#except dew. dew definitely notices - and definitely comments on it - and definitely gets dragged into rain's room when they all get back

[bloodfin]

CW implied forcefem

Dew let it slip to Phantom that Rain likes to be bullied sometimes. Flip the script, so to speak. Conveniently leaves out how, though.

And one day the little bug is sitting on Rain's bed, kicking their feet, waiting for him to finish getting ready, when Dew's words start playing in their head.

"Damn cheap liner," Rain hisses to himself, snatching the sharpener from the counter again.

Rain is talking to himself, of course, but Phantom snaps their head up, a little smirk curling on their face.

"Dunno Rainy, seems like a skill issue to me."

Phantom feels their stomach drop when Rain turns towards them.

"Skill issue, huh?"

The way Rain's head is tilted is definitely predatory, something in their brainstem telling them to run.

They don't though, which is how they end up in front of the mirror, Rain behind them, growling about skill issues.

And when Phantom and Rain walk into the den forty minutes late, Phantom's face streaked with mascara and messy lipstick, the rest of the pack are smart enough to pretend not to notice.

[sharada-n]

Febuwhump day 21 - Truth serum

Fandom: Half-Life VR But the AI is Self Aware

Requested by Zeke!

Gordon had to stop allowing himself to be roped into these shenanigans.

He was starting to think every bad thing that had ever happened to him could be traced back and attributed to a very specific set of circumstances – or more likely a very specific set of individuals. And that meant he should know better, should not let himself get dragged along in their hijinks anymore.

Yet that was exactly where Gordon found himself time and time again.

"You're telling me Black Mesa used to put money into this crap?" The last word was accompanied by him holding up what looked to be sewer waste in a cup. The liquid was off-green in color and oddly congealed, sticking to the sides of the glass beaker when he turned it over. Possibly radiated too. "What… is this crap, exactly?"

"Truth potion," Darnold answered, unaffected and as if that was the most evident thing in the world. Of course - of fucking course - Black Mesa would be funding research into developing something Gordon was sure had to violate at least three different aspects of the Geneva conventions. Why was he not surprised?

He held the beaker upside down and the potion still didn't spill. "Does it work?"

"All Mister Darnold's potions work!" Tommy chimed in. "Just, uh, they don't... They don't all work as intended. They work in other ways sometimes."

"That's why I don't intend them to do anything," Darnold took the serum back from Gordon. "I let them surprise me."

"Sounds dangerous," Gordon said. Which was a completely useless comment, since danger meant nothing to these guys. He knew that.

As if to prove his point, Coomer turned towards them from the couch. Gordon hadn't been aware he had been following the conversation. "Danger is nothing in the face of science, Doctor Freeman!"

Gordon sighed.

"Just keep that thing as far away from me as you can manage." It really was the most he could hope for.

He should have known better.

He was woken up by his bedroom door opening in the middle of the night.

Gordon always had been a light sleeper – even before Black Mesa. He rubbed at his eyes and blinked wearily to see the solid shape of Benrey standing over his bedside, all menacing angles and dark brooding stare.

Distantly Gordon was aware that this should elicit some type of surprise in him, or maybe even outright fright. All he felt was a dull sense of impatience. Benrey was standing next to his bed because Benrey was Benrey and his actions could rarely be explained. Gordon had what felt like half a lifetime coming to terms with that. He just hoped that whatever this was about, it would be over quickly enough for him to get some more sleep.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

Benrey blinked. His eyes seemed to glow in the dark, but that might be a trick of the light. The way he did it too reminded Gordon of a cat, or a predator waiting to pounce. "Yo man... I just wanted to check if you were asleep."

Barely awake enough to form the frown on his face, Gordon turned his head towards his alarm clock. Without his glasses, the numbers were blurry and unfocused, but if he squinted hard enough he could just make them out in the pitch dark of his room. "At three in the morning?"

"Yeah, when else?" Benrey plopped himself down on his bed and Gordon instinctively pulled his legs back to avoid getting sat on. Accepting the fact that this was definitely happening and there wasn't anything he could do about it, he sat up against the headboard and flicked on the light.

When no more information about the purpose of this outright invasion of his privacy was forthcoming, Gordon pinched the bridge of his nose. "Okay then. Why are you here, Benrey?"

"Hm? I got... I got worried."

Not the answer Gordon was expecting. He shook his head and brushed his long hair out of his face. It always got so unruly when he slept, but he didn't have time to deal with it at the moment. Benrey wasn't looking at him, but at the curtains hanging from his window. They swayed slightly in the breeze – Gordon always kept the window slanted open when he slept. In the distance, the sound of cars on the freeway could be heard.

"Worried about what?"

"Oh, just..." Benrey trialed off. The bedroom light threw sharp shadows against the wall. "Worried you like, hate me and stuff."

"I don't hate you, Benrey. I used to, yeah. But not anymore."

The answer slipped out before Gordon could help it. In the morning he could blame his exhaustion for the undiluted honesty, but that didn't make it any less real. Something about the lighting made Benrey appear almost unguarded, fragile. His expression was as neutral as it always was but his eyes shifted to Gordon and-

Oh.

"Did you drink the fucking potion on the table, Benrey?"

"Yeah bro, new mountain dew flavor. Tasted like shit though."

If he had the mental fortitude for it, Gordon might have screamed. "Wait, that potion was congealed, how did you-"

"I used a spoon," Benrey said as if that explained everything. For all Gordon knew it did.

At the very least it explained the blown-out pupils Gordon only now noticed. Benrey blinked at him again and this time the comparison to a cat was even more apt. Gordon reached out and grabbed Benrey's elbow – either to steady himself or steady Benrey he didn't know. He didn't pull away.

"Listen to me. And frankly, I'm only saying this because you're as close to being roofied out of your mind as I will ever see you, but you have nothing to worry about. Everything that happened was... fucked up." Well, that was the understatement of the century, he still had nightmares. Gordon swallowed and Benrey just stared, tilting his head to the side a bit. "But that's over with and I'd rather just forget all about it. I don't hate you, okay? You mostly just annoy the crap out of me now."

"I'm scared everybody hates me." The way Benrey said it implied he had either not been listening to Gordon at all or was intentionally ignoring him.

"Okay that's it, you're going to bed." Gordon threw off the blankets and stretched as he got up. He could hear his back crack from how stiff he was but shouldered through it. "We'll talk about this in the morning when you're not like... this." He gestured vaguely at Benrey, who was still looking up at him with those big eyes.

It was getting kind of eerie. He really needed to talk to Darnold about leaving his potions lying around.

He had grabbed Benrey's arm in an attempt to get him up but that was a pointless endeavor when the other wasn't willing to work with him. Gordon wasn't about to win that particular tug of war. "Please? Will you please just got to bed?"

"Hmm... sure." And without much preamble, Benrey flopped down into Gordon's bed.

Gordon couldn't do much except take this development in stride. He pulled back the blanket and threw it over the person who had so rudely stolen his peaceful night from him. "Fine, why not." He was about to leave the room when Benrey catching hold of his wrist stopped him.

"You promise, right? You don't hate me?"

He had his eyes closed, curled on his side and Gordon already knew he had set himself up for a nightmare tomorrow.

"Yeah, I promise," he said.

He left to catch the rest of his sleep on the couch, and not think about what they would do come morning.

[goobergamer]

Welcome to the Real World, Chpt. 2/?

Fic Summary:  ‘The real world’ is Marine Corps slang referring to civilian life after discharge. -(x) 

Or, Washington, new and struggling veteran, moves into a duplex where he has a strange and surly neighbor with a penchant for the color red. (Sargington modern war vets AU)

Warnings: No common warnings for this chapter, ask me if you need specific content tagged for!

First chapter on Tumblr here: (x). This chapter crossposted to AO3 here: (x)

The first rain since Wash’s arrival to the house three days prior sees sheets of water falling to the porch steps. It takes him a couple of trips between the kitchen and the rest of the house to realize that what’s falling outside the front window is far heavier than the rain on his other two sides of the complex. Pulling on a jacket and braving the waterfall to reach the bottom of the stairs, he spies a gutter full to capacity with wet leaves, spilling what it can over the rim. Odd that there would already be so many in the summer.

Or perhaps not so odd. Did Stephen say anything about gutter cleaning?

Maybe. Wash’s guess is as good as anyone else’s; physically present he was for their meetings, mentally present? Not so much.

Well, there is someone he can ask now. Sarge has been living there for at least a few months already. He should have had an idea of what maintenance comes with the place.

At Wash’s knock, Sarge’s door swings open a few inches before stopping short, no fewer than three security chains holding it in place. He squints out the gap before recognizing Wash, his expression shifting to one...slightly less suspicious. “Washington.”

“Uh, hi.” Wash feels out of practice in conversations with normal people, let alone a man who’s clearly a fair stretch beyond that. “The, uh, gutter’s overflowing, and I was wondering if they hire someone to do cleanings here?”

“Nope, that’s on us.”

Joy. At least it isn’t a one-person building. “Okay. Do you want to come out now to do it, or we can--”

“No can do,” Sarge interrupts, face impassive. “I don’t do heights.” And he promptly slams the door.

After giving it a long, incredulous stare, Wash walks back to his own side. He has some sense that even if he were to knock again and Sarge actually opened the door, the conversation wouldn’t get much further.

He climbs out an upstairs window onto the porch’s overhang with his makeshift gutter cleaner, a broom. The thought crosses his mind to leave Sarge’s half of the gutter untouched; it would probably still drain from Wash’s pipe, but he would get his point made either way. In the end, however, he brushes the rest of the leaves off the side of the porch. May as well get it while he’s up there instead of being a (well-deserved) asshole; there’s already one frustrating neighbor in the complex, there doesn’t need to be two.

---

Routines are good. Routines are normal. Routines make Wash feel efficient with his time, as opposed to aimless with the amount of it he just can’t fill.

And routines mean that nothing is wrong, that everything can be expected because it is exactly the same as it has been. Wash of course would never lean on that, never let his guard slip, but it’s comforting all the same.

Get up at 6 (though waking up often happens earlier, not by his choice). Out of the shower by 6:30. Coffee on the porch by 7, before the summer heat bears down. Like clockwork. He’s maintained it for two weeks in the duplex now.

Except today, when Wash steps out with his drink, something is wrong. He senses, before he really sees, the moving shape out of the corner of his eye, and jerks his hand back, instinct ready to transform his mug of burning hot coffee into a weapon.

He pauses, thankfully, when the figure is fully in his line of sight; Sarge, sitting on a kitchen chair he must have dragged out, holding his own coffee mug. Apparently unaware of his near brush with second-degree burns, or at least ignoring it, he offers a gruff “morning, Washington,” as a casual greeting.

Wash mentally counts back from 5, straightening up as his heartbeat slows to somewhere within the range of normal. “...Hey, Sarge,” he finally replies, tone clearly conveying his confusion. “...What are you doing out here?”

“A man can’t drink coffee on his own front stoop?” Sarge squints at him, challenging.

Not when you haven’t done it any time before now. “I mean-- I-- Nevermind.” Wash doesn’t need the routine. Sarge doesn’t need to drink his coffee there either, but Wash can already guess who would more easily fold.

With a small “hmph”, Sarge nods, seemingly victorious in whatever nonsense he thought was going on. He takes a sip of his coffee, and after another moment of staring, Wash leans his elbows on the railing and imitates the action.

The two remain there, silently drinking and watching the road, until Sarge’s cup finally drains. He promptly stands up, nodding at Wash when the movement draws his eye, and returns to his apartment.

Wash doesn’t know what to make of it. Sure, not everyone lives on a schedule, but why change it up this particular day? There’s nothing special about it. It’s no cooler or hotter than usual. No more or less sunny.

There’s no special reason he shouldn’t, either, he reminds himself. But the thought had still gnawed at him every time Sarge shifted and Wash had to work not to twitch.

It makes more sense--not much, but more--when the next morning, Sarge is back out there again.

---

A little over a week more, and Wash has made tenuous peace with Sarge’s now daily presence during his morning coffee. They greet each other, and say goodbye when one or the other clears out, but not a whole lot is said in between. It would almost be easy to ignore him there once they’re settled in...if Wash isn’t growing more curious about Sarge, against his better judgement.

He knows, logically, it’s the water in the desert phenomenon; beyond the cashiers who ring him up for his once-weekly grocery trips, he hasn’t had much engagement with people over the past month. While that’s by his preference, it still isn’t what he was previously used to, sleeping in tents or on floors packed with five or six other people he had been training with or fighting beside daily for years. However much of a closed door he is, Sarge is still a little bit of necessary human interaction.

Today is sticky-hot, even so early in the morning, and Sarge emerges after Wash, sporting a red tank top and a worn pair of cargo shorts.

“Washington.”

“Sarge.”

With formalities out of the way, Sarge settles into his chair. Wash intends to turn toward the road, hazy as the dew burns off the asphalt, but before he can something catches his eye. Though there is a rough-hewn scar on Sarge’s nearest shoulder, Wash’s eyes are drawn to a splash of color above it. Tattoos of military origin are typically recognizable in style alone, but this one in particular is startlingly familiar, with its similarity to the Recon Jack skull tattooed on Wash’s chest.

They aren’t a match, though, and Wash’s question is answered when he reads the banner script beneath it: ‘USAF Combat Control’.

“You were special ops,” Wash realizes aloud. He isn’t familiar with many standard military units outside of the Marines, but he has at least a passing knowledge of the high-level special operations forces he could have come across on collaborative assignments. The Air Force’s Combat Control Teams, trained on combat support and communication behind enemy lines, are one of them.

Sarge’s brow furrows at the sudden break in the silence, before he follows Wash’s line of sight to the tattoo. He huffs, as though disgruntled that Wash has somehow noticed something completely out in the open. “You’re damn right I am.”

The skull is surrounded by two curling wings, with a parachute in the backdrop. I don’t do heights. So either he had been lying to get Wash to clean the gutters alone...or there’s something significant there.

Not that it’s exactly his business. He plays it safe, asking, “how many jumps?”

“More than you.”

Likely true. Definitely frustrating in its evasiveness. “I don’t recall mentioning what I did.”

“And I don’t recall making a guess! My answer still stands.” But it doesn’t take long for Sarge to start poking for more info. Perhaps Wash hasn’t been the only one curious. “You don’t get scars that big by paper pushing. Unless they’ve started handing out medals for paper cuts.”

Maybe Wash being straightforward in a gesture of goodwill will encourage it in his cagey neighbor. Besides, it’s not like he feels any inclination to hide the info Sarge is after. It’s his past, for better or for worse. “Marines. Force recon.”

Sarge grunts in reply, but his begrudging recognition seeps through. Wash had trained in spec ops as well, with an emphasis on reconnaissance, gathering intel deep within enemy territory. Though Sarge had probably parachuted more, as he’d said, it would have been for his role’s focus and his age. Wash has his own areas of greater experience he could claim. They’re on fairly equal footing, as far as things go.

“Awful young to be out of the game now, after all that training,” Sarge comments, another probe. Wash turns his attention to his coffee, now growing lukewarm; while he appreciates that he’s gotten Sarge talking, that isn’t first full-length conversation material by a longshot.

“You aren’t that old, yourself,” he finally evades.

Sarge barks a laugh at that, but apparently his own discharge isn’t first conversation material either, because he drains the last of his coffee and waves Wash goodbye for the day.

A/N:  Sarge's shoulder tattoo: (x)

Wash’s shoulder tattoo: (x)