about Sledge from China Marine:

He had a horse- mentions it in a throwaway line

couldn't shoot a dangerous dog because he was a "sentimental dog-lover" in his words (honestly same)

loved Mozart and other classical music

Loved philosophy

Loved history- look this man's a nerd, he was more interested in the historical sites of Beijing like the Forbidden City than all the other guys who focused on women and drinking (good for him honestly lol- probably better that way tbh too)

Was not a party guy- getting those vibes, introvert maybe?

hated vodka

Was not a drinker- his dad schooled him early about the problems with that, so Sledge to his admission, only really had like a beer or two at most usually

Went to a party out of spite/to prove he was right

Got sepsis from the sores on his fingers- he got better tho, but did have to wear a sling

Kinda a prankster honestly on two occasions with some buds

learned a bit of Chinese from a guy called How (hope I'm spelling it right) who was a paid houseboy for the Marines- he was Sledge's age, and was better with learning English than Sledge learning Chinese- they became friends and How showed him all the cool historical spots

Loved Chinese food- like all the Marines, tried to eat at local restaurants instead of the sea rations/gallery/shitty cafeteria food they were given on barracks- honestly I'd do the same. They even recruited a guy who got leave to bring back like boxes of takeout just to avoid the food if they couldn't leave the garrison.

has some beef with rear echelon guys- not unique between combat vets and non-combat guys

Interested in learning about other cultures- he became good friends with Dr. Song- a chinese doctor who was head of a hospital in Beijing- and the Song family, plus their resident Catholic priest, Father Marcell.

Was apparently a really fun professor post-war, he took his students on birdwatching walks as part of his classes- would have loved to see him on Rate My Professor

Huge nature nerd- could always name birds, plants, insects etc he saw- ended up taking birdwatching after the war.

Got offered tea by a captured japanese officer- what a wild trip that must've been.

Got accidently reported missing at one point on Pelelui- nearly gave his parents a heart attack- they literally aged with worrying about their sons in combat

had beef about people complaining about 'minor' things compared to his time in combat- something shared by other of his buds

his dad called him Fritz- also had a pep talk about him not getting bitter like in point 20, avoiding alcohol

has beef w/jocks- gets respect from former bullies? due to combat experience.

He met his wife at a friend's wedding (she was a bridesmaid) and they so infatuated by each other they could barely concentrate on wedding duties- funny but sweet.

became a good shot at dove hunting because he didn't want to make the dove suffer, just one clean kill or nothing pre-war

got his bachelors in business and sold insurance for a bit before realizing bio/nature was his thing lol

got his phd in zoology in 62- go you sledge

[we-stan-the-stans-27]

Dead Asleep AU?

Okay, so I kind of wanted to write another part/version of that sleeping beauty AU from the other week. But this time, Stanley is the one who gets too suffer! HAHAH!

So, here is part two. Also, I posted both parts up on my Ao3 account and I'll link it here if you want to save it for later or whatever.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/62066953/chapters/158737552#main

And of course, I'm going to @sixerstanley again! Because this was their idea. Now. Let's get into being evil. Heheh.

(I had most of this done on the tenth, but then I basically died and couldn't finish. So, enjoy. That live stream was like crack or something. Idk guys.)

Truth be told all of Stan Pines favorite and happiest memories took place on a boat. It didn't matter if it was on some crappy litter scattered beach.

It was theirs and nothing could soil those memories. Back then all that mattered was the hot burning sand, maybe the stings of glass cuts across a sole, and tumbling along getting hurt, hand in hand.

Sure, it took forty damn years to get back there, but he's anything if not stubborn. And it paid off.

What's that saying? 'Most gamblers call it quits right before striking it big?'

Good thing he never stopped betting with higher and higher stakes then, right?

The future is much brighter because of it. The deck of the ship has a sharp bite to it now. From one extreme to the next. A hot infected wound, now soothed by a cold compress.

The arctic Ocean.

There isn't a lot in the area for fishing, but there is still plenty of wildlife to watch from the top deck if your patient.

Late at night the sky lights up with the northern lights, or 'Aurora Borealis' if you speak blabbering scientist. It's beautiful and a new flavor of Ford's favorite activity, Stargazing.

Out at sea there is no better place for it without any light pollution. Just them, the universe, and the expansive inky blackness below.

Sitting out on the deck, fish watching with a pair of binoculars, the world is practically blinding this time of the afternoon. The white overcast clouds mixed with the occasional chunk of ice covered in snow lights up the world like being inside a light bulb.

That's not what pulls Stanley's attention from the endless water he's been looking at all morning though. Finally, he sees something!

Off the starboard side from where they've been anchored a group of Narwhals is swimming by, long tusks poking out of the water and interrupting the sleek outline of the waves.

"Sixer, get the hell up here!" He knows his brother won't be nearly as excited about seeing this marvel as he is, but Stan still wants to share it with him anyway.

Just because Ford saw a million different impossible things through the portal doesn't mean whales aren't interesting too. Sure, not what they're hanging out waiting for, but who cares?

When Stanley can't hear Ford immediately running up the stairs, no big surprise if stuck in a book, he stomps on the floor of the deck without looking away from the water. Grinning like an idiot.

"Stanford Pines, get up here! I'm having a heart attack!" Okay, yeah. It's not funny. But that never fails to get him top side no matter what he's in the middle of.

'Boy who cried wolf' Yack! Yack! Whatever. If it works, why fix it?

There are at least ten different Narwhals intermittently breaching for air but the sight is incredibly short lived before they dive again on another breath hold, disappearing from sight below the grey waves.

"Awe, too slow! You missed it!" His booming voice is the only sound on the ship and it makes Stan finally drop the glasses and get up out of his chair with a crack from both knees.

He stomps, again, and then listens with a little more attention to the ship.

There is the lapping of the waves against the side, the slight breeze blowing the fresh smell of sea salt over the vessel, but otherwise its quiet.

Hmm. He could stay up here, maybe even pretend to fall over and really scare his brother. Except the last time he did that Ford almost threw him overboard into the freezing cold water.

Still. It is a little weird that Ford didn't at least yell a few foreign curse words up through the ship.

"Alright, fine. You want to prank me back? I'll bite." It comes out in a mutter and Stan makes his way across the deck after one more glance around at the water.

Through the wheel house, down the steep steps, and around the corner into the room dubbed 'the office' only in the name on the door. It's a glorified science lab that Stan gets to store a shelf of books inside of.

Pushing open the door is a little challenging, like something is blocking it but after a minute of shoving he's able to get enough room to squeeze through to get a look around.

Yep. This is 100% a prank.

The thing blocking the door? Ford, leaning back and looking pretty limp. Stan has got to hand it to him, this is a really convincing look.

"Nice try genius, laying around on the floor isn't going to convince me. Come on, up we go." It takes a lot more work than it should to move Ford from the floor up into the single chair in here.

The only real dead bodies Stan has ever seen have been bloody from being murdered or covered in vomit thanks to overdosing on something. Lots of blood, bruises, stomach acid and empty eyes stained with their last moments.

Ford's open, blank ones, do cause a little bit of alarm, but. It's how damn cold his body is that brings the first real taste of concern to the forefront of his mind.

"I thought I told you to turn on the space heater periodically. You have bad enough circulation as is, you idiot." Ford is very cold, and limp just like a dead body, and his eyes-

To humor Ford, and to reassure himself, Stan does a big show of rolling his eyes and then putting two fingers to Ford's wrist. You can't hide having a pulse, genius.

"................................................................................................................"

Okay. Maybe you can hide a pulse on one arm, if you cut off circulation. Whatever, big whoop?

Stan shifts over to check the other wrist and lets out a tisk of annoyance before raising those same fingers up to Ford's neck.

Same result.

Huh.

Now that's a neat trick.

Ford is doing a really good job pretending not to breathe too.

A really really good job.

That's bad.

"Alright Sixer, good one. I've learned my lesson here, you can undo whatever witchcraft you used to manage this." His confidence that this is a joke is cracking with every second Ford doesn't hop up and start lecturing him.

That's what should be happening. Another long rant about how pretending to be injured or sick isn't funny, not a good way to get attention, and unnecessary.

Yeah. Stan knows all that.

Ford does come topside, eventually, whenever he yells. It's just-

Sometimes Ford gets a little too caught up in his work and needs to be reminded the rest of the world exists. Extremes are the easiest way to do that.

And, yeah. Stanley can admit in the safety of his own head that he enjoys the fretting Ford does, despite knowing it’s a false alarm. It's been a long time since someone cared about him enough for something like that.

Or maybe those memories are what decided not to come back. Eh, his life seems pretty sad. Makes sense.

What doesn't, however, is why Ford is doing this for so long.

Plain and simple, he wouldn't.

But, that would mean something so terrible that his mind still won't accept it.

Because Ford can't be dead. That's not possible. They had this conversation.

Before leaving Gravity Falls, they had a really long and difficult talk about health issues. Ford came up with game plans for emergencies, Stanley had to own up to his numerous health issues, and how does Stanley know with complete certainty his brother can't be dead?

Bill said so.

Ford isn't supposed to die until he's ninety-two of a heart attack.

Now, Stan doesn't trust that demon on much. Or anything. Except this.

Because Bill liked Ford to an uncomfortable degree, otherwise he'd be dead right now. Or, would have at some point during the apocalypse.

So. The devil must have been telling the truth on this one thing, right?

Ford had seemed pretty sure that he wasn't going to be the one needing healthcare at sea, solidifying the belief in Stan's own mind. If Ford wasn't worried, why should he? He's a genius!

But-

What if Bill did lie? Tricking them into a false sense of security only for Ford to drop dead one day. Honestly? That does sound more his style.

Except, it can't be today.

It just can't.

Because if Ford is dead-

That's not a possibility Stanley Pines has ever considered for so much as a millisecond.

Not when Ford went through the portal.

Not for thirty years during the rebuilding process.

Not even prior to rescuing him from Bill and saving the world.

Because he can't imagine a world without Stanford Pines.

Sure, he's been gone before. Missing, but he came back from the portal and they eventually fixed things. They're okay now.

That was six weeks ago.

And, yeah, they still fight, but that's normal. Expected, living so closely after so long apart.

Stan has found himself frozen standing next to the chair simply staring down at Ford waiting for-

The joke to end? The camera crew to jump out? Ford himself to come in from the other room telling him this is a dummy or clone?

That spurs him back into action, rushing out of the room. "You aren't funny, Stanford Filbrick Pines! When I find you, I'm going to give you the worst wedgie in the multiverse!"

There are really only four places Ford could be hiding, given his size. Their bedroom underneath the bunk beds, the bathroom, the tiny kitchen pantry, or the engine room.

The kitchen pantry is bare, as expected. It’s a pretty shitty hiding spot.

Looking underneath the bed is tricky, but he isn't under there either.

The bathroom shower is clear too and he leaves the lights on, doors open, as he yanks the tiny half-sized door to peer into the almost crawlspace-sized room-

Empty.

For good measure Stanley does a second, and third, lap of the ship from the deck all the way back through leaving no chance for his brother to be sneaking around hiding.

In the end he still lands back in the office, leaning against the wall, looking at his brother's freezing cold and lifeless body.

Dead, body-

Nope, nope, nope! Ford can't be dead, he can't be.

Instead of looking at 'Ford' Stan looks around the room at anything else in search of answers. There's a stack of books and some science doohickey on the desk, but that's not all.

When first entering the room, Ford was laying on the floor back against the door. The chair was sideways, almost like he'd fallen out of it.

Down on the floor is a small collection of scattered papers.

It certainly looks like-

"Nope. Not happening." I'm not going to entertain it, not going to think about it. Ford is cold and being an idiot.

Stan busies himself with gathering up the scattered papers off the floor and organizing them on the desk and-

Ford's phone.

Before leaving port they'd both gone out and bought one at the behest of Dipper and Mabel. For taking pictures, calling, texting, and use of the internet.

They have this thing called a 'hot spot' that allows them to use the internet on their laptop for video calls and such. Ford usually sets that up and Stan gets the call going.

Neither of them knows the full process, so they have to work together.

Finding it discarded on the floor fits with the scene Ford has laid out trying to play dead. It's all very convincing, really.

But all that panic and worry remains buried deep, because what else is there?

Losing Ford would probably give him a heart attack, for real, right about now.

So. It's pretty concerning to see the phone open, wasting the battery, to their text chain.

It looks like Ford tried sending him a text up above deck, but it didn't go through.

'Stanley, I require medical assistance, follow protocol 32-C. Thank you. -Stanford Pines'

Except the text never went through, that red bubble with the exclamation mark 'Not delivered' is obvious enough for even Stanley to see.

Okay. There isn't any ignoring that.

Why? Ford was right here, why didn't he yell or come upstairs, or knock on the ceiling for fucks sake?

Except it does look like Ford might have tried to leave the room-

Real, honest panic claws its way up into the center of his chest from where he's kneeling on the floor looking at the text that didn't go through.

Maybe it was never a heart attack, could've been a stroke-

This text is pretty long and lacking spelling mistakes though, like all the other messages Ford has ever written.

His last words.

"Stanford..." It comes out broken and he ignored the complaints of the floor in the rush to get up, still clutching the phone, and across the room to his brother.

Idiot! Stupid, God damn idiot!

Instead of helping him for one fucking second you decided to play hide and seek!

Nope, we aren't going to cry. Not now, nope. Doesn't matter that there isn't anyone around to-

Nope!

Pulling Ford down onto the floor to assess him is easy with how limp he is and Stan makes quick work of pulling off his gloves in search of-

Something.

There still isn't a pulse, but the skin along each wrist and the neck feels colder than it did earlier. Stan's hands are shaking like he's going through withdrawals, trembling.

Focus.

Despite what his brother might think, he did in fact take the time to review the procedures stored in their extensive first aid kits. Not because any of them are helpful here though.

Ford put that together with Stan exclusively in mind.

What to do in the case of a heart attack, stroke, aneurysms, seizures, and all the small things too. Stuff for stitches, concussions, burns, and there is one small pamphlet on amputations.

The reason he took the time to review them was to put together his own plans, just in case.

If this is a heart attack he can't use to stupid paddles on Ford because of his metal plate. Besides, who knows what kind of effects that might have if it is a stroke-

He's already dead-

"Shut up! Just, shut up. He isn't, not until I say so!" The yell echoes back inside the claustrophobic room. The boat has never felt so painfully small-

CPR it is then.

Thirty-two C is essentially an undefined chest pain. Aspirin, monitoring, and high tailing it to the closest port.

Hard to do any of that when Ford can't breathe, much less swallow. And, you know, being three hours from the closest dock doesn't help either.

Stan has wasted too much time fussing and being useless as is. He knows how to do this. Where the hands go, the rhythm needed and the right amount of pressure to apply. How often to force Ford to take air.

This gives his hands something useful to do, his mind something to focus on instead of pure white-hot panic.

Because that's what he feels.

There is only one thing he could never protect Ford from, himself.

Sickness, and eventually death fall into that same category because the body does those things without considering what you want. Old age would come for his brother someday, regardless of how anyone feels about it.

Stanley had always assumed- no, made damn sure -that he wouldn't outlive his brother.

Because he can't be the one to carry on. That is a world he wants no part in.

He realizes, a while into doing compressions, that he should have consulted a clock before starting to try and keep track of how long he's been doing this.

Whatever, like it really matters.

Stanley continues anyway, long past when his arms started to burn and past hearing two different ribs crack.

What makes him stop is when he physically can't catch his own air enough to continue.

He is, understandably, a mess.

Snot smeared between both faces, tears across the front of Ford's shirt and cheeks, and Stanley himself can't breathe, chest tight and wracked with sobs.

Even if Ford did have a heartbeat Stanley knows he wouldn't be able to feel it because of how badly his hands are trembling and how fast blood is rushing in his own ears.

Six god damn weeks. Is that really all we got? All that time, all those mistakes? So much wasted all because I couldn't control myself for five fucking seconds!

"I'm sorry, I'm so fucking sorry Stanford." It comes out choked, barely real words around his chests arguing efforts to sound like a dying animal and take in enough oxygen to avoid meeting his own end.

The pile of regrets is immeasurable, but not so much about the past.

They've done that song and dance, so those aren't the thoughts that tear into him now.

So many things missed that still need to be made up for.

Christmas. New Years. Drunk nights out. Their birthday for fucks sake!

Now they'll never get to share that, ever again. Forever Seventeen.

Just-

Being together again.

Joking together.

Together!

Not apart.

Haven't they had enough of that? Wasn't four cursed decades of loneliness plenty?

Guess time has a funny sense of humor.

Or the world just hates him specifically.

Stanley Pines isn't allowed to be happy, hopefully everyone got the memo!

He can't remember ever crying so hard or for nearly as long ever in his whole life. Countless nights spent breaking down in the basement, slumped over the desk in the upstairs office, or camped out in some slum across the back seat of the car are nothing in comparison.

Lying across Ford's chest feels unnatural. It's too cold, too still-

Wrong.

It's like someone just broke one of the fundamental laws of physics here in their office and Stanley can't handle it.

When he finally manages to pull away a crazed laugh bubbles up and out into the room without permission.

There is nothing funny about this, but it seems to have a mind of its own, running away with his vocal cords.

What the hell else is he supposed to do? His whole world just died. Ford might as well of snuffed out the sun, causing the whole universe to go out with it. All that's left are stars.

Memories.

That's not fair. None of this is, and he knows that life ain't fair. Why would it be now? Of course it wouldn't, but-

"Why?! Why now, huh?! You couldn't of waited ten fucking minutes? At least let me be here with you? I could of done something useful for once! But no, I always have to fail! It's the only thing I'm good at!"

The humor vanishes, the hysterics of it washed away by anger and grief.

He ends up sitting back on his ass with knees drawn up with both arms wrapped around them, just like when they were kids.

What is he supposed to do?

Ford's dead. Stanford is dead. Sixer is dead. My twin brother is dead-

Repeating the same thought doesn't make him feel any better. If anything, it makes the shaking ten times worse. Unsteady hands, trembling shoulders-

He's shivering all over, goosebumps caused by something other than the cold.

"God, i really am a failure. Can't argue with me now, huh? You died, fifteen feet away from me and-" He can't look at Ford like this anymore, so he brings up a hand to cover his face while trying to regulate his own awful breathing.

Who cares? Why does it matter? Why bother calming down if Ford's dead?

As much as he'd like to give up, because it would be incredibly easy to do so, Stan knows he can't. Not now.

Okay. Deep even breathes.

In. One, two, three, four, five.

Out. One, two, three, four five.

It takes several tries to manage getting past two, but it gets a little easier to stop feeling so light headed the more he focuses on it

He can't give up, because like it or not-

Why not?

Because of the kids? Because of Soos? How exactly would they feel to find out both of us were brought into port dead by the coast guard? Two funerals to attend.

Although they would probably do them together-

That's a nice thought.

Nope, we aren't encouraging that!

"Alright, come on. Get it together. You know what to do..." That doesn't make it easier.

Back up. First onto both knees, then both feet.

Unlike moving Ford into the chair, dragging him around, Stanley takes more care lifting Ford up over one shoulder to carry him from the office across the boat into the bedroom.

Laying him out on the bottom bunk, tucked into the blankets, it looks like he's just sleeping.

Despite barely doing anything Stanley is exhausted already. Arms sore, his back is going to be killing him tomorrow from picking up all that dead weight, so he settles on the edge of the mattress. Just for a minute.

There was once a day when the gun would, metaphorically, already be in his hand.

The world hadn't exactly been kind to him. Not growing up. Not on the road. Not even fully in Gravity Falls. Sure, it was home, but the basement was its own form of torture and suffering.

All of that was supposed to stay off the boat.

Land was pain, the ocean was perfect.

Or at least he'd thought so. If death was going to come for them, taking them into the ranks of lives lost at sea, they were supposed to go down together.

It's tempting. More tempting than ever before.

"I'm sorry." He can't turn and look at Ford, but the presence of his body is comforting in a weird way. Just don't think about how-

"I know you keep telling me I don't need to be, and that we're all good, but I really am. I'm the reason we lost so much time, so maybe it’s just that I have to live with that until my heart gives out." These are the kinds of things he'd never say if Ford was really here.

Or in front of anyone, but what's the harm now? Might as well get it out now before heading back.

From there Ford will be carted off to the closest morgue, body probably cremated, leaving Stanley to bring the ash remains home.

"Maybe I was a damn fool to think I could have it all. Should have known it was too good to be true. I can't-" He has to stop to take several deep full breaths before pushing on.

"I can't do this. Thirty years, forty, all alone. Ruined, and now-"

Things were good, fantastic, for fucks sake!

Having someone to cook and clean with. To get annoyed at when they hog the bathroom. Pointless arguments, bickering, but always getting over it.

It was domestic in a way he'd always wanted but never allowed himself. Always afraid anyone who got close would leave.

In a way, Ford did. Not intentionally, but he did walk right back out the door just like everyone else. Who knows, maybe it would have happened sooner or later anyway.

"I-I know I wasn't great to live with. I'm a pain in the ass screw-up and I guess that's all I'll ever be." Failing to notice something was seriously wrong sooner, not hearing any noises his brother might have made, not getting that text-

Overshadows saving the world. It doesn't matter if the sun keeps rising if his brother isn't here to see it.

He doesn't really know what's considered 'normal behavior' around a corpse. It might be incredibly weird of him to decide to sit up against the wall at the head of the bunk and get Ford situated laying back against his chest, repositioning the blankets.

Stan finds he doesn't care either way. If his brother is dead, the love of his life, he's going to sit with him for a little while before his body gets all stiff and gross and corpsey.

It'll take about two hours, give or take, before then.

Other than the bed being cold it’s not hard to pretend things are okay. Stan's own breathing moves Ford with each inhale and exhale in the otherwise quiet room.

They're both to old to be cuddling, but who's around to judge him? The next closest human is miles away and Ford...

He doesn't really get a say anymore.

Stan lets out a sad and exhausted chuckle, shaking his head and tucking his face down into Ford's hair while keeping both arms tight across his brother’s chest.

It smells of sweat, sea salt, and something chemically that makes his nose burn a little. He needs a shower, gross bastard.

"You have no idea how much I'm going to miss you, Sixer. No fucking clue how much I love you."

Never, ever, would Stan dare be so open in front of anyone, much less his equally emotionally constipated brother. But it’s not like he's going to be able to say all this stuff in front of people.

Not when he heads back to Gravity Falls, tail between his legs. Much less at the funeral.

"I mean, you had to know. One person doesn't dedicate a lifetime to fixing a mistake like that if they don't give a shit. But, well, you know."

He's a corpse Stan, he doesn't know anything. Not anymore.

"It was never the boat. I didn't care that you wanted to go to school. I didn't care about taking the journal. I didn't even care about you being a pretentious asshole. Okay, maybe I did care about that last one a little." It's the first genuine laugh Stan's let out since finding Ford.

"It was the separation I had a problem with. We could have been enlisted in the military for all I cared, as long as we did it together. Talk about codependent, am I right?"

His arms are tired from doing compressions so instead of continuing to hug Ford in a vice grip he settles for holding one of his hands instead.

Cuddling, weird but not outside of things they've done before. Usually after or because of nightmares.

Hugging is practically a daily occurrence at this point, sometimes multiple times depending on the itinerary Ford's always got in his stupid head.

But this, holding hands, isn't something they've done since they were kids.

Hopefully, Filbrick found a special space in hell for yelling at them until they stopped. He was right, socially, of course. But Stan can't help holding a judge regardless. As if Ford needed more negative press about his perfect hands.

They're cold but Stan pointedly ignores that in favor of savoring the moment.

"It was good we spent time apart, in its own stupid way. Not because either of us had a good time or anything, but we finally grew up. Eventually. Just took the world ending for you to get your ego checked." It's nice having Ford lying back against his chest, their hands intertwined over Ford's cold one under the blanket.

It's sad, and temporary, but better than nothing at all.

You take what you get and you don't throw a fit.

"But hey, it wasn't all bad." Looking around the room the proof is right here. "We did it, eventually. We had some fun, stole some treasure. Never did get any babes though, but-"

The wall closest to the door is covered in a large cork board covered in pictures from the camera Soos gifted them as a housewarming present before leaving port. Original pictures of them back in Jersey pinned at the top with their adventures detailed in the ones below, picking up decades later.

He sighs, bringing up his free hand to straighten out Ford's hair. It's always a rat’s nest. "I was never as worried about that part as I probably should have been, because I-"

Dead or not, is this really the kind of thing he should be saying out loud?

The things he's saying aren't really for Ford, they're for Stanley's own benefit anyway. "Well, heh. You see, about that...I, uh. Really only had interest in getting one babe on board." He squeezes Ford's hand for emphasis, like he's listening.

But even Stan can't help bursting out into laughter at his awful joke, managing to avoid letting out more than a couple tears. "Oh god, that's terrible. I'm terrible, I know. But, you never had to worry about that. You being here is more then I could've asked for. No sense betting it on the bonus word and getting left at a dock when things where good as is."

There. It's out there, in the room, shared with someone who can never tell his worst secret. That wasn't so bad now, was it?

"As it was, I guess. Still can't believe you're gone and our adventure is over before it really got started." It's a somber thought, but he leaves it at that.

What else is there to say?

Time passes, only marked by the slight darkening of the clouds outside the boat and the ticking of Stanley's watch.

He keeps saying 'five more minutes' but that started up about two hours ago. It's been nearly three since settling into bed. His back hurts from staying in the same position, fingers cramped, but he still doesn't want to get up.

That means letting go. He isn't ready for that.

Probably never will be either.

It must be the cold keeping Ford from getting all stiff like dead people should because he's still just as limp and relaxed as when he first died. That thought makes him wince.

"Alright. As fun as this is, I should probably get up and bring us back to port before it gets dark." He says it like Ford will be able to encourage him to do so, like the corpse is going to hold him accountable.

Except, it can't.

Stan finds the willpower to get up and off the bed anyway, leaving Ford tucked in, and heading out into the hallway that is the kitchen and dining room.

Next step is getting back to port, calling the local authorities, and explaining what the hell happened. That won't be fun. None of this is.

He only gets as far as the kitchen before having to sit down.

Who is he kidding? This is impossible. How the hell is he supposed to do any of this?

No matter how hard he tries to cling to the fact that he has other family, because Stanley knows full well how much the kids and Soos care for him, that doesn't make the suddenly unbearable weight on both shoulders any lighter.

The boat is suffocating, cold, and it’s only going to get worse.

When Ford had gone through the portal it was easy enough to rationalize his feelings of hopelessness away using pure denial. Can't be sure Ford is dead if you can't see him.

And yeah, he'd been right, though on all accounts he shouldn't have been.

Stan can't do that here because Ford is very clearly dead and gone.

All those years he'd already been through the first several stages of grief periodically. Denial, anger, and bargaining but had always gotten stuck in the second to last step. Depression.

If people can get past that one, they usually reach acceptance and from there, it’s all about finding a way to live with it.

I can't do that.

How on earth am I supposed to after everything? So many mistakes, miscommunications, lost time, and for what? For it to end here?

What the hell am I supposed to do? Pack it up, return to Gravity Falls, and drink myself to death?

That's probably what he would have done if Ford hadn't been able to make it home. If he'd actually been dead for thirty years and all that effort was for nothing.

It doesn't take much to make up his mind. It’s only a matter of when, not a matter of if.

The painful silence of the ship is interrupted by his watch beeping at him several times, indicating it’s time for his blood pressure medications.

This watch is considerably uglier than his gold one, but its water proof and has some fancy alarm and timer settings.

Ford set it up to remind him.

He all but collapses in on himself with tears escaping easier than before in the office.

This was all he ever wanted, for someone to give a damn about him and now the only person who ever did is gone!

No more bickering about who used all the hot water. Complaining about who's turn it is to handle the laundry. Doing dishes together.

No more laughing, cracking jokes, or arguing over what to have for dinner.

"I can't do this, I'm not strong enough for that." His voice is choked, barely above a whisper.

His own feet bring him to the first aid kit fastened to the wall above the toilet in the bathroom. It's where any medications they might need are kept from ibuprofen to some other more questionable alien junk of Ford's.

Nutrition pills are not a substitute for real food, even when you’re sick of fish Stanford.

Down on the bottom shelf right next to the Aspirin and Tylenol is where his stupid medication is to take-

Except currently there is a small and simple letter propped up on the shelf blocking the several bottles there with 'For Stanley Pines' on the front in neat and actually legible cursive handwriting.

He looks around the bathroom, almost comically, because he really has lost it.

Maybe he actually had his own medical problem while trying to do chest compressions and now he's a ghost or something?

Because this looks like Ford left him a letter right inside their medicine cabinet.

Except he's dead in the other room.

After picking up the letter, and taking his stupid meds, Stan goes back to the bedroom to double-check that the corpse hasn't managed to go anywhere in the last ten minutes.

Nope. Still there.

Okay.... Well, might as well read it then?

He closes the bedroom door first and goes about straightening up the million open doors and all the unnecessary lights left on this whole time, settling against one of the kitchen counters and tearing the envelope open with his pocket knife.

'To Stanley,

If you are reading this letter then you must be in the throes of panic at the moment. As I know well, it’s not very fun to have a brother who continues to terrify you with health scares. I have tried discussing this with you several times, but clearly, you don't fully understand.

Perhaps this spook, over a supposed 'blocked blood vessel', will set the record straight. I do not find your jokes about 'keeling over' to be amusing. Waking me up purposefully drooping one half of your body also isn't funny.

It is for these many reasons I've devised a plan to scare you, briefly. The serum I gave myself to cause the presentation of symptoms should have no permanent or ill health effects. However, it does eventually result in a loss of consciousness, so you will need to administer the antidote.

It is tapped to the roof of our fridge and kept at the appropriate cool temperature until it is ready to be used, with the dosage already measured out in a previously prepared needle. Any vein will do, though it may take some time to circulate and take-"

Stanley doesn't bother finishing the stupid list of instructions Ford may have left him filling out the rest of the letter. In fact, he can't even bring himself to be mad right this second about Ford torturing him like this.

He's alive. That's all that matters.

It’s a rush of slamming open doors, making a mess of the top shelf of the fridge, before Stan is able to find the supposed needle right where the letter said it would be. Back to the bedroom he yanks on the light, tearing off the blanket.

"I knew it, I fucking knew it-"

Or at least he hopes this is real and not some hallucination caused by grief. Seems a little too good to be true, but he'd be willing to gamble on giving Ford sulfuric acid if he left a note saying so right about now.

Sure enough, by the time Stanley is able to yank Ford's closer sleeve up he can see a big X drawn with a sharpie over the vein along the interior of the arm where you'd have blood taken. Or shoot up heroin.

How long does he have to give the antidote? Could it be too late? That letter was probably supposed to be opened hours ago.

Whatever.

No time like the present.

He's done this plenty of times on himself, so it’s not hard.

Using one of Ford's ties out of the closet (a ridiculous thing to bring on a boat) he's able to create a tourniquet without having to go back to the bathroom.

The cap gets removed with his teeth and once the vein is visible, he carefully presses the needle in under the skin before pushing down the plunger and injecting whatever the weird black medication is.

Only after putting the needle aside does he run off to get dressings and gauze to patch up the injection sight and stop the bleeding. The same amount you'd expect from a live body.

A weird sense of euphoria takes hold in the time it takes to secure the gauze over the injection site with some medical tape.

And a little bit of hope.

Rightfully, he should be beyond pissed. What the hell was Ford thinking in the first place? Okay, yeah. They suck at talking, and he hadn't been the most open to Ford's previous complaints about his 'death jokes' and such.

Dark humor. But he hadn't expected Ford to do something this extreme in retaliation.

Talk about a prank war getting out of hand.

This is worse than when they got into a closet territory war in high school and it had ended with them both getting yelled at, and grounded, when some itching powder accidentally ended up in the wrong laundry.

Later he can be upset, but right now Ford will probably be waking up in enough pain over his own stupid choices. Being given CPR is a rather violent experience, his chest is going to hurt considerably for a long while.

That's revenge enough, and-

Okay, maybe you could consider this lesson learned.

Stanley is left to wait, with bated breath, for Ford to wake up.

It's pretty safe for Ford to say that this whole experience turned out to be a lot more traumatizing than it should have been.

Maybe he was a bit of a dick, planning on scaring Stanley a little, but that's all. Just a tiny scare to get his brother to stop being so-

Difficult, let's go with that.

Pain in the ass would be more accurate

Regardless, absolutely nothing had gone to plan and it had very nearly ended in the worst possible way. Him dead, and Stanley heart broken.

What was supposed to happen was pretty simple.

Starting with sending the text, which Stanley would get above deck. Meanwhile, below deck, Ford would cast the spell meant to slow his pulse to an unsteady rate on top of accelerating his breathing. Mimicking something close to a heart attack.

Just for a little scare, with no real consequences.

Then Stanley would come downstairs, freak out, but follow the procedure.

Which is when he would have found the letter, stopping the whole scene before everything got so out of hand. Easy.

But, no.

The text hadn't gone through, because their signal was spotty at best out here.

No problem, because the spell does technically leave a window before putting you into stasis.

Or, it’s supposed to.

Thirty-two and a half seconds isn't nearly enough time to do anything useful, as Ford found out the hard way.

The results were him being left waiting on the floor for Stanley to find him and being left fully aware of every second without being able to do anything to stop it.

Having chest compressions done when your heart is fine, just old, is not fun. Very not fun. One of the more painful experiences he can admit to participating in.

This whole thing, in fact, is up there with one of the top five worst moments in his life.

All because Stanley wouldn't listen!

No, it's because you’re an idiot who seems to only know how to hurt your own brother-

Shut up!

That's not helping anything.

The slow-to-restart heart rate, which never fully stopped, is more painful because of the time left lying around. Not a surprising response to his apparent death, but-

Two broken ribs, and some pretty bad bruising, but otherwise physically he'll be fine.

Just as soon as every vein stops burning from the antidote.

Truly that's a just punishment for the time he's left waiting after feeling the injection up until he's able to breathe and move again.

There is a lot that he could unpack here, but that would involve facing everything that he just caused. Which is terrible.

Better to focus on the one damn good thing to come out of this whole mess.

Stanley loves him.

Not only in the 'brotherly love' kind of way, but it certainly sounded like it had been implied romantically, hadn't it?

The spell or the cold he'd been experiencing couldn't have made up a hallucination like that.

It's logical if you think about it.

Stanley was under the impression he was dead, so why not own up to all kinds of gross and sappy crap? Taking time to mourn everything that was, could have, and is.

Brother, best friend, and-

Lover is a rather big leap to make from some simple implications on their own, but-

Was it two or three hours of straight-up cuddling and holding hands?

That might be as much evidence as Stanley would ever willingly provide without being physically tortured out of it.

Knowing that his own feelings are returned is actually worse than being trapped inside your own skin, because what the hell is he supposed to do with this information?

If they can't talk about Stanley no longer making jokes, how is he supposed to bring this up in a way that doesn't make his brother jump off the boat to drown?

Ford can't help but let out a quiet pained groan with the first gasp of air, taking away the option of saying something first thing.

It's better than screaming, which is what he feels like doing from the pain.

Not the first time an experiment resulted in such poor results, it'll be fine.

"Stanley," is the first thing Ford forces himself to say just as soon as it’s not going to come out sounding too pained. As if either of them needs to feel worse at the moment.

Stan hadn't so much as gotten up off the bed after dressing the injection. He brought up a hand to steady Ford when he tried to sit up too fast. "Woah, take it easy there, Sixer. The world's not going anywhere."

Now is not the time for jokes, Stanley. This isn't funny.

His brother’s ability to compartmentalize traumatic events and the emotions associated with them is astounding. Must be a shared trait.

Trying to talk is like swallowing tacks but he managed to make a motion towards the water bottle they kept hanging from a hook above the bedside table halfway between their bunks.

Relief was about all Stanley could feel getting up only enough to grab the water bottle for Ford before settling back next to him on the bed.

He's still cold, but very much alive.

It's viisible in the tense set of Ford's shoulders when he's awake, the crease and possibly only wrinkle on his whole stupid perfect face between his brow from worrying or fretting over something, and the strong grasp around the bottle when taking a drink.

It's almost enough to make him cry again, except Ford is awake now, so he keeps a better lid on those feelings by shoving them back in a closet. Hugging Ford as soon as he's had a drink also allows for a good expression of his worries while actively hiding any stupid expressions (or tears) his face could be doing against his will.

No matter how much it physically hurts (maybe at least one of those ribs is broken, rather than cracked) Ford wholeheatedly returns the hug while trying to lubricate his mouth and throat enough to say something, anything, useful.

"Did it work at least? Do you understand now how physically upsetting it is to have you faking health scares? That pure terror is what I feel every single time, regardless of if you’re kidding. It's not funny." His voice is still ruined and dry with an edge of ache, but audible.

Stan lets out a dry chuckle, but it's forced and tight. "Yeah, yeah. Alright, you got me. But for the record, I knew it was a sham. I could smell it from a mile away!"

Both eyes are also a little dry from the extensive time spent open up until Stan closed them, which gives a good excuse for why he blinks at Stan like an idiot.

What, does he think I'm stupid?

Sure, Stanley seemed fooled for a while, but the last several hours of panic and grieving-

He doesn't know.

Oh.

Well, that's. A perfectly rational assumption given that's what the letter said, the spell was supposed to end in unconsciousness in a form of slowed metabolism and heart rate in a form of intense hibernation.

"I was awake." The reaction is immediate feeling the hand on either shoulder tighten momentarily with several emotions passing over Stanley's face too fast to read.

Panic is all he catches before its smothered with the rest.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

Well, that is almost worse than Ford being dead, because what the hell is he supposed to do now?

They're three hours from port, without anyone around, and no internet connection.

Ford could easily kill him and no one would ever know the difference.

Because that is certainly what's about to happen. He knows, he heard, he saw for fucks sake.

If it wasn't for the physical and literal beating Ford would have already had him in a headlock on the floor.

Watching Stanley physically, and not so subtly, recoil is heartwrenching and Ford won't stand for seeing any more pain on his brother’s face.

There has been enough of that in one lifetime, and tonight.

"Hey, I'm not upset." He has to physically stop Stanley from getting up off the bed by grabbing one shoulder and the closer hand tightly, pulling him back to sit again.

This might be the absolute most embarrassing moment of his whole life.

Worse than the teasing they got as a pair over Ford's kissing bot in high school, which previously held the top spot.

Maybe I should just throw myself overboard to get away from this conversation.

Sure, I'm not dead, but living with 'being let down easy' and then everything spiraling into the most awkward friend zone of all time is much worse.

Death would be kinder.

Stan's whole face flushes bright red but otherwise his expression remains mostly neutral and steeled waiting for whatever comes next. Though its still tempting to run.

Very, very tempting.

This is terrifying, but not nearly as scary as thinking Stanley was going to do something drastic while left to his own devices. In comparison, this is easy.

If you ignore the fact nothing has ever been easy for them.

"I'm, you could say that- I understand." What the fuck was that? He tries again, pushing on because that didn't make any sense. "I mean, I've visited more dimensions then I can count, I'm certainly not- I've grown out of my own reservations, so you could say. But, obviously, I never thought..." He does another lame motion with their linked hands, hoping Stan will read his mind and end this painful moment.

Okay, now this is definitely a hallucination triggered by some sort of mental lapse or stroke.

Ford being dead absolutely did get to him.

Enough to make up a whole letter and shoot up a corpse with some random chemical and now some sick hallucination.

That seems more likely than what Ford is trying to imply or suggest.

But the hand in his, with six fingers enveloping Stan's five, certainly feels real.

And there is the small, helpful, argument-nagging details coming from the back of his head that Ford never actually pissed himself or anything like most dead people do.

Stanley must have picked up the habit of laughing when he's nervous over the last several decades because, from Ford's perspective, nothing about this conversation is funny.

It's very serious and raw, so why the hell is he laughing so hard?

At least he isn't pulling away. That's good?

"For fucks sake, Stanley, can you take anything seriously for one whole minute? Why the hell do I even fancy you? You’re an ass!"

"Fancy me, what are you, a British nark?" Jesus, Stanley can barely breathe trying to calm down but doesn't let Ford pull his hand away an inch.

"I'm going to kill you, just as soon as I can breathe without my whole chest convulsing, I'm going to-"

"Oh, I'll show you being unable to breathe alright." He does not know where the boldness comes from exactly, probably the high from the recent near-death experience, but either way he snatches Ford by the shoulder with his free hand to pull him over into a proper kiss.

He ignores how it tastes of stale water and snot.

Sleeping Beauty AU?

@sixerstanley Here had this HUGE big brain idea and I immediately sprung into action to write a little something about it.

Basically, they read a merlin fic where a spell made it seem like Merlin was dead, but he was basically asleep and aware of everything going on. Arthur was not having a good time. (trauma and pain ensues) I'm going to replicate it, based on the idea alone.

(Also, I had no idea this would turn into an almost 4k oneshot, oops! Color me inspired, I guess! I can do this, but not my actual fan fiction. LMAO!)

Suffer with me. (JK, enjoy. XD )

For the first time in weeks, Ford had allowed himself a full night's rest downstairs. Why not reward himself, just this once? The rift is sealed, the universe is safe, and things are slowly getting back to normal. Or as normal as they get in the pathetic excuse for what used to be his home.

Ford still has a hard time calling it what it is, 'The Mystery Shack' is a little on the nose, isn't it? The exhibits are hardly anything close to a mystery. They're botched taxidermy projects.

Insults. That's what they are.

A slap in the face to his life's work.

Whatever, that's not his problem right now. Coffee is the first order of business.

It's early and no one else is awake, but the coffee pot is still hot with a fresh pot. One cup appears to be missing. Stanley must be awake then.

Ford takes his time pouring the life-bringing liquid into his favorite cup (it is amazing Stanley didn't break it or lose it after all these years) and adding in ample sugar, and a dash of cream for color.

He adds a single ice cube to cool it faster, listening to the sounds of the house. It's silent, too quiet.

Ford can't help that even in a peaceful environment it puts him on edge.

The TV is off and a walk through the living room reveals Stanley isn't sitting on the couch. The first-floor bathroom light is off, door is slightly ajar, but empty.

That's weird.

He really shouldn't be looking for his brother anyway since the only good that will do is start another fight. It's too early for that.

Ford settles back in the kitchen, hovering near the window and sipping his cup watching the clock on the wall tic on. Minutes pass.

The silence is no longer just putting him on edge, it's sounding alarms.

Why? There is nothing dangerous here in the house, they are perfectly safe here now that Bill has been dealt with.

What then?

To put his own stupid mind to rest he leaves the empty cup in the sink and goes upstairs to the attic, checking on Dipper and Mabel.

They are both still fast asleep in their beds. Dipper, drooling on his pillow with half the blanket on the floor. Mabel, hair stuck up in all directions, clutching one of her many stuffed animals like it might try to escape.

Waddles is here too, curled up on its makeshift bed on the floor.

He stays just long enough to ensure they are all breathing, and sleeping soundly, before noiselessly going back downstairs.

The second floor is as empty as the first, including Stanley's poor excuse for a room. It is a mess of half-packed boxes, several trash bags, and the always-unmade bed.

Soon enough the house will be normal again.

Stanley will be gone, the kids will go home- (Perhaps they'll visit again next summer? It's a shame Dipper can't stay) and the Mystery Shack business will be over forever.

This once secluded corner of the valley will be that way again, his haven away from prying eyes. And tourists.

With the interior of the house cleared that only leaves the yard and porch.

Ford makes his way out onto the one Stanley finds the most use out of and the worry he hadn't realized to be carrying vanishes. There he is, sitting back dead asleep on the disgusting couch. How old is that thing? It appears to be growing several kinds of mold along the bottom because of the constant rain this region gets.

One hand is barely holding onto Stan's coffee cup, the arm of the couch holding it up while its owner sleeps.

"Seriously, Stanley? Being old doesn't give you an excuse to sleep anywhere, much less flash the local wildlife in little more than boxers." It's a good dig, in his opinion, and he speaks loud enough to rouse Stanley despite how hard of hearing he has become over the years.

Except no quick response comes.

Stanley doesn't so much as twitch in his spot on the couch.

The fear comes back-

Oh, don't be ridiculous!

"Very funny, Stanley." He lets the door close, quietly, before moving to stand in front of his brother, hands on either hip.

He looks, really looks, at Stan.

And sees nothing good.

The first notable, and most concerning finding, is that his brother isn't breathing. He waits, watching, assuming this to be a breath hold.

A joke.

But that isn't the only concerning evidence. Stanley's eyes are also halfway open, looking over the yard. Empty.

Not funny anymore, very much NOT funny!

Ford does not panic, not yet. He moves and picks up the cup, plucking it out of his brother's hand- It lacks any strength, like taking a toy from a child.

"Stanley? Wake up. Very good joke, you got me. Stop it now." He kneels on the couch, next to him, after setting the cup aside on the porch by their feet.

For the second time since coming home, Ford touches Stanley. This time with a kinder hold, reaching up to press two fingers along the pulse point between the jaw and collar bone, off to the side of the Adam's apple.

Nothing.

'One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten-'

He could count on one hand the number of times true panic has overtaken him in his lifetime. It isn't a luxury one can often afford when coming face to face with death constantly in the multiverse-

But what harm can come of it when someone is already dead?

His hand stays right where it is, tucked into the still-warm skin-

"No, this isn't funny-" But Ford's voice shakes and he snatches the hand away quickly. If he can't feel the lack of pulse, it's not there. Simple.

How didn't he notice? When did this happen?

What happened?

No- Ford turns, looking around the peaceful yard. Dew covers the grass, the sun peaked up about half an hour ago basking the clearing in pink and yellow hues.

There isn't any blood.

Death is messy. He has seen it countless times, but it is never, ever, peaceful. Knives, guns, cracking bones, broken bodies...

Looking back at Stanley none of that is present. The skin is still pink, and warm, eyes open but- Dead.

No. That can't be. It just can't.

Stanley looks almost peaceful, asleep. His coffee, barely a sip or two taken from the looks of it. "No."

Panic takes many different forms. Initially, instinctively, Ford looked for the cause. It had to be someone, something, who did this. Who took his brother?

But there is nothing, no one, in sight. No blood.

"Stanley, who-" His feet stop, body stalling, in the middle of turning back from the yard to look at the corpse...

He had been about to ask, to question who did this. But a dead body can't answer. A dead body, a corpse.

There is a distinction between a vessel and a person, or so Ford had always thought.

Everyone dies and until then you live inside and pilot your body. Someday, it becomes a corpse and you leave it behind.

That is such a cold and callous way to look at it, in retrospect. Because this, is Stanley. He's just- Gone.

With quick hands, Ford begins looking, almost in a frenzy, for the cause.

No blunt force trauma to the back of the head. No perforations to the abdomen, arms, nothing. There is nothing.

But that's not possible, people don't just-

Except they do. Sometimes-

No. NO! Not them, not him! Stanley Pines wouldn't just die, not without a fight!

Death doesn't play favorites, anyone can go, anytime-

"Shut up! No, he wouldn't! He wouldn't leave me!" It comes out in a shout and shakes him.

It wasn't supposed to end like this.

He never allowed himself to think very far into the future, how could he? Everything was always changing and it was better to live in the now anyway. So long as you were safe now, other things could be handled later-

Except later doesn't always wait for you to be ready. Time has its own plans and you have to work around it or something-

Stanley wasn't supposed to die. Isn't! he can't be-

Except-

There are no obvious injuries, but then again there don't have to be. They may not be old, but they're old enough. Brain aneurysms take hold suddenly, killing the affected almost instantly.

Leaving barely enough time to set down a cup of coffee-

Or a heart attack?

No, Stanley would have come inside, asked for help-

Wouldn't he?

"You idiot!" It comes out in a hiss from where Ford has shifted. He's kneeling right next to Stanley, hand on either shoulder, looking at his half-open but- Dead. Dead eyes. Empty. Gone.

Soulless.

Ford isn't sure who he's talking to. Himself? or Stanley? Both?

"I would have helped you, we could have called someone, I-" He has to pull away, sinking down into the empty space of the couch to hide the tears springing up without permission.

This can't be happening. Things weren't supposed to end like this-

Oh yeah, how was it supposed to go then?

With you, kicking him out next week? Leaving him homeless, again, just like Pa?

"Stop it! I don't know, not like this!" Stanley was always the stronger between them, persevering through everything no matter what happened.

Is this my fault?

What a stupid question.

It forces him to sit up again, one hand covering his face while half peering out at Stanley.

Of course it is. What did you expect? That he would take his life being uprooted lying down?

Did he do this on purpose?

In the rush to pick up the cup of coffee Ford almost knocks it over but finds he can't hold it without spilling some of it over the sides, down onto the porch, anyway. He is left with no choice but to set it back down to avoid wasting the sample.

Maybe.

Ford takes both a physical and mental step back, leaning against one of the columns holding up the roof over the porch, to look around.

Breathing is getting a little more difficult, coming in tight short inhales and smaller and smaller exhales.

What better way to get back at me? Thirty years of a life spent learning math, science, and engineering skills well beyond any normal human's comprehension, for what?

To get a brother back who first chance he got told him to pack it up and get out?

"What kind of brother am I?"

The kind who would rather be right than-

Then apologize. Forgive. Make up. Let go.

And now, it's too late. The train left the station, Stanley is gone, and its all my fault.

"He died thinking I hated him." That realization is what breaks the decade-old dam, tears finally escaping. Ford closes the distance, sitting on the stupid couch and pulling Stanley over into a hug, even if he's not here to feel it.

The lack of strong, still buff, arms encircling him, returning the sentiment only makes him cry harder into the thin and crappy tank top Stanley must have worn to bed.

"I'm sorry." He chokes out between sobs, "I thought I'd have more time, you'd have more time. I didn't think- How could I?" Nothing he's saying is making much sense.

The ramblings of a heartbroken lunatic.

As if we really deserve to be upset, like you'd of cared if it wasn't life or death-

Maybe his own thoughts are right. If Stanley had been alive, sitting here, having his morning coffee they would have traded morning insults before going their separate ways.

But that's not the reality they live in. This one is much worse, much darker.

I spent so much time running away, trying to break apart, and be unique. No longer part of a broken pair, or what I saw as one, I-

"I never expected to miss it when the other half was gone." He is still shaking, refusing to let go, with thoughts still scrambled in a million different directions.

CPR wouldn't do any good now, although it's a nice thought. If Stanley came out here directly after preparing his coffee then that was almost twenty minutes ago, give or take-

Oh god. What about the kids?

Without letting go Ford checks the time on his watch, wincing. A few hours at most, but he'll have to call the coroner-

What does he do?

For the first time, possibly ever, Ford feels lost.

Not only because his twin is currently dead, which is already world-ending, but everything that comes with it.

Who does he say the corpse belongs to? Stanley Pines has been dead for decades-

Is that why he did this? So that Ford could slot right back into his old life, fixing the broken and shattered history? No. This had to be an accident-

Only the testing of the coffee will confirm it or not.

Ford has never had to stick around and deal with a dead body before. Moving on was easier, and necessary. He can't remember attending a funeral, other than their great aunts when they were barely seven.

That's not the same. He'll have to make arrangements, put together pictures, and give a speech-

About a life he knows nothing about.

"God, I'm sorry Stanley. I'm so sorry." It feels safe to let his voice break here. No one is around to see how completely destroyed he feels. "All you ever did was love me, and I pushed you away. I crushed it, refused, and now..."

"Now you're gone. I can't even remember the last time I told you that I love you, but I do. So much, more than I could ever handle." Ford can't let go, but he does shift back to look at his brother's face, holding his limp body with one hand and clearing his own tears with the other.

"For what it's worth, I'm glad I'm here. Thank you, for bringing me back." He has to close his eyes, fresh tear tracks spilling across both cheeks, "Even if only so I could say goodbye. I'm glad I got that, at least. If only you were here-"

With a broken voice, Ford can't stand looking at Stan like this anymore. He reaches up, closing both eyes with feather-light fingers, before leaning close to press them forehead to forehead. Just like when they were young. Before everything.

It's odd. How fast do corpses cool? Not that Ford is going to complain. It lets him pretend, just for a few more moments, that Stanley isn't gone. That they could have this again.

Too little, too late.

"I love you, Stanley." It comes out broken and cruel, like the universe is mocking him. What was the point in protecting them from Bill if death came knocking anyway?

For the first time since coming home, Ford understands.

Finally, he can see why Stanley wasted so much of his life trying to bring him back. Because he loves so much, so big. To his own detriment.

He would do anything, even destroy the world, to have Ford by his side again.

"I'm so sorry, you deserved so much better." How different could things of been?

What would Stanley of done instead? Gotten married? Had kids?

A better family, that's for sure.

Ford knows he can't stay here forever. He needs to let go, head inside, and make some phone calls. To tell Soos to close the shack for the day, get an ambulance to bring Stanley to the morgue.

He needs to prepare for when the kids wake up and figure out what to tell them.

But first, he indulges himself a little bit more by leaning forward and pressing a kiss to Stanley's lips. It smells of coffee, cigars, and denture cream, but Ford can't detect any sort of drug or chemical from close proximity alone. It's nice.

Not what you'd expect from a corpse, but it's enough.

A goodbye, a real one in a weird broken way. Just their luck.

The absolute last thing Ford expects, upon starting to pull away, is to feel the body still pressed very tight to his own take in a very deep breath followed by Stanley's discarded hands coming up to grab at him.

"Stanley!" His voice is still broken, mixed with anger and joy in a typhoon of confusion.

And Stanley? He has the nerve to laugh!

"Don't think you're walking away from that so easily!" No longer locked inside his own body without the ability to do anything it's a relief to be able to breathe. But even better, he can pull Ford over on top of his lap, locking one leg in place against the side of the couch.

"Excuse me! I thought you were dead! What the fuck, Stanley! You can't just go around pretending to be dead to mess with people! What if the kids had found you, or Soos, or Wendy?! You would have scared them half to death, you scared me half to death!"

Truly, it's a complicated story. One Stan is pretty sure Ford doesn't want to hear right now when his mind is running a mile a minute.

He has other things that need to be said instead of explaining whoever that weird wizard was who came out of the forest.

Forcibly Stanley grabs Ford's face, bringing him down so they are face to face again, leaving no room for argument in their close proximity. "Shut up, will you?"

Being locked in was sort of a blessing because participating in the conversation is so much harder than he thought it would be moments ago. He steals his nerves anyway, "I love you too, I'm not dead, and I'm pretty sure forty years should have made you a better kisser than that. Otherwise, I've got my work cut out for me. Try again."

By now Ford's face is bright red both out of anger at being tricked and embarrassment at their current position. But Stanley's hands are no longer weak, holding him tightly in place. Not that he seriously wants to argue anyway.

Stan waits, but the longer Ford stares, the more unsure he becomes. Maybe he misunderstood? Or maybe Ford just has a thing for corpses and now that he isn't one, the interest is gone.

Fair enough, Stan knows he isn't much to look at. Age wasn't as kind to him as it was to Ford. All lean muscles, few wrinkles, and barely greying hair. It's stupid, really.

It would be hypocritical to go right back to being mad, wouldn't it?

Just because Stanley isn't dead now, doesn't mean he won't be next time. Or the time after that.

Anything could happen.

Ford knows he should pull away. They should talk about what the hell just happened. He should move off his brother's damn lap!

Or, he could give in to the very thing he's spent two-thirds of their lives running from. The details and tough conversation can be hashed out later, right?

It's the hold on his jaw loosening that yanks Ford out of his spinning thoughts back to the present. Stanley is pulling away, looking down-

How long was he lost in thought? It couldn't have been more than twenty seconds. Did he change his mind? No, then why does he look so-

Well. Stanley looks the same as he always does.

Oh. Briefly, for a few seconds, Stanley was being brave. He opened up and showed his hand. Let himself be vulnerable.

Idiot!

His hands had never fully left Stan's shoulders, but he tightens their grip now, shifting one up to cup along the underside of his jaw. He doesn't feel the need to say anything, because neither of them has ever really been good with words.

He leans down, surprising them both, with a much more insistent kiss.

A hello. And maybe? A new beginning.

[cluescorner]

Arlecchino's whole deal is unbelievable

Arlecchino: Huh I wonder what's causing my weird powers? I can't really worry about that right now tho, I've gotta become King and then kill my "Mother".

*Kills Clervie and "Mother"*

Arlecchino: Huh I wonder why I was able to defeat a Fatui Harbinger when I'm like 17 or so? I can't really worry about that right now tho, I've gotta be in jail and become a Harbinger.

*Is in jail for a while and becomes a Harbinger*

Arlecchino: Huh I wonder why I am-

Pierro: Hey what's up hello, anyways you're descended from the Crimson Moon Dynasty of Khaenri'ah. I'm sure that this is a lot for you to take in so-

Arlecchino: Ok.

Pierro: ...You're just cool with that?

Arlecchino: IDK maybe? I can't really worry about that at the moment, I'm a father now. This orphanage full of children I love (who also are child soldiers and are not allowed to leave or else I'll execute them except maybe now I'm just gonna wipe their memories IDK I'm morally complex) isn't gonna run itself.

*Runs the orphanage/spy recruitment initiative*

Me, the fucking player: WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU ARE KHAENRI'AN? WHY WASN'T THIS BROUGHT UP IN YOUR FUCKING QUEST?? OR ANYTHING ELSE????

Arlecchino, talking to me through my phone: I honestly don't know why you care, I'm too busy to give a shit. Anyways, I'm gonna go fight fate itself I guess. I'm sure that I don't share any thematic parallels with any other Khaenri'an characters (particularly as it relates to acting and family angst) and that I haven't made the idea of 'curses' on Khaenri'ans and what they entail even more complicated than they already were. See ya.

[musical-chick-13]

I hate when something looks like it would be RIGHT up your alley and the cast is pretty stacked, but there's one person in said cast who is just. Genuinely a horrible human being.

[sskk-manifesto]

Ep 5!!!

[writinginthesecrettrees]

As an unrepentant and complete Sam girl who wrote a once-in-a-blue-moon Dean-centric meta, let me explain the people that Dean has lost:

It starts with his mother, when he's four. Yes, Sam lost her too, but Sam was never old enough to remember having her so the loss is different.

The next was Sam. He lost Sam when Sam went to college. Whether or not that is true from an objective point of view, to Dean's very subjective view it was a loss.

Follow that with Cassie - a woman he cared enough about to tell the truth of their lives. And bam! just like that, confirmation that "no one will stay, I'm not enough." Again, not making any judgements on the accuracy of his perception. I'm looking at this from inside his perspective.

Then Dad disappears, and Dean is just. He's lost! He doesn't have anyone left. So he takes a chance on Sam - and gets Sam back! Yeah, Sam says it's just for the weekend, but that's not nothing! (and it's never addressed in the show, but I honestly believe that Dean blames himself for Jessica's death because if he hadn't dragged Sam off to look for Dad then Sam would have been there, might have been able to save her)

Follow that with finding Dad and having him die, and not just die but die to save Dean? While laying the "hey, you might have to kill your brother" burden on him... Well, let's just say I can completely understand why Dean made his own demon deal at the end of that season.

Ellen and Jo are the next big ones on the list. And follow that up with Sam jumping into the Cage - that was the loss that he sold his soul to avoid, but he couldn't stop it from happening. And sure, Sam came back, but that doesn't erase the pain of losing him for so long.

Then Castiel dies. My own opinions aside, that was a blow to Dean. Enough said.

And Bobby. Losing Bobby was like losing his father all over again. And he was still on the rebound from that loss when he got sucked into Purgatory...

and came back to find that Sam had settled into a happy life with a girl and a dog. Now, again, I'm not here to argue about whether Sam was right or wrong or just neutral in his actions - this post is about Dean and Dean's feelings. And in Dean's eyes, Sam jumped at the first chance to find a new life.

And that hurts him! And he has to wonder if Sam's really in it with him, or is Sam going to leave him behind (again) and go off to find his own life? And there's this perversity about that fear that makes him try to prove it true: he's gonna push and push and shove at Sam until either Sam leaves or Dean can be sure Sam will never leave - and the tragedy of it is that he doesn't realize how badly he's hurting Sam until he sees Sam ready to die to win his love back.

The love that Sam never lost, could never lose, because not loving Sam means not existing.

Dean can bear every single loss in his life except for Sam.

The way Dean spent a whole season telling Sam "screw you, you forgot about me, Benny's a better brother, I like Benny best" and then at the end was all "how could you think anything, past or present, could mean more to me than you?" was honestly peak Dean to me.

Because he was pissed! He was hurt! He wanted to make Sam know how he felt, and Sam never seemed to get it. So of course he kept at it... up until Sam was about to die. Thus proving that: yes, Sam got it. Sam felt his pain. Sam felt guilt and remorse and would do anything to make it up to him.

And his utter disbelief that Sam had believed him? That Sam thought he meant it when he said Benny was better? That Sam didn't understand that nothing and no one would ever be as important to him as Sam?

Look, sometimes Dean forgets that they are two people, that they don't actually share a brain the same way they share a soul, and he thinks that Sam will just get it. Get how much he loves him. Fuck that, love isn't even the right word, it's too small and limiting for what they are.

It's peak Dean because Dean needs to make sure Sam knows how hurt he is, but can't believe Sam doesn't know how he feels about Sam. Because it's this fragile veneer of tough-guy bravado over an aching fear that Sam doesn't care about him as much as he cares about Sam. Because Dean is just a boy who keeps losing the people most important to him, and he doesn't know it but he's terrified of Sam leaving him and the Purgatory fiasco and Amelia was an affirmation of that fear so he spent a whole season testing Sam to see how much would be too much? How far could he push before Sam leaves?

[icewindandboringhorror]

I still very loathe the Media Trope of ‘’cold genius man doesn’t feel emotions and never has relationships... UNTIL.. one random relatively bland Preddy Woman comes along and warps his entire personality and ability to think, his heart has grown and his seeming asexuality has evaporated, he is now Normal :)” or whatever like... AS a walking generic hermit archetype myself.. we would NOT act like that .... just let people be detached weirdos in peace, you cowards .. OR, don’t bother to write one in the first place if you find us too boring to exist realistically in our natural state lol.. pathetic 

[bibiana112]

Girl are you okay? Cause you've been looking through the "My lesbian experience with loneliness" tag again

Well the short answer is no :D

[icharchivist]

i mean i get why it sucks but i've been having an existential crisis that keeps me up at night for most of my life too and i'm not producing people expressly to abuse them and use them as tools about it. Astrals are just on something else i guess

i'd say it's a question of scale in general, as in an existential crisis coming so deeply from a whole different life in your head would fuck someone up much more. but anyway i keep saying Lucilius' way to treat other is bad, in those same posts in fact, just that his issues with depersonalization/derealization are also extremely compelling and actually make me feel bad for him. Those two feelings can coexist, and i don't mean that you have to be nicer to him or anything. i'm just saying he's still an interesting character.

[duncebento]

we shouldn't have to feel grateful for so much of this, man. as valuable a virtue as gratitude is, i don't want the world we've made to be one in which my prayer of thanks for anesthesia at the dentist is anything more than a novel acknowledgement, rather than resultant of seeing so many people lack that "privilege." i'm a senior at a polytechnic rn; i don't want to be grateful for the continued existence of the school, the fact of its concrete walls still standing. i don't want to be aware of the fact that the toddlers in my family are in one piece; i don't want a contrary example of limbless infants to live in my mind. the softly-suffered deaths i've mourned have provided more than enough suffering on their own!

but such is the world we've built. while some well-fed mouths in the imperial core shut their eyes and cover their ears and make crude jokes and question whether such suffering really is realistic at all, the virtuous of us, those interested in good, refuse to look away until we've changed it. part of exercising that continued gaze is providence. if your life has ever been happier on account of a living sibling or a standing university or a cat sleeping on your stomach or a warm home, see whether you can't provide for miriam baalou, who, like me, has a tumblr account-- @freepaleatine95 -- and who, younger than i am, has had all of these things taken away as collateral for the continued comfort of the imperial core.

in this empire, whose current is an evil one, even to remain in one place requires discipline, labor, capital. to do good requires even more. but let us work heartily against the worst selfishnesses of our worst ancestors.

the baalous’ campaign has been vetted by 90-ghost, who's work in making palestinian campaigns more legible to outsiders i am grateful beyond words for.

[all-my-ocs-are-evil]

Jason's been pestering Danny about why he looks like a borderline walking corpse for ages and Danny has decided to put his lying skills to the test. (he has none)

rambling below cut

I've been playing w the idea that the more Danny transforms, the more his ghost form gets "lively" while his human form gets weaker and more sickly. He knows that if he keeps transforming like this then, one day, he's not going to have a livable body to go back to, but he really doesn't want to think about all that. He's more interested in the weird "totally dead but not dead" Wayne son who may or may not have a thing for his sister.

everytime i do one these im like "this time I'll keep it simple so I don't have to suffer through colouring bc I have zero foresight—it'll be greyscale at most" and then all of the sudden its 4am and i'm trying to finish a stupid comic but i decided to add "some" colour to spice it up and hide my shitty ink job and then SOME COLOUR ALWAYS BECOMES FULL COLOUR WHY CAN I NOT ESCAPE THIS STUPID CYCLE!!

(did this all stem from me not being able to decide between a super pale character design and one w a vibrant tan bc I love white hair + tan but I also love extremely pale albino so I forced myself to find a way to make both work? never! that's absurd!)

[pomefioredove]

Can we have more of snuggles for hire please?! > <

YES always. I need more cuddle content

part one (leona, tweels, vil)

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ snuggles for hire (encore)

summary: first years try helping you out with your touch-starved problem type of post: blurbs characters: rook, idia, silver additional info: romantic or platonic, reader is gender neutral, reader is yuu, rook is rook as usual

"Really? That's it?" Ace scoffs.

"So, they haven't been hugged in a while. Okay? Neither has Deuce,"

Deuce glares. It's almost menacing. "That's not true, and you know it! I get lots of hugs every time I visit home!"

"I do, too. But that's just the thing, though, ain't it?" Epel says. "They don't have no home to get hugs from."

The huddle of first years goes quiet. Some days, you become such a part of their world, they forget you're really not from it.

"...Okay, point taken," Ace sighs. "But they have Grim! And he only stinks like, half the time!"

"If memory serves, Grim usually sleeps on the floor..." Epel says. "Poor prefect, all lonely. Now even their sleep is suffering 'cause of it!"

Jack rubs the back of his neck. "It must be tough, not having anything to look forward to,"

Another melancholy silence. Finally, Ace stands, hands on his hips.

"Well, let's do something about it, then. There are tons of boys at this school- one of them should be willing to help,"

You were slouched over your desk, dozing off over an essay you hadn't even started yet, when your door flies open.

"Prefect!" Epel shouts, his eyes wide with panic. Immediately, dread sets in. Had someone else overblotted? Was Grim in trouble?

"I'm sorry! I was looking for Vil, but he found me first!"

Huh? "What do you mean b-"

"Oh, Trickster~!"

That question answers itself. In a blink, Epel is gone, bolting before he could get dragged into this. Rook lets himself in, smiling as if he'd just won a million thaumarks.

"Ah, there you are~! I have been waiting for your call!"

You blink. "...Hi, Rook. What?"

He slides his hands under your arms, and lifts you like a cat. You remind yourself that he's much stronger than he looks.

"How my heart ached, watching you suffer! But I had to be patient- I had to wait for your call, Trickster! And when I heard Monsieur Pommette was looking for someone to come to your aid... I knew it had to be me!"

Rook sits you in his lap, squeezing you as if you were a small, cute animal. Which, to him, you sort of were. "Now, rest. I will comfort you!"

"Rook," you say, smothered in his arms, "This really isn't necessary."

"For your health, it is," he boops your nose. "Bonne nuit, mon ange."

With the way he's cooing and cuddling you so closely to him, you know there's no getting out of this.

...Not that you're complaining. He's right, after all. And you're really just grateful that he decided to break in while you were awake.

You're still going to have to kick Epel's butt for it, anyway.

"I already told you, I don't have a problem,"

Ortho Shroud beeps at you. "Incorrect. Your hormonal levels and kinesics indicate you've been sleeping poorly," he says. "...And the other first years were talking about it."

Of course, you sigh. Ace and Deuce. "It's not that bad,"

"Then perhaps you would be interested in solving another problem?"

He brings you down a long, cold hallway, and stops at a door. You hadn't been inside Ignihyde before, but with all the tech stuff, you figure there's some kind of freaky sleep machine in there.

You raise an eyebrow. "I dunno. The technology here is pretty weird,"

"Not that kind of problem!" Ortho opens the door with a giggle. "Idia, look who's here!"

To your surprise (horror? delight?) there's no sleep machine. Just one wide-eyed, blushing, terrified Idia Shroud.

By the look on his face, you can tell he knows just as much about this as you do. He and Ortho exchange glances, having an entire silent conversation while you awkwardly stand in the doorway.

Finally, Ortho looks at you: "Idy has been having similar troubles with sleeping,"

"Ortho-"

"I thought you might be able to help each other!"

Idia looks about ready to crawl under his bed and hide. You look between the two.

"Is he okay?"

"Oh, don't worry! He always gets nervous around pretty people!"

He makes a noise like a deflating balloon. Ortho giggles. "I'll see you later!"

He leaves, and a whir and a thump follow him. You stare. "He took the door knob,"

Despite all the awkward staring and blushing and groaning, you end up in the same bed, anyway, lost in a tangle of limbs that is somehow both awkward and comfortable. Idia is a lot warmer than he looks. And a very, very clingy sleeper.

You'll both lament about how terrible it was to Ortho in the morning, and you'll both leave out the fact that if it really were so terrible, one of you could've just slept on the floor.

But... you didn't. And you won't tomorrow night, either.

When you told your friends you'd been summoned to Diasomnia, they looked at you as if you'd just said your exact time and place of death.

Ace and Deuce whisper-shouted something about "not telling him", but you didn't ask. You weren't worried about Malleus, after all.

...Except that the person waiting for you in the lounge isn't Malleus.

"Oh... hey, Silver. Did you...?"

You hold up the summons, and he nods. The way he's avoiding your eyes is almost... shy. Bashful.

"Sebek came back from class yesterday yelling about you... he made it sound like you were dying," Silver says, his arms crossed tightly over his chest.

"...But if it's just insomnia, I can help."

You blink. "Oh... I appreciate it, but..."

...You can't bring yourself to finish that sentence. He just looks... tense. This isn't exactly an offer he makes to most, after all.

You're just special.

And you need that.

You sit beside him in comfortable silence. The lights in the Diasomnia lounge are already dim, and it's as quiet and solemn as ever. Silver guides you into a soft position against him, your head on his shoulder, his head on yours, his arm around you, and he falls asleep.

Maybe it's just the exhaustion finally catching up to you, but it's surprisingly easy to follow his lead and fall asleep against him.

You dream of him that night.