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jo-harrington · 1 month ago

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Wanderlust (James "Sawyer" Ford and STFF!Reader)

Summary: You don't really know what your place was in this story. One minute you're taking your first plane ride to Australia, and the next you're stranded on a deserted island and you have a new best friend.

Word Count: 5.6k

Themes: Metafiction, AU within an AU, Isekai, Friendship, Platonic Relationships, Criticism of Media, Philosophical Ideas, Fate vs Free Will, Supernatural Elements, Time Travel, Fix-It Fic, James/Juliet Canonical Pairing, References to Other Media (NBC's Community and Heroes) but no additional knowledge needed to understand this fic, Temporary Reader Character Death

Notes: Wishing my lovely @somnambulic-thing a late happy Solar Return. Every day I get to chat with you is a gift and a treat. I love getting to pick through ideas and listen to all of the ideas that your beautiful brain has. The universe placed us, quite literally, halfway around the world from one another because if we were any closer we would be too powerful and too happy, I think. But I will take what I can get.

And I could've just sent this fic to you, but I know that there are a few others who love Sawyer as much as you who might want to read.

For anyone who else that is interested, Reader Character is from my Stranger Things Meta Isekai AU called "Stranger Than (Fan)Fiction" and is a character from a made-up 80s Cult Classic TV show that, uh, gets bounced around universes quite a bit and is aware of their fictional existence. It's hard to explain if you're not already in the know, but it is mind-fucky.

You can find my masterlist here.

Please do not interact if you are not 18+.

Enjoy!

Wanderlust - a strong longing or impulse towards wandering

Day 1

You know, you'd done a lot of things in your weird, long, fictional life. Been to a lot of places. And generally, you enjoyed it. But being in a plane crash was one thing—one place—that you didn't think would ever experience.

Damn, being a passenger on a plane hadn't even been on your list until you woke up and found yourself on a flight to Australia.

You had been suspicious--for the duration of your existence in fanfiction, your trademark mode of transportation had been your Beetle--and now you felt justified of that suspicion as you woke up amid the chaos of the aftermath of a plane crash.

There was fire, explosions, people screaming, people running.

People were bleeding.

People were dead.

You didn't know what to do, what to focus on, how to help. Because people were helping, running around and hauling people further from the water, further from the wreckage. A man in a suit was doing chest compressions on an unconscious woman.

And as your consciousness settled into your body, you simply felt overwhelmed. By the sights and sounds, the soreness that you felt; there were cuts along your arms, and you felt a throbbing pain in your head.

You'd been through so much. All of your lives, all of your deaths. But this? There was nothing like this before and it was the cherry on top of the shit sundae that was your miserable existence.

What story were you a part of this time? Whose fantasy did you exist to serve now? How could you possibly find a lesson or love or...whatever...here of all places?

A young woman with blonde hair stood several meters from you, screaming and crying but not much else, and your system decided it was a good idea and that you needed to join her.

Hot tears blurred your vision and rolled down your cheeks.

Time passed, as time does, but you stayed as stagnant as you felt. The sky started turning an array of pinks and purples and oranges as the sun set.

"Hey kid, get up." A gruff voice came from behind you, and you ignored it until a hand was shoved against your shoulder and your world shifted sideways.

Your head snapped towards a man with light brown hair, a cigarette hanging from his lips, and a permanent "fuck off" stamped on his forehead. He'd been sitting next to you on the plane. You hadn't talked much, except to shuffle past each other to go to the bathroom. He had let you have both arm rests.

"Get up," he grumbled at you again. "Come on."

"What?" You sniffed and ran the back of your hand across your cheek to wipe the tears away; the grit of the sand on your skin made you want to cry more. "Why?"

The man scoffed and threw a hand out exasperatedly. "Fine. Stay there. Let the tide come in and get you wet. Drown. Starve. What do I care?"

He grumbled under his breath, something along the lines of this is why you don't help people out, no matter how pathetic they look.

You took a few deep breaths to level out your emotions, despite the pang at, once again, accepting the fact that you were alone here. On this island, in this predicament that you seemed to perpetually exist in.

Help. What a foreign concept. You hadn't ever thought to find help before. You were always in it alone, always at the mercy of the Writer who put you in their story, only serving to further their narrative. True help was rare to find; why would it be different here?

But, unlike all of the other worlds you'd visited and all of the stories you'd been a part of, you didn't feel the pull of a Writer's pen here. Only the guilt at pushing away the only person who'd noticed you sitting here.

Maybe things could be different here.

You took a few breaths and then called out to the man as he started walking away.

"Don't you think that's a bit much?" He turned back to you and raised a questioning brow. "Smoking."

He took an exaggerated drag and shrugged.

"You could just breathe in the toxic plane crash fumes if you wanted tar in your lungs," you elaborated.

He snorted a laugh; however, his expression remained generally blank. He was reluctant to find you funny, but it was still there.

"Alright, kid," he nodded. He took one last drag and then flicked the half-finished cigarette away. "No need to be a smart ass."

Day 25

You really didn't know how you fit into this story.

You were utterly and sincerely baffled.

But you could say that about a lot of the stories you found yourself in; this one felt like it was just to make you suffer, more than anything else.

"What's on your mind Wanderlust?" Sawyer groaned as he collapsed beside you on the sand. You rolled your eyes at the nickname; he liked to pick on you for how well-traveled you were, but it wasn't the worst nickname for him to give you, so you didn't complain.

He held out a water bottle--still a bit cold, meaning he'd just come back from refilling them at the caves--which you took with a grateful nod.

"You're staring into that fire as if it's about to tell you the meaning of life."

"I think that's exactly what I'm hoping it does," you told him honestly before taking a swig.

"Well if you find out," he laid back with his arms folded behind his head. "Be sure to share with the class."

You rolled your eyes at him and then kept up with your pity party.

To add to the list of things you didn't know: Sawyer was also one of them.

He was a shithead of the first degree, dangerous, shifty, rude, selfish, suspicious...and somehow the only person you consistently talked to here on the island.

You appreciated his compassion, and the subsequent companionship that he shared with you. The care. The protection. The no-strings-attached, no-questions-asked nature of your relationship. You had his back and he had yours.

"You have a boyfriend back home kid?" he asked abruptly.

Spoke too soon.

"Loaded question," you snorted, thinking back to the many loves you'd had throughout this strange life you lived.

"Always the bridesmaid?"

"Something like that." You kicked his leg. "What about you?"

"Married to my work, sweet pea," he grinned, eyes still closed. He must've heard you roll your eyes at him. "I'm sure you're curious about why I'm asking."

"The question crossed my mind, if you'd like to share with the class," you parroted his words.

"Might've heard through the grapevine that someone has a little crush on you."

"Hmmm." You hoped the judgment and distaste was clear.

You weren't hostile to any of the other survivors, but you couldn't say that any of them were crush-worthy either.

"Figure it was my duty as your unofficial big brother to scare them away before they started sniffing too close. 'specially if you had someone back home waiting for you."

"Well, no one's waiting," you huffed a breath. "But that doesn't mean I'm interested in a weird beach hookup."

"I figured. I'll tell 'em to scram."

"Please don't be rude about it."

His eyes popped open and he pressed a hand to his chest.

"Now when have I ever been rude?" You kicked him again. "Alright, I'll be nice."

"Thank you."

There were a few beats of silence, filled with the crackle of the fire and the roar of waves just a few yards away.

"What are you looking for then?" Sawyer's voice broke through. "If it's not sex or love or whatever. What's got you looking so deep into that fire for?"

"I think..." You took a second, because all of those things were nice. But what did you want? What did you really want?

You inhaled deeply and then turned your gaze back to him with the hint of a smile.

"I think I just need a friend."

Day 44

It was the definition of an awkward goodbye.

You knew he'd either be back, or he'd be dead.

That was the way, wasn't it? The two of you had talked about the Gilligan's Island of it all once...just once. Until he got too cranky at the implication that he'd be stuck on this island forever, and then he gave you the silent treatment for a whole 24 hours.

"It's a stupid tv show," he'd scoffed at you. "This is life, kid. Real life."

Of course, you couldn't tell him that no, actually. It was not. Not for you, at least.

If there was anyone that you'd want to go through this farce of an existence with, Sawyer wouldn't have been too bad. Unfortunately, you were still alone in your limited omniscience.

Still, as he, Jin, Michael, and Walt prepared to depart, you felt like someone should wish him well.

Because Kate certainly wasn't there to.

You were not jealous of whatever she and Sawyer had going on; in fact, you hoped the two of them would get their heads out of their asses and stop dancing around each other. But you were bitter because of Kate's reluctance to commit to her feelings and Sawyer's refusal to feel them at all led your friend to make stupid decisions. Like getting on this raft.

"You've got that forlorn look in your eye," you said, announcing your presence and effectively startling him as he stared longingly back at the beach.

"Jeez, you can't just sneak up on a guy like that," he grumbled.

"I don't think that I'm sneaking." You gestured to the crowd around you, saying their goodbyes to Jin, Michael, and Walt.

"And where did you learn a big word like forlorn, anyway? You been reading my books?"

You frowned at him. "Am I not allowed to say goodbye to you? To tell you to stay safe? Would you rather I spit in your eye?"

"Maybe." You started making a hacking sound, but Sawyer mashed a hand to the top of your head and pushed you away with a laugh. "Alright. Enough. Say your goodbyes. Tell me how much you'll miss me."

"I will miss you," you said honestly. "No one else...no one talks to me or makes this place as bearable as you have. Maybe Hugo."

"Who's Hugo?" he frowned.

"So please stay safe," you ignored him and continued. "Don't do anything stupid. I believe you're at least a little bit capable of that. And get us rescued, please. That's your responsibility as my unofficial big brother, after all."

He had the good sense to look a little misty-eyed at your words. He opened his mouth, but made the decision to close it and simply pull you into his arms in a hug instead.

Day 58

Sawyer made himself at home and burst into your tent, dropping down onto the makeshift bed with a groan.

"Who pissed in your Dharma Initiative Flaked Corn Cereal?" you asked and turned the page in your book.

"Couldn't sleep. Spent the whole day with Hurley, finding a damn frog."

"Why?"

"Because I knew you would laugh at me if I asked you to come and help me find it."

"Did you want a pet? We can barely take care of Vincent."

"No, I had to kill it." You stared at him silently and he turned his head to look back at you. "It's a long story."

You huffed a sigh and set your book aside.

"Lucky for you, we have nothing but time."

Day 76

"I'm sorry, ok?"

You looked up at him in annoyance. "What could you possibly be apologizing for?" You asked sarcastically.

He said your name in a warning tone, but you knew you needed to let him have it.

"You've barely been back for a day after being imprisoned by the Others for weeks. Surely, you've dreamed some sort of slight. It's not like you came back and blamed me for letting the others take some things in your totally not dick-headed secret stash. Or called me a pest. Or said you were grateful for the time away, that it was almost like a vacation."

"Alright, kid, I've got it. I'm a jerk. You knew this from the moment you met me."

"I do, but I want you to grovel." You shot him a perfectly innocent, angelic smile.

"Well I brought you a present, so maybe that'll be enough."

You finally noticed his hands were tucked behind his back, and you raised a brow in question.

"Remember when we were talking about getting rescued early on, and you said that you'd like nothing more than a burger and a cold beer?" he asked.

"I don't think that was me." You narrowed your eyes at him.

"Sure it was. Because I made a joke about Hurley being as big as a cow if we ever got desperate, and you socked me in the arm for it."

"That does sound like me," you agreed. You hated when he made fat jokes about Hugo. "So what? Did you magically find a cow when you escaped from the others?"

"No, but...the boys and I--"

"The boys?" you snorted.

"--We found an old Dharma Van out in the forest and it was full of little surprises. A skeleton, a bunch of trash, and..."

He presented you with the dirtiest, rustiest looking can of beer that you'd ever seen in your life.

"It's warm, it's flat, it stinks, it's well-beyond expiration, and it might give you tetanus," he explained. "But it's beer."

And you wouldn't lie, you would have squirmed uncomfortably at the combination of unsettling words that had just come out of his mouth, if only he didn't have the proudest, most self-satisfied smile on his face.

You knew you were one of the few people who got to see the softer sides of Sawyer, but even this was pretty big for him.

So you took the beer from his hand with a soft "apology accepted."

Day 78

"Hey, so, I need your help with something," Hurley said to you, but not directly at you.

You were in the pantry, scrounging for a bit of breakfast, and he stood at the other end of the table staring past you, towards the beach.

It took you a second to realize he really was talking to you.

"Uh...sure, what's going on?" you asked, concerned.

"Everyone has a certain issue with a certain...let's say mutual friend..."

"So, Sawyer..." you prompted him.

"Uh...yeah." He fidgeted where he stood. "And I've come up with a plan to change their minds, but I'm gonna need some help with it. It requires a certain level of deception."

"So we're tricking Sawyer into being nice to everyone so they don't think he's such a shithead."

Hurley's gaze finally snapped to you and he threw his arms up in the air.

"Dude! How did you get that so fast?"

You dug your spoon into your bowl of cereal and smiled widely.

"Because I was thinking of doing the same thing."

Day 83

You settled down in the sand beside the newcomer.

Or, you supposed, she’d been here longer than you guys had been.

Juliet Burke, one of the Others.

You felt so stupid, just plopping beside her. When there was a whole stretch of beach you could’ve sat on.

“Hey,” you said, awkwardly.

“Hey,” she greeted with a serene smile.

What the fuck were you supposed to say?

You introduced yourselves and then both stared out at the water again.

“So, Sawyer mentioned that you’re a doctor,” you said after a stretch of silence.

“I’m a researcher, actually.”

“Oh!” Your brows jumped in surprise. You didn’t know anything about that, what could you say? “Well, you'll be a great help regardless. Jack is…nice—“ You wondered if she could sense your distaste for the doctor-turned-de-facto-leader. “But sometimes you can’t confide in a man for…certain, uh, female...medical…issues.”

What the fuck was wrong with you!

“They sent you over to keep an eye on me, huh?” She asked, trying to keep herself from laughing at you.

You debated lying, but ultimately decided that it didn’t matter.

“Technically, Hurley drew the short straw,” you explained. “But he bribed me, so here I am. He thought it would be more painful if he was here instead of me. But I don’t think I’m doing a good job.”

“Better than the rest of the Welcome Committee.” She gestured behind you, where the other survivors all roamed about camp, shooting suspicious glances at her. Sawyer, especially, was the embodiment of if looks could kill.

“Do the Others usually give out gift baskets?” You asked.

Day 91

"What the hell do you think you're doing, Punky Brewster?" You shook Sawyer's hand off your arm and scowled at him. "How many times have you said you'd rather stay here on this island? That your wanderlust has settled down some, and you'd take a nice beach and mangoes for the rest of your life over uncertainty? And now you're taking the Doc's side?"

"I'm not taking any side," you argued.

"You don't even like Jack!"

"I don't...get along with Jack."

"Then why stay with them? Why try to help them? Charlie died."

"That's right, Sawyer!" You shouted. "Charlie died trying to get a signal to that freighter so that all of us could go home!"

"And it turned out to be a lie. It's not Penny's boat. Naomi is a fraud!"

"But there's still a freighter out there!" You grabbed his shoulders and shook him. "Which means there's a chance for us...them...to get home."

The Writer might've chosen this path for you, but it was a path you'd have chosen for yourself regardless. Because this was the path that would lead these people--these characters--to be able to get home; you could feel it in your gut.

But how could you tell him? How could you tell him that this was the kind of stuff that happened in TV shows? In movies? In fictional stories. And that there might be another bit of uncertainty, but in the end, they'd be able to get home safe. That there would be a happy ending.

You couldn't tell him, was the thing. Even if you wanted to. You physically could not tell him that.

"Maybe..." You swallowed hard. "Maybe one day, I'll be able to give you more of an explanation as to why I'm sticking with Jack, instead of Locke. But for now all I can say is...good luck, Sawyer."

1974

Well this was...interesting to say the least.

Time travel. You couldn't say you hated it. Hadn't you time travelled with Peter and Claire and Hiro before? This was no different.

That is, it was a lot different, because now you and your friends seemed to be stuck in 1974, with the Dharma Initiative.

"Least we're not all about to start hemorrhaging," Miles had said dismissively when you'd awoken inside the Dharma Barracks.

"We need to keep our wits about us, and wait for Sawyer, and then we figure out what happens next," Juliet tried to keep him calm.

But now you were put up in Dharma housing, eating Dharma food, given...well, they weren't Dharma clothes but they certainly weren't your clothes either.

The 70's. That's where you were from, sort of. You remembered a childhood, growing up with a station wagon and funky music like the Dharma-favorite Geronimo Jackson, cookie cutter houses in your midwestern suburb, and your mom's trendy clothes and haircuts. This place was decidedly not that, even if it tried to be some sort of facsimile of it.

Of course, everything was a facsimile of something else. This world wasn't real. Even though it was to its inhabitants. Your world wasn't real, even though it was to you. What was even real? You didn't know.

You didn't let yourself go down that spiral of thoughts very often. Any time you thought about it, you got a headache. So you generally just played your part, lived your life. But there was something so...existential about this world, about this Island, and especially now as you found yourself travelling through time, that made it all hit you like a ton of bricks.

So as soon as you'd showered and put clean clothes on, you'd gone back out and sat on the swing set in the little playground at the center of the barracks and you let yourself have your existential crisis.

Even the swing was Dharma-issued.

"Wasn't expecting to find you out here."

You ignored it and just kept swinging, pumping your legs as the set creaked under the weight of your adult body.

"Are you trying to take flight?"

"So what if I am, Juliet?" You called out to her. "That would get you off of this stupid island too."

She sighed and took the swing next to yours, but she didn't move.

"Do I need to ask James to come out here and talk to you?" she asked after a few, long minutes.

"I'm surprised he hasn't."

"You mad at him or something?" You didn't answer her. "Are you mad at me?"

You let your sneakers skid against the sand and you came to an abrupt stop, then you stared at her.

"I don't even know you, Juliet," you snapped, tears in your eyes. You let them fall freely; the first time you'd really allowed yourself to cry since Flight 815 crashed. "I'm not mad at you. I'm not mad at LaFleur. I'm just mad. Ok? Am I not allowed to do that?"

She held it together for approximately one minute before she started laughing. You stared at her incredulously, then scoffed and got to your feet with a curse.

"Wait, wait," Juliet got up and chased after you. She grabbed your hand. "It's ok. I wasn't laughing at you. I was just...I said practically the same words to Ben. I was angry, I am angry. Do you think I want to be here either? I want to go home too; he kept me on this island, never let me leave...and now...now it seems impossible. So we just have to...play our parts. Alright? I've gotten really good at it over the years."

You let out another scoff, that turned into even more tears. Until you she was preaching to the choir. You had a part to play, even now. She pulled you forward, into her arms, into a hug.

You stayed like that for a while, a comforting embrace as you cried. You even felt your shoulder get wet as she started to shed her own tears.

You had been indifferent to Juliet before that moment. You didn't know her, just like you said. The former-Other was nice enough, courageous enough, but even when you'd sided with Jack, you kept your distance from her. Now...she was stepping up. Supporting Sawyer, supporting you...when she didn't need to.

"But it'll be ok," she finally whispered to you. "You keep fighting, you keep surviving. And one day...one day something good will happen. You'll meet someone who changes your life, or...or you'll do something that will be the most important thing you'll ever do."

"Will it?" you sniffed.

"Yeah."

"Did it happen to you?" you asked.

She squeezed you tightly, but didn't say anything else.

1977

"If I never meet you, then I never have to lose you."

You waited until Juliet stomped away before you called out to Sawyer. "You really fucked that one up."

"What, did you come to take a cheap shot out of me now too, kid?" Sawyer growled at you.

You pushed through the foliage until you were out in the clearing with him.

"Was that a cheap shot?" you questioned. "Or was Juliet telling you how you made her feel and you're too much of an idiot to get it? I'm just here to drill the point home."

"Am I an idiot?"

"Yes."

"Because I might have...lamented over the opportunities I lost with Kate?"

"Are you kidding me?" you screeched at him. "You're lucky Jack beat the shit out of you, otherwise I would have to take a hit right now. Lamented? How many romance novels have you been reading lately?"

Sawyer said your name sternly, but you ignored him and continued.

"There is no lost opportunity with Kate," you explained to him. "Not while there's a Juliet. Do you get that? Because if there is, that invalidates every moment that you've shared with Jules. Every time you've kissed, every time you've said I love you. She thinks...she knows...that you've been wondering how it would've been if Kate was in her place instead."

"But that's not how it was!"

"Then why didn't you tell her that! Why did you say the wrong things!"

"When did you suddenly become the expert on relationships?" He let out a sarcastic laugh, but you held your ground. "What was I supposed to say?"

"That Kate means nothing to you."

"I thought I said that."

"You said..." You stepped right up to him and poked him in the chest. "You said it didn't matter who you looked at. That you were with Juliet. It doesn't mean the same thing, James! And I know you've been too busy trying to keep everything under control the last few days since the others have been back, but Juliet has been falling apart for days and not once did you reassure her. She knows how much you love her...you just made her feel like you would rather love someone else instead."

"Oh, like she told you?" He snorted.

"Yeah, as a matter of fact, she did."

That took him aback. Like, it visibly shook him to his core.

He didn't say anything after that, as you trekked back to join the rest of your friends to accompany Jack on his suicide mission. It was the quietest you'd ever seen him.

And then you knew.

You'd been on this island and in this universe for almost 1200 days--yes, you'd been keeping track--and you always wondered what it was that you were here for.

Why was there a writer out there who picked...you, a silly kid from Port Geneva, to be a part of this story when there was no real use of you.

You'd made friends, family, been a shoulder to cry on, been shot at more than once, experienced all manner of wild, supernatural encounters. But there was no obvious reason that you were supposed to be here.

Juliet had told you, once, that the Others believed that a mysterious Jacob brought people to the Island that needed to be here.

"Is he like a God?" you had asked.

"Something like that," she responded. "But I suppose there's more to it than that. We're not really supposed to ask, or think about it too much."

As if that had been really helpful.

But you thought, as you watched the chaos unfold at the Swan construction site, that maybe there was no writer this time. That maybe this was real, and Jacob had brought you here to fix something that otherwise would not have happened.

He brought you here for them.

Everything moved in slow motion when the magnetic pulse pulled the chains towards the drill; it was unfortunate that Juliet just happened to be in their way.

They knocked her to the ground and dragged her towards the mining shaft. Her blood-curdling scream made time stop, and then spurred everyone into action. Sawyer, Kate, and you.

Kate tried her best to hold the chains back, to pull Juliet up.

Sawyer dove and gripped onto Juliet’s hand with a gruff “where d’you think you’re going blondie.”

You acted on instinct, without a care in the world for your own safety. You weren’t the most athletic, weren’t the smartest, but you climbed your way into that shaft and through the twisted mining equipment like they were monkey bars to get to her.

“What are you doing?” She sobbed.

Your purpose was clear, filtered into your mind by Jacob or by a Writer or maybe you were just ingenious enough to figure it out yourself, the adrenaline of hanging over the precipice of certain death enough to drive you.

Untangling a necklace would be easier than trying to figure out how to unwind the chains from where they were wound around her waist and her legs with one hand. And she was dangling, being pulled into the void, with only Sawyer to hold her.

“Kate, try to help her get those chains off,” he barked, nodding to you. She slid under an I-beam and tried to reach for Juliet but she was careful, full of self preservation. Unlike you.

This was what you came here for. To save Juliet. To save Sawyer’s heart.

“It's ok,” you whispered to Juliet with each whimper. One chain came free and plummeted down the shaft. The piece of scaffolding that you were clinging to shifted and you held on for dear life. Juliet sobbed and you cried out to her. “It’s ok! It’ll be ok!”

“Hold on,” Sawyer growled at her. “You hold on to me.”

“I can’t, I can’t.” She cried weakly.

“You can,” you grit your teeth and worked her free.

“I’ve got you,” Sawyer ground out, gritting his teeth. “You hold on.” He looked at you now. “Work faster. Come on.”

And you did, until Juliet was free. Until Sawyer could haul her as you pushed her bloody, bruised body upwards. They fell backwards and vanished from your sight, and as you heard their cries of relief, you felt a sense of fulfillment wash over you.

Kate called your name and stretched to grab the back of your shirt to pull you up as the scaffolding you clung to groaned. Then Sawyer appeared again, cheeks wet with tears, with a huge grateful smile stretched across his lips.

“Come on, Wanderlust, let’s get you out of there,” he laughed.

It was a glorious sight.

And the last you would see of him as the magnetism grew too strong, and the metal around you finally snapped.

You closed your eyes as you fell, the crashing sound drowned out his screams.

And then…flash.

Greendale Community College - April 2011

“Perfect timing!” Abed said instead of a greeting as you walked into the study room. “We were about to finish the final episode of LOST.”

“We just rewatched the whole series,” Troy explained. “God, what a perfect show.”

“Ehhh, I have a list of continuity errors.” Abed tapped a notebook on the table and then pointed at Troy. “We can compare notes later.”

“Lost?” You shook your head. “Never heard of it.”

You tuned out his and Troy’s enthusiastic explanation and admonishment that you’d never heard about the “hit ABC show” as you pulled up a chair and stared at the laptop screen. This wasn’t the first time that they’d told you about some must-watch program that you couldn’t care less about.

The camera was focused on a scrungly, sparkly eyed pilot as he prepared to take off. Then his face shifted to incredulity as he announced some “late arrivals” and the scene cut to people running on a grassy runway.

And then you froze as the shot returned to the cockpit and the pilot, and a man wearing eyeliner, and…

“Miles?” You muttered, causing Troy and Abed to pause their rambling.

“So you have seen Lost!” Abed cheered.

“Shh, shh, shut up!” You exclaimed and scooted closer to the table, eagerly pulling the laptop to the edge.

The scene cut to a dying Jack struggling to move a rock in a pit of smoke and glowing lava—wow, what an oddly fitting, if Sisyphean, conclusion to Jack’s story—then back to the plane where Miles and the Guyliner guy hauled the late arrivals up into the plane.

Claire—Claire was alive—and Kate.

Then Juliet…and finally Sawyer.

You covered your mouth with your hands in disbelief as tears built at the corners of your eyes.

It had been…years since you’d been on the island. Since you died on the island. But you’d always wondered what happened, if James and Juliet had made it off the island and been able to live their lives. You’d always hoped, but there was no way to know until now.

“Way to wait til the last second, Jim,” Miles scolded him and pulled the plane’s door shut again.

“Good to see you too, Enos,” Sawyer greeted gruffly.

The scene flashed with uncertainty as they all said and waited for the plane to take off, as the Island cracked and died around them. Claire and Kate held hands. James and Juliet pressed their foreheads together. Miles gripped his armrests tightly.

The music swelled as the plane took off and banked to the left over the highest peak of the island.

“Hey wait a minute,” Abed flipped the pages in his notebook. "I swear I thought Juliet died in the Swan Incident."

He listed off events that he had taken notes on--the mine shaft, the bomb, the flash-sideways to the alternate universes--and kept saying that this wasn't the right ending.

"Maybe this was a deleted scene," Troy offered. "O-or...what if...what if we're in an alternate universe."

You were oblivious to the rest of their discussion about alternate timelines and Mandela Effects. Instead you basked in the sight of your friends getting their wish.

Making it off the island. Alive.

“We did it Blondie,” Sawyer said gruffly and closed his eyes in relief. “We did it.”

“We’re going home,” Juliet smiled, tears in her eyes.

You choked on your tears, but couldn't help but grin as they kissed and the scene faded to black for a commercial.

Tagging @undead-supernova @fkinkindagauche @alwaysurvalentine

#somna <3 #fix-it fic #james sawyer ford #abc lost #meta fiction

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sparktober · 4 years ago

Text

Sparktober Bingo 2021!

Back for a new generation: Sparktober Bingo!

Instead of coming up with an Atlantis-specific list of prompts, I compiled a bunch of 2021 -tober prompt lists into one google doc here. (Links to original prompt lists are on the google doc.) Add in a list of Atlantis episodes and...

How to play:

Choose a “flavor” from the prompt sets below the cut, then paste it into this fandom bingo card generator.

Adjust your browser size til it looks right and take a screenshot, or use the html script if you’re familiar with using html on tumblr. Tag @sparktober if you want us to reblog it so everyone knows you’re playing!

Sparktober Bingo Rules:

Complete a row/column, corners, or a blackout of your card by November 1, or not! Update as you go.

All fan-works are allowed: art, edits, fic, meta... bonus points to anyone who picks the “sprinkles” flavor and goes full mid-aughts by filling their bingo cards with 100x100 pixel icons.

You are allowed to pull multiple cards until you get one that inspires you, and you can also go through the prompt list of your choice in advance to pull out squicks or things you absolutely won’t write. I recommend not googling unfamiliar words from your work computer.

Use the prompts liberally! Episode titles can be treated as the episode or as generic prompts (e.g. “Epiphany” can be for an episode-related fic or a prompt for an epiphany of your choice).

Flavor descriptions:

VANILLA: Gen prompt lists from Fictober, Inktober, Trektober Gen, and Trektober Trek.

CHOCOLATE: Zesty prompt lists from Trektober NSFW, Kinktober, and Whumptober. The multiple-prompts-per-day from Kinktober and Whumptober have been broken into individual prompts.

CANDY CORN: Fall / holiday themed prompts from TUA-tober.

SPRINKLES: Atlantis episode list (in order, in case you only want to copy certain seasons), along with characters and a few Atlantis-specific prompts.

TWIST: All of the above! (You can also manually mix and match different flavors, of course.)

Text blocks to copy into the bingo card generator are below the cut. Enjoy!!

VANILLA

CHOCOLATE

A/B/O; Soft; Anonymous Sex; Penetration with Object/s; Sleeping; Intercrural Sex; Restraints; In/Under Water; Group Sex; First Time; Possessive Behavior; Dry Humping / Grinding; Overstimulation; Roleplay; Rimming; Stretching / Fisting; Power Imbalance; Food Play; Fingering; Body Worship; Sex Work; Voyeurism / Exhibitionism; Safewords; Technology; Oral Sex; Omorashi / Wetting; Crying; Underwear / Lingerie; Friends with Benefits; Pain Kink; Dirty Talk; Trick or Treat; All trussed up and nowhere to go; Talking is overrated; Sticks and stones may break my bones...; Trust fall; I've got red in my ledger; Touch and go; My spidey-sense is tingling; Coughing up a lung; Rumors of my death are greatly exaggerated; Oops, I did it again; Just keep swimming; It'll be fun, they said; That's gonna leave a mark; Under pressure; Feed a cold, starve a fever; On a need-to-know basis; Field care 101; The doctor is in; Just a scratch; Lost & found; That's where the blood's supposed to be; They made me do it; You break it, you buy it; One down, two to go; Hide & Seek; You will go down with this ship; “I'm fine, I prom...”; It's (not) just in your head; All work and no play; Digging your grave; Hurt & Comfort; “You have to let go.”; Garotte; Taunting; “Do you trust me?”; Betrayal; Bruises; Helplessness; Pneumothorax; Presumed Dead; Hospital; Adrift; Torture; “This is gonna suck.”; Crush injuries; Delirium; Recovery; “Please don't move.”; “Now smile for the camera.”; Bitten; Trunk; Bleeding through bandages; Cursed; Auction; Self-induced injuries to escape; Escape; Fallen; Passing out; “Good, you're finally awake.”; “You're still not dead?”; Major character death; Disaster zone; Barbed Wire; Choking; Insults; Taken Hostage; Misunderstanding; Touch Starved; Numbness; Exotic Illness; (Blind) Rage; Flare-Up; Drowning; Made To Watch; Burns; Beaten; Fever Dreams; Scars; Hemorrhage; Doctor Visit; Bleeding; Trapped Under Water; Pressure; Demon; Ransom; Flashback; Flight; Waterfall; Vertigo; Nightmares; Too Weak To Move; Left For Dead; Trauma; Bound; Gagged; “Who Did This To You?”; Pushed; Broken Nose; Hunger; Blindness; “Definitely Just A Cold”; Tears; Ice Chips; Dehydration; Begging; Cauterization; Force; Bees; Aftermath; Dread; Cpr; Stabbing; Solitary Confinement; Blood-Matted Hair; Obsession; Pursuit; Revenge; Hiding; Trap Door; Collapse; Panic; Overworked; Ghosts; Prisoner; Losing Control; Threats; Caning; Mercy; Forgotten; Head Injury; Screaming; Comfort; Self-Sacrifice; Trapped; Near-Death Experience; Regret; Tragedy; Battlefield; Anxiety; Gore; Petplay; Bimbofication; Panties & Lingerie; Bondage; Double Penetration in 2 Holes; Breeding; Humiliation; NTR; Incest; Emeto; Omorashi; Free Use; Crossdressing; Public; Three (or more) some; Daddy & Mommy; Double Penetration in 1 Hole; Distention & Cockbulge; Xenophilia; Shotgunning; Watersports; Pregnancy; Lactation; Waxplay; Grooming; Human Furniture; Feet; Prostituion; MacroMicro; Spanking; Cockwarming; Glory Hole; Somnophilia; Body Modification; Temperature Play; Leather; Size Difference; Sounding; Stockings; Tentacles; Medical Play; Stripping; Orgasm Denial; Master & slave; Scissoring; Titfucking; Frottage; Knifeplay; Formal Wear; Breathplay; Fisting; Pegging; Scat; Beastiality; Fucking Machine; Tickling; Boot Worship; Bukkake; Collaring; Foodplay; Non or dubcon; Feederism; Sensory Deprivation; Oviposition; Clone & Selfcest; Exhibitionism & Voyeurism; Impact Play; Sadomasochism; Bloodplay; Praise Kink; Body Swap; Sweat; Branding; Massage; Role Reversal; Armpit; Masturbation; Inflation; Sex Toys; Burnplay; Menophilia; Stuck in Wall; Deepthroating & Facesitting; Dacryphilia; Hate Sex

CANDY CORN

Birthday; Sick Day; Autumn; Candles; Plaid / Flannel; Leaf Piles; Sweaters; Baking; Cinnamon; Pumpkin Spice Latte; Carnival; Movie Night; Candy; Graveyard; Black Cats; Goosebumps; Pumpkin; Party; Monster; Ghosts; Witch; Vampire; Traditions; Magic; Mask; Haunted House; Trick; Treat; Costume; Monster Mash; Halloween

SPRINKLES

Rising Part 1; Rising Part 2; Hide and Seek; Thirty-Eight Minutes; Suspicion; Childhood's End; Poisoning the Well; Underground; Home; The Storm; The Eye; The Defiant One; Hot Zone; Sanctuary; Before I Sleep; The Brotherhood; Letters from Pegasus; The Gift; The Siege Part 1; The Siege Part 2; The Siege Part 3; The Intruder; Runner; Duet; Condemned; Trinity; Instinct; Conversion; Aurora; The Lost Boys; The Hive; Epiphany; Critical Mass; Grace Under Pressure; The Tower; The Long Goodbye; Coup d'Etat; Michael; Inferno; Allies; No Man's Land; Misbegotten; Irresistible; Sateda; Progeny; The Real World; Common Ground; McKay and Mrs. Miller; Phantoms; The Return Part 1; The Return Part 2; Echoes; Irresponsible; Tao of Rodney; The Game; The Ark; Sunday; Submersion; Vengeance; First Strike; Adrift; Lifeline; Reunion; Doppelganger; Travelers; Tabula Rasa; Missing; The Seer; Miller's Crossing; This Mortal Coil; Be All My Sins Remember'd; Spoils of War; Quarantine; Harmony; Outcast; Trio; Midway; The Kindred Part 1; The Kindred Part 2; The Last Man; Search and Rescue; The Seed; Broken Ties; The Daedalus Variations; Ghost in the Machine; The Shrine; Whispers; The Queen; Tracker; First Contact; The Lost Tribe; Outsiders; Inquisition; The Prodigal; Remnants; Brain Storm; Infection; Identity; Vegas; Enemy at the Gate; Ronon Dex; Teyla Emmagan; John Sheppard; Carson Beckett; Elizabeth Weir; Rodney McKay; Jennifer Keller; Samantha Carter; Aiden Ford; Radek Zelenka; Kate Heightmeyer; Evan Lorne; Laura Cadman; Kolya; Chuck; Peter Grodin; Steven Caldwell; Lantea; Ocean; Ancient(s); Richard Woolsey; Athosians; Daedalus; Wraith; Nanites; Asurans; Genii; DHD; SGC; Stargate; Earth; Antarctica; Ascension

TWIST

“I need you.”; “You have no proof.”; “I’ve waited for this.”; “Fine, I give up.”; “I’m not saying I told you so…”; “Didn’t we already have this conversation?”; “That could have gone better.”; “This is it, isn’t it?”; “There’s no right side to this.”; “It’s so quiet.”; “I swear, it’s not always like this.”; “You keep me safe.”; “The things you make me do…”; “Your information was wrong.”; “I like that in you.”; “Not this again.”; “I’m with you, you know that.”; “This was not part of the plan.”; “I feel strange.”; “That’s what I’m known for.”; “What did I say?”; “No promises.”; “This time, do what I say.”; “Is this supposed to impress me?”; “Do you know what time it is?”; “I’m sure this has never worked, ever.”; “You could have died!”; “I don’t have to explain myself.”; “Why are we whispering?”; “Don’t ruin this.”; “Take me with you.”; Crystal; Suit; Vessel; Knot; Raven; Spirit; Fan; Watch; Pressure; Pick; Sour; Stuck; Roof; Tick; Helmet; Compass; Collide; Moon; Loop; Sprout; Fuzzy; Open; Leak; Extinct; Splat; Connect; Spark; Crispy; Patch; Slither; Risk; Meet-Cute; Amnesia; Age Difference; Pining; Sick Fic; Fake Relationship; Accidental Meeting; Epistolary; Secret Identity; Historical AU; Nightmares; Monster Hunter; A/B/O; Reunion; Soulmates; At Pride; Angst; Seasons; Fix-It; Coffee Shop; Movie Plot AU; Kid Fic; Actor's Other Crossover Work; OT+; Getting Together; Only One Bed; Pirates; Making Up; Forbidden Relationship; Tattoos; Halloween; Prime Directive; Lower Decks / Background Characters; Away Mission; Ship's Bar; Aliens Made Them Do It; Observation Deck; Crew with Family; Holodeck; Science Crew; Character Survives; Headcanons; Diplomacy; Decontamination; Trek Crossover; Replicator; Worldbuilding; Redshirts; Sex / Love Potion; Medical Crew; Transporters; Medbay; Interspecies Relationship; Mirrorverse; Uniforms; Mutiny; Stranded on a Planet; Rec Room; Academy Era; Second Contact; Command Crew; Off-Duty; Soft; Anonymous Sex; Penetration with Object/s; Sleeping; Intercrural Sex; Restraints; In/Under Water; Group Sex; First Time; Possessive Behavior; Dry Humping / Grinding; Overstimulation; Roleplay; Rimming; Stretching / Fisting; Power Imbalance; Food Play; Fingering; Body Worship; Sex Work; Voyeurism / Exhibitionism; Safewords; Technology; Oral Sex; Omorashi / Wetting; Crying; Underwear / Lingerie; Friends with Benefits; Pain Kink; Dirty Talk; Trick or Treat; All trussed up and nowhere to go; Talking is overrated; Sticks and stones may break my bones...; Trust fall; I've got red in my ledger; Touch and go; My spidey-sense is tingling; Coughing up a lung; Rumors of my death are greatly exaggerated; Oops, I did it again; Just keep swimming; It'll be fun, they said; That's gonna leave a mark; Under pressure; Feed a cold, starve a fever; On a need-to-know basis; Field care 101; The doctor is in; Just a scratch; Lost & found; That's where the blood's supposed to be; They made me do it; You break it, you buy it; One down, two to go; You will go down with this ship; “I'm fine, I prom...”; It's (not) just in your head; All work and no play; Digging your grave; Hurt & Comfort; “You have to let go.”; Garotte; Taunting; “Do you trust me?”; Betrayal; Bruises; Helplessness; Pneumothorax; Presumed Dead; Hospital; Adrift; Torture; “This is gonna suck.”; Crush injuries; Delirium; Recovery; “Please don't move.”; “Now smile for the camera.”; Bitten; Trunk; Bleeding through bandages; Cursed; Auction; Self-induced injuries to escape; Escape; Fallen; Passing out; “Good, you're finally awake.”; “You're still not dead?”; Major character death; Disaster zone; Barbed Wire; Choking; Insults; Taken Hostage; Misunderstanding; Touch Starved; Numbness; Exotic Illness; (Blind) Rage; Flare-Up; Drowning; Made To Watch; Burns; Beaten; Fever Dreams; Scars; Hemorrhage; Doctor Visit; Bleeding; Trapped Under Water; Demon; Ransom; Flashback; Flight; Waterfall; Vertigo; Too Weak To Move; Left For Dead; Trauma; Bound; Gagged; “Who Did This To You?”; Pushed; Broken Nose; Hunger; Blindness; “Definitely Just A Cold”; Tears; Ice Chips; Dehydration; Begging; Cauterization; Force; Bees; Aftermath; Dread; Cpr; Stabbing; Solitary Confinement; Blood-Matted Hair; Obsession; Pursuit; Revenge; Hiding; Trap Door; Collapse; Panic; Overworked; Ghosts; Prisoner; Losing Control; Threats; Caning; Mercy; Forgotten; Head Injury; Screaming; Comfort; Self-Sacrifice; Trapped; Near-Death Experience; Regret; Tragedy; Battlefield; Anxiety; Gore; Petplay; Bimbofication; Panties & Lingerie; Bondage; Double Penetration in 2 Holes; Breeding; Humiliation; NTR; Incest; Emeto; Omorashi; Free Use; Crossdressing; Public; Three (or more) some; Daddy & Mommy; Double Penetration in 1 Hole; Distention & Cockbulge; Xenophilia; Shotgunning; Watersports; Pregnancy; Lactation; Waxplay; Grooming; Human Furniture; Feet; Prostituion; MacroMicro; Spanking; Cockwarming; Glory Hole; Somnophilia; Body Modification; Temperature Play; Leather; Size Difference; Sounding; Stockings; Tentacles; Medical Play; Stripping; Orgasm Denial; Master & slave; Scissoring; Titfucking; Frottage; Knifeplay; Formal Wear; Breathplay; Fisting; Pegging; Scat; Beastiality; Fucking Machine; Tickling; Boot Worship; Bukkake; Collaring; Foodplay; Non or dubcon; Feederism; Sensory Deprivation; Oviposition; Clone & Selfcest; Exhibitionism & Voyeurism; Impact Play; Sadomasochism; Bloodplay; Praise Kink; Body Swap; Sweat; Branding; Massage; Role Reversal; Armpit; Masturbation; Inflation; Sex Toys; Burnplay; Menophilia; Stuck in Wall; Deepthroating & Facesitting; Dacryphilia; Hate Sex; Birthday; Sick Day; Autumn; Candles; Plaid / Flannel; Leaf Piles; Sweaters; Baking; Cinnamon; Pumpkin Spice Latte; Carnival; Movie Night; Candy; Graveyard; Black Cats; Goosebumps; Pumpkin; Party; Monster; Witch; Vampire; Traditions; Magic; Mask; Haunted House; Trick; Treat; Costume; Monster Mash; Rising Part 1; Rising Part 2; Hide and Seek; Thirty-Eight Minutes; Suspicion; Childhood's End; Poisoning the Well; Underground; Home; The Storm; The Eye; The Defiant One; Hot Zone; Sanctuary; Before I Sleep; The Brotherhood; Letters from Pegasus; The Gift; The Siege Part 1; The Siege Part 2; The Siege Part 3; The Intruder; Runner; Duet; Condemned; Trinity; Instinct; Conversion; Aurora; The Lost Boys; The Hive; Epiphany; Critical Mass; Grace Under Pressure; The Tower; The Long Goodbye; Coup d'Etat; Michael; Inferno; Allies; No Man's Land; Misbegotten; Irresistible; Sateda; Progeny; The Real World; Common Ground; McKay and Mrs. Miller; Phantoms; The Return Part 1; The Return Part 2; Echoes; Irresponsible; Tao of Rodney; The Game; The Ark; Sunday; Submersion; Vengeance; First Strike; Lifeline; Doppelganger; Travelers; Tabula Rasa; Missing; The Seer; Miller's Crossing; This Mortal Coil; Be All My Sins Remember'd; Spoils of War; Quarantine; Harmony; Outcast; Trio; Midway; The Kindred Part 1; The Kindred Part 2; The Last Man; Search and Rescue; The Seed; Broken Ties; The Daedalus Variations; Ghost in the Machine; The Shrine; Whispers; The Queen; Tracker; First Contact; The Lost Tribe; Outsiders; Inquisition; The Prodigal; Remnants; Brain Storm; Infection; Identity; Vegas; Enemy at the Gate; Ronon Dex; Teyla Emmagan; John Sheppard; Carson Beckett; Elizabeth Weir; Rodney McKay; Jennifer Keller; Samantha Carter; Aiden Ford; Radek Zelenka; Kate Heightmeyer; Evan Lorne; Laura Cadman; Kolya; Chuck; Peter Grodin; Steven Caldwell; Lantea; Ocean; Ancient(s); Richard Woolsey; Athosians; Daedalus; Wraith; Nanites; Asurans; Genii; DHD; SGC; Stargate; Earth; Antarctica; Ascension

#sparktober is coming #sparktober #sparktober bingo

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thelastspeecher · 6 years ago

Note

angiewolf au with ☕ please? maybe the werewolves start a coffeeshop for other werewolves?

☕ - Coffeeshop AU

...So I forgot to mention that the coffeeshop isn’t just for humans, but this is already really long, so just assume that it gets explained to Ford later. And Ford feels much better about his house being turned into a coffeeshop after he discovers he’ll be able to see magical creatures drinking lattes.

Send an emoji and one or more characters!

Ford gotinto the elevator and waited for the other humans to follow. He turned once they had joined him in theelevator. Stan and the wolf the youngman had referred to as Emily still stood in front of the portal.

“How arethey gonna get upstairs?” the girl asked. Ford looked down at her.

“They’llfigure something out. They managed toget down here, after all,” he said dismissively. Stan let out a low growl. Ford couldn’t translate it exactly, but hehad the feeling he understood the gist of what Stan was saying.

Most likely some form of “fuck you”. Ford pressed the button to take themupstairs. Stan and Emily were stillwatching them as the doors closed. They’re not the only ones watching. Ford didn’t have to look to see the boystaring at him with wide eyes. I should probably learn their names. Ford cleared his throat.

“Care tointroduce yourselves?” he asked.

“Oh,right!” the girl said, hitting her forehead. “We shoulda done that right away! Well, I’m Mabel, I like kittens and sweaters and glitter.” She pointed at the boy. “That’s my twin brother, Dipper! He likes mysteries and science and stuff likethat.” Ford raised an eyebrow at Dipper.

“Really.”

“Yes, andI’ve been reading your journal!” Dipper burst out. “It’s incredible!”

“…Thankyou,” Ford said after a moment. Dipper’seyes widened further.

“I’ma-Soos,” the young man piped up. Hedidn’t elaborate.

“Verywell.” Ford cleared his throat. “What exactly were you doing downstairs? Were you involved with the portal turning onagain?”

“Thatthing was a portal?” Dipper asked. Fordnodded. “Well, uh, we weren’t. We were actually trying to stop it fromturning on.”

“Ah.”

“We’vebeen staying with Grunkle Stan and Grauntie Angie for the summer,” Mabel saidcheerfully. “Didn’t know they werewerewolves, but it explains a lot.” Fordfrowned.

“…Grunkle?”he asked cautiously.

“Great-uncle,”Dipper translated.

“So youtwo are Shermie’s grandchildren, I take it?”

Eitherthat, or I have a child I’m unaware of.

“Yep!”Mabel chirped. Ford beamed.

“Remarkable.”

I was very fond of Stanley and Angie’schildren. I have no doubt these two willwin me over as well. Mabel andDipper beamed back at him. Ford lookedat Soos.

“And howdid you get mixed up in this?” he asked. Soos shrugged.

“Like Isaid, I work for Mr. Pines. I’m abarista. Not the best barista in GravityFalls, but I’m in the top five.”

“A…barista?”

“Yeah!”Soos enthused. The elevator doors openedwith a ding. Immediately, Ford couldsmell roasted coffee beans. His mouthwatered.

It’s been years since I’ve had proper Earthcoffee. Ignoring the children andSoos, he followed the smell, down the hall, through the living room, and into…

A coffeeshop? Ford came to a stop in the foyer of hishouse. It had been completely remodeledand redecorated. Behind a bar, shelveson the wall were stacked high with various types of coffee and coffee-relatedparaphernalia. Stools stood next to thebar, matching the chairs and tables in the room. A basket with items similar to what theshelves were stocked with was by the front door. Ford approached a display case by the barcautiously. He frowned at the bakedgoods within. What is a “cake pop”?

“Prettygreat, right?” Soos asked. Ford let outa small huff.

“Thatdepends upon your definition of ‘great’,” he replied in a tight voice. He hopped over the bar to examine themachinery hidden from view. “I assumeFiddleford was involved in the construction of the equipment?”

“Uh,yeah, actually,” Soos said. “He saidhe’d do it for free, and Mr. Pines likes cutting costs wherever he can.”

“Hmph.” Ford paused. “Wait. Did you say that Stanleydid this?”

“Yeah.”

“Stanleyturned my house into a coffee shop?”Ford demanded. “This is supposed to be ahouse of science! He’s made a mockery of my research,he’s-” A low growl interrupted hisranting. Ford spun around. Stan stood outside by the front door, peeringin at the gaggle of people in the house. Ford crossed his arms. “I’m sureyou can think of a way to enter, Stanley.” Stan growled again. There was abark from outside, presumably from the other werewolf.

“I’mcomin’, I’m comin’,” Fiddleford’s voice called. Ford’s heart leapt into his throat. Fiddleford entered the foyer and went directly to the front door,shuffling past the children, Soos, and Ford without a comment. He opened the front door. Stan stepped inside. He growled at Ford again. Fiddleford put his hands on his hips.

“Language,Stanley. Yer own daughter is rightbehind ya,” Fiddleford scolded. Stanbarked. “Stanfo- whattaya mean,‘Stanford’s back’?” Stan rolled his eyesand used one large paw to slowly turn Fiddleford around. Fiddleford blinked in surprise. “When did y’all get here?”

“Like,half an hour ago,” Mabel said. Fiddleford pursed his lips.

“Huh. I don’t ‘member that. But my mem’ry ain’t always the greatest. Well, if yer here, might as well fix thekidlets some hot cocoa.” Fiddlefordlooked over at the bar. “I think thatwe’re still good. Might need to buy somemore soon, Stanley.” Fiddleford’s gazetraveled along the length of the bar, skipping over Ford momentarily beforefocusing on him. Fiddleford swallowed. “Oh. That’s what ‘Stanford’s back’ meant,” he said quietly. Ford jumped over the bar again to make hisway to his former research partner.

“Fiddleford,it’s so excellent to see you,” Ford said gently. “I- I have to offer my apologies for everythingthat-”

“Oh,hush,” Fiddleford said, waving a hand. “What’s in the past is in the past. I learned the hard way that it’s better to forgive than to forget.” Ford smiled weakly.

“You’vegrown very wise, my dear.” Fordremembered they had an audience. “…friend,” he added. Fiddlefordlet out a small chuckle.

“Say,how’d ya get back?”

“Theportal was repaired.”

“It was?”

“Yes.” Ford frowned. “You didn’t know?”

“No, Ididn’t.” Fiddleford looked at Stan. “Stanley, did you fix it all on yer own?” Stan sat down silently, a smug look on hisface. “Well, I’ll be.”

“So thatreally is Grunkle Stan,” Dipper interjected, staring at Stan. Fiddleford nodded. Dipper swallowed. “So- so when there was the thing earlier, Ireally- really did get bitten by a- a werewolf?”

“Wait,what?” Ford said. “You-” Ford stared at Stan. “Stanley, did you turn your owngreat-nephew?” Stan barked angrily. Fiddleford’s brow furrowed.

“He saysthat he didn’t turn Dipper, Molly did. And it was an accident.”

“Hang on,hang on,” Mabel said, holding up her hands. “Grunkle Fidds, you speak wolf?”

“Yep. Side effect of gettin’ turned years ago, eventhough I got cured.”

“You wereturned into a werewolf?” Mabel gasped. “That’s amazing!”

“Am I gonna turn into a werewolf?” Dippersqueaked.

“Stanley,how could you have let something like that happen on your watch?” Fordasked. Stan stood up again, his hacklesraised. He growled softly.

“He justsays it was an accident,” Fiddleford translated. He rubbed his face. “I don’t know how well we can move thingsalong, with me actin’ as a translator. Might be best to wait until tomorrow, when everyone can speak Englishagain, to explain things to the kidlets.” Stan nodded.

“Verywell, the explanation regarding the portal and wolves can take place tomorrow,”Ford said. He glared at Stan. “But I’d like an answer now as to why Stanleyfelt the need to turn my home into a coffeeshop!”

“I knowthe answer to that one,” Soos said. Fordlooked over at him. “It’s a ‘verylucrative field’, according to Mr. Pines.”

“Really,”Ford said flatly. Soos nodded.

“He’sright,” Fiddleford said. Ford rubbed hisface.

“Mybrother went into the coffee business for the money.” Stan grumbled something. “What was that?”

“He saidhe had to pay off your mortgage somehow,” Fiddleford said. Ford groaned.

“Fantastic,”he muttered angrily.

“Kids,why don’t ya head back home?” Fiddleford suggested. “I’ll take care of Stanford, and he’ll comeover tomorrow to discuss things.”

“In-including how I got bitten by a werewolf, right?” Dipper asked. Fiddleford nodded.

“Absolutely.” Dipper rubbed the back of his neck, worryevident on his face.

“Not toworry, Dipper, I can always develop a cure for you,” Ford said. Dipper looked up at him eagerly.

“Really?”

“Ofcourse!” Ford smiled with what he hopedwas visible fondness. “And I can answerall of your questions regarding what you may have read in my journals in themorning. But Fiddleford is correct. We’ve done as much as we can tonight, andshould approach the issue at hand with fresh minds later.”

“Okay,”Dipper said, nodding. Stan glanced atFord once before going outside. Thechildren and Soos followed, Soos closing the door behind him. Fiddleford turned to Ford.

“There’sa lot of things that have changed since you were gone,” Fiddleford saidsoftly. Ford scoffed.

“I cantell,” he said, gesturing at the coffee bar behind him. Fiddleford smiled.

“Look onthe bright side. Now, you can get fancycoffee any time you like.”

“It’s apoor exchange,” Ford grumbled. Fiddleford chuckled. “Would-would you like to catch up?”

“In themornin’, sure. But I have to get tobed. Got to get up early to open theshop.”

“Ofcourse,” Ford said. He swallowed. “But I need to know…are you…in arelationship?”

“No,”Fiddleford said. Ford perked up. “I been focusin’ on helpin’ Stan ‘n Angie,and raisin’ my son.” Ford’s heartplummeted to his feet.

“You havea son?”

“Yes. I do.” An awkward silence fell. Fiddleford cleared his throat. “Well! I’m off to bed! Sleep well, Stanford.” Fiddleford hurried away. Ford looked around the coffeeshop, a wearydesignation settling in his chest.

That’s easier said than done.

#okay this was fun but it's not canon within the context of the Angiewolf AU #just wanted to get that outta the way just in case #Angiewolf AU #Stanford Pines #Mabel Pines #Dipper Pines #Soos Ramirez #Stanley Pines #Fiddleford McGucket #my writing #writing meme #ask #Anonymous

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novantinuum · 7 years ago

Text

Breaking Point (2/2)

Part of the “Smaller Than He Seems” AU, in which Ford was accidentally de-aged into a kid during his multiverse adventures, while retaining all his memories. He appears about 12 at this point.

Last one shot here.

AO3

Rating: T (for some language)

Word count: ~5000

Summary: In which an apology is given. Stan gains a bit of insight into his brother's time apart from him. Ford allows himself to be honest for once.

“Sweet Moses, stop actin’ like a damn child and just pick a pair!”

…

“Ford.”

No response.

“Ford, talk to me, please!”

He could see his brother’s small body curled up against the door in the rearview mirror. His face entirely blank, his eyes trained on some landmark of interest outside the window but bleary, unfocused. His jaw clenched.

“Ford. Sixer. Come on, listen ta’ me, please! I said I was sorry…”

The moment Stanley Pines set his car into park alongside the Shack, he heard the rear passenger door swing open and little feet storm up the steps of the gift shop into obscurity. He didn’t even have to see his brother’s no-doubt tear stained eyes to gain explicit confirmation of what he already knew. After all— while his grasp of some of the more unique quirks and intricacies about his twin had faded over forty plus years of estrangement— the one detail he knew he’d never forget was the sound of Ford crying.

Notably, the few times Stan witnessed him cry when they were kids, he actively avoided making a spectacle of his emotions. (Men like me sure as hell don’t cry, his pa had constantly chided them.) Unlike other children in their age group, Ford’s sobs always remained strained and purposefully held back, as if he were ashamed at himself for crying in the first place. From the sound of it Ford’s anger and hurt still materialized precisely the same way now. It was almost as if the clock had reversed and suddenly Stan too was twelve again, watching his twin run away in muffled tears after getting his face busted up by one of their childhood bullies.

Almost…

After all, this time it wasn't the bully Ford was running from.

“You an’ yer stupid mouth sure messed up this time,” he muttered bitterly, yanking his keys out of the ignition.

He unbuckled his seatbelt, a gnawing hollowness settling in his soul. Cloud cover smothered the sun. A hopelessly stubborn part of him wanted nothing more than to immediately chase after his brother and console him as he always did in their youth, but that desire was quickly overrun by whatever sense of reason he still possessed. He’d only make things worse if he followed now. He always did make things worse.

Guilt raged within his mind like a hurricane, uprooting insecurities and blowing old emotional wounds to the forefront of his consciousness with terrifying force. He did this to Ford. He made him cry. In his utter carelessness he jabbed at what he imagined was one of his greatest insecurities: that ultimately— even in mind and spirit— he was nothing more than the childlike appearance chance forced upon him. That all his years of experience were for naught, that somehow he’d... regressed. Stanley wrung his hands together so tightly he nearly popped his joints out of place, his mind cycling between tides of self-hatred and incomprehensible shame at the memory of watching the light of his brother’s soul eclipsed by his thoughtless comment.

Old bones creaking with trepidation, he exited the car and began to make his way towards the Shack. A few stray raindrops splattered atop his head in the seconds before he reached the covered porch. He strode into the gift shop, in search of any physical sign of his brother. However, the vending machine door was closed. Same with the entry to the house. Stan halted for a moment and listened, dimly wondering if he could pick up auditory clues as to where his brother went. As much as he’d love to avoid confronting his guilt for as long as possible, deep down he knew that this would threaten to completely overturn what little camaraderie they had left. (Because at present, the sad reality was that their relationship was riding on a thin wire no more dependable than a pathological liar in an interrogation room.) He doubted he’d forgive himself if he lost Ford all over again merely a day after getting him back.

His eyes slid with disinterest over the shelves of useless overpriced wares, focusing momentarily on the rain— now falling steadily outside— and then the keypad of the vending machine. Mind now firmly set on finding his brother, he strode towards the hidden passageway and entered the code. Miraculously, Ford hadn’t changed it.

At least, not yet.

Stan crept down the steep staircase, gently running his hand over the faint six-fingered handprint immortalized in glowing ink on the cracked stone. Despite not understanding his reasons for it, his twin was obviously drawn to this place in some manner. Yesterday evening, he had to fight to convince him to sleep anywhere except the thin cot he’d shoved in the corner of the basement lab. And early this morning Ford exiled himself downstairs long before anyone else woke up, only venturing to the main floor at, presumably, the insistence of his growling stomach. He’d bet his first dollar in sales that Ford holed away to his ‘lair’ in this instance, too.

The closer the elevator dropped to the basement however, the more tongue-tied he felt. What was one supposed to say in situations like these? Had he already made a fatal mistake, stalling for as long as he did? Or were the wounds still too fresh? How did he know that he wouldn’t bungle everything up all over again like he always seemed to do whenever he interacted with him, or that Ford would even be receptive to an apology? How long would he have to tip-toe around him, interact as if he were only fragile glass?

By the time he reached the lab, his skin felt clammy to the touch and his nerves were twisted into a steel ball. A sum of him just wanted to get this over with, like ripping the soiled dressing off of an infected wound, and yet he couldn’t deny that insidious voice within his core that desired nothing more than to run away. When had he ever improved the quality of his life by bending on his knees and groveling for forgiveness anyways? In his experience, ‘sorry’ hadn’t driven him any further than the Stanmobile running on two flats and fumes.

Besides a few computer backlights that were active and a few dull red lamps fixed around the perimeter, the lab was dark. Stanley felt the hairs on his neck prickle as he inhaled the stale air. Euugh. Despite spending years of solid time down here, he’d never gotten used to just how damn creepyFord’s sci-fi mystery basement felt. It didn’t take a genius to figure out his brother hadn’t hidden down here, however. Rather, the lab was empty and near-silent, except for the faint whir coming from one of the old IMB computer’s fans. He peaked into the portal room out of curiosity, finding much the same. Though interestingly, it appeared someone had begun to dismantle the machine.

The twisted metal frame was detached from its girders and wires, with a choice few parts cannibalized and scattered across the bedrock. So thismust have been what kept Ford so busy early this morning. Stan didn’t understand how his brother managed to disassemble this much that quickly considering his size, but leave it to him to figure out a workaround, he supposed. He couldn’t help but sulk at the sight of thirty years of his work lying in ruins, even though he knew he’d succeeded in the end.

As he turned to leave, a glint of reflected light coming from Ford’s bundled up overcoat on the desk caught his interest. Tentatively, he approached the small mangled coat. Whatever caused the light to bounce astray, it appeared metallic. Intrigue brewed within him as he captured the edge of the object with his index finger and thumb.

“Let’s see what you are,” he murmured, pulling it into the rosy glow of the safety lamp that was mounted over the entrance to the portal room. The object was a nondescript metal tin the length of his hand, with a clasp on one side. He unlatched it gently.

Inside were… photographs, mainly. A few scraps of paper with windswept notes or sketches on them. The photos were mostly polaroids, but a couple were fashioned out of a holographic material that projected the images into the air. Stan filtered through the contents, his gaze lingering with awe on a rather impressive photograph that depicted— he assumed— the night sky on an alien world. A lot of the objects inside the tin were similar, each acting as a small window into Ford’s travels: images of exotic, almost unearthly landscapes, rough sketches of creatures even stranger than those contained in his journals, a thin strip of blue dyed cloth, an elongated, pointed tooth. His hands brushed against a slip of paper covered in tallies. Written below those lines were a series of numbers ranging anywhere from fifty-five to sixty-four that had long since been scribbled out and replaced with a question mark.

The edge of Stan’s lips slumped downwards the longer he thought about what that hesitant question mark really meant. He set this piece of parchment aside to look at the next object in the tin.

To his surprise, Ford was actually pictured in the next photo— an adult Ford like he remembered, but appearing far older than he'd last seen him in 1982. In the photograph, his brother stood with his arm slung around another man’s shoulder, a wide smile on his face. His tousled hair had gone almost completely grey— peppered with silver around his ears— and deep creases lined the corners of his eyes and the contour of his cheeks. The wrinkles suited him, honestly. Made him look distinguished. Nonetheless, Stan’s heart dropped in his chest at the sight. He held the thick paper with white knuckles as the significance of this hit him. This was close to how Ford would have appeared if he hadn't been reverted into a child. Now obviously, Stan only needed to glance into the mirror to imagine what his brother would have roughly looked like at sixty two, but actually seeingthe way age settled on his face- even merely memorialized as a polaroid- was its own shock to the system.

Stanley stared at the photo for a long while, committing the image to memory. He flipped to the next photo.

His eyes blew wide. His wrists trembled as he held the last object in the tin with nothing less than reverence, than proof that perhaps he and Ford might still see eye to eye more than he initially realized. That maybe, they still had a chance to truly be brothers again.

“Oh Sixer, you old sap…” he said in a half-laugh, trying to blink away his tears.

In the tattered, faded image he held, two young boys stood proudly on a wrecked sailboat at the edge of the sea, shirtless and sunburnt.

The rain still pummeled away at the roof and walls of the Shack by the time Stan returned to the main floor. He frowned for a moment, distantly wondering if Dipper and Mabel brought anything to keep them dry while they tromped through the woods, but these fears quickly faded. They were resourceful kids. He knew they’d fare fine. He couldn’t say the same for Stanford, who hadn’t uttered a peep for the past goodness-knows-how-long.

As he quietly made his way through the hall, his eye lingered on the door of the spare room his brother slept in last night. The door was shut, but he could swear he heard something rustling inside. A hunch brewing in his gut, Stan knocked on the ornately carved wood.

“Hey, Ford?” he called softly. “You in here, buddy?”

As expected, no response.

He bit at his lip, considering his options: steel his nerves and face him while the wound was still fresh, or bide his time and risk destabilizing what little of a relationship he had with his brother all together. Inhaling steadily, he placed a solid hand on the door and pushed.

“Ford?”

He found the man in question huddling on his side against the couch cushions, his face hidden away and his legs curled tight to his chest. Both pairs of boots- shoplifted and his original- sat together on the floor, lined up perfectly side by side. Stan almost hated himself for letting his mind linger on such thoughts after what he’d said earlier, but... when juxtaposed by the size of the couch, Ford looked every bit of his apparent age. Slight. Defenseless. Perfectly childlike, like he were peering through a looking glass into the shadow of their glory days.

And yet there was a clear dissonance between the brother he remembered then and the person who wore his face now.

“I’m not in the mood for your excuses,” his brother muttered bitterly, burying his head further into the cushion.

“I- uh, I mean I’ll leave if ya’ really want me to,” he replied, scratching at the nape of his neck. “But just for the record, I didn’t come in here to make excuses, I came to—” Stanley swallowed his pride— “to apologize.”

At those words, his twin turned to glance at him with a dry, withering expression, mouth slackened and eyes hooded with distrust. “All right, cut to the chase. Which fey kingdom do you originate from and why did you replace my brother?”

The doubt of his sincerity sent a spike into his chest. “Come on,” he insisted, opening his hands. “It’s me, I swear.”

“The Stanley I know doesn’t apologize for anything,” Ford said bluntly, further narrowing his eyes.

Both brothers fell silent at this statement. Truthfully, Stan couldn’t argue with its accuracy. He took the occasion to drink in the sight of the brother’s face- to truly see him as he was in this moment- Ford’s seemingly youthful yet haunted gaze caught in Stan’s own. He tried to ignore the recognizable trail of dried tears that crossed his cheeks, or the lingering dampness of his eyes. They were messed up, the pair of them… old men with a lifetime of troubles to sort through and now on top of that, appearing generations apart. But Stan desperately wanted to make it up to him. His heart sank at the idea of his twin truly believing that his rare, vulnerable word- his apology- wasn’t sincere.

“Listen,” he began, slowly sinking to rest on the couch, adjacent to Ford. “The last thing I ever want ta’ do is hurt you. But I have ,” he said, voice wavering slightly. “And I hate seeing you like this, especially when- uh, w-when I know it’s ‘cause of me. I know it may not be worth nothin’ to you after everything I’ve done to ya’ over the years, but... I am sorry. You deserve better. I’ll try better.”

He took a breath, and he could swear the rainstorm outside paused alongside him within the span of that inhale. None of the oscillating emotions expressed in his brother’s features were anything he could easily recognize. The quirk of his lip or the incline of his brow possessed no meaning, for at this precise instant in time, Stanley simply couldn’t determine whether Ford intended to throw him out of the room, break into tears, or envelop him in a hug tighter than a person his size had any right of giving.

Instead, Ford sighed deeply, hunching over on the couch and cupping his cheeks into his hands. “I really appreciate that,” he said quietly. Then, his words bleeding into one another: “Of course, it’s not fair to say this was entirely your fault. I could have at least attempted to communicate my needs beforehand, o-or not have reacted so strongly, o-”

“Ford. Ford. Who’s sayin’ sorry here? Stop hijacking my apology, you nerd.”

This made his brother laugh a little, softly, but an unmistakable laugh. The sound of it touched Stan’s heart in a way he couldn’t quantify in words. Dimly, he came to the realization that this was the first laugh he’d heard out of him in over forty years. But same as the seasons changed, same as all the days Stanley’s bombastic, dramatized work persona slipped away past closing to be replaced with a long withered melancholy, so too did Ford’s brief moment of peace pass. A shadow passed over his countenance.

“I only wish I could find my place in all this,” he said in a broken whisper, pointedly avoiding eye contact.

Stan frowned, feeling the creases in his face deepen. “W- whatdya mean?”

His brother shrank into himself, pulling his knees to his chest.

“All that happened earlier only served to prove in my mind that everything’s just… wrong . It feels wrong. Changed. Put simply, I- I guess the world’s moved on without me.” Confession released to the world around him, he buried his head from sight once more, and took a deep, shaky breath to- Stan assumed- calm himself down from a cliff’s edge of emotional release.

“Oh, Sixer…” He attempted to lay a comforting hand on his brother’s shoulder, but to his disappointment Ford shrugged away from the affection entirely. “Come on, there’s gotta be some way we can fix this, right?”

“There’s no way to reverse this,” he said, voice cracking with emotion. “Trust me, I’ve tried nearly everything, but I’ve still been like this for three goddamn years."

“Three years?” Stan exclaimed, face painted with a polarized mixture of horror and remorse. “And this was when you were alone in that space sci-fi dimension?? Threatened by enough danger ‘round the clock that you were forced ta’ keep a damn gun at your hip at all times?”

Ford nodded slowly, eyes meeting his for an instant before flitting away.

He pressed his face into his calloused hands, roughly rubbing at his temples. “Sweet Moses. How the hell did you stay alive?”

“Honestly? I can’t rightly say.”

The two sat in relative silence for a while after that, allowing each other’s mere presence fill the gap their lack of words left. Outside, the storm continued- rain pouring in rivulets down the glass pane of the window. At some point, Ford had let his legs back down, allowing them to lightly swing over the side of the couch. Stan sat hunched forward, leaning on his elbows. He couldn't say for certain at this point what Ford’s opinion of him was, but in all honesty he supposed this was the vital difference between the predictable, amicable brother who existed for thirty years in his daydreams and the real item. Perhaps it was better not knowing.

Whatever the thoughts the man held towards him however, he was fairly confident that hatred was not one of them.

“Stan,” the man in question said eventually, wringing his hands together. “Can I tell you something?”

Hearing his name pass through his twin’s lips, he instantly perked up. “Yeah? What's on your mind?”

“Despite what I said yesterday, despite the anger I held towards you then, I'm really, really glad you rescued me…”

As he spoke his voice faded into obscurity, masked by a crushing sense of fear that no person bearing the childlike appearance he possessed had any right of knowing. He crossed his arms tight around himself, chin sinking into the folds of the dark maroon scarf he hadn't taken off since his return home. Fledgling tears dotted the corners of his eyes. Before those could gain any traction, he blotted them away with tightened fists. Watching this, Stan froze, worried that even the slightest movement or uttered syllable might be enough to burst the emotional dam Ford evidently wanted to remain closed.

Luckily, Ford himself chose to orient the direction of their talk once more, taking the conversational anxiety off Stan’s shoulders completely.

“It comes to my attention that I haven’t been forthright with you yet,” he said, staring at the wooden floor slats- and knowing him, likely analyzing the patterns formed by the grain to keep his mind stimulated. “About- well, about how all this came to be.” He gestured broadly at himself, at his gangly twelve year old body.

“Now, I don’t wanna force ya’ to talk about somethin’ that obviously bothers yo-”

“No. No, it’s okay... I want you to know. You deserve as much.”

“You sure?” Stan confirmed.

His twin nodded resolutely, and curled up on the couch so that he was facing him, legs crossed one over the other. His eyes peered as far up as they could reach, a clear signal that he was searching through his memories, beginning to piece together his past from the scattered recollections those neurons held.

“Not to complicate the story with superfluous detail,” Ford began, nervously clasping his hands together, “the events that lead me to this point started with… well, with the desire to construct a weapon powerful enough to eradicate an enemy who was hunting me down throughout dimensions.”

“And this enemy was, what, strong enough that your normal weapons wouldn’t do the trick?”

He gave a short, staccato nod. “Correct. Essentially, to destroy them, I needed to find a way to destabilize their very molecular makeup at a quantum level. I knew how to build it, but one of the required components could only be found in a single dimension, colloquially known by its inhabitants as the ‘Do-Over’ Dimension. And yes- where you think this is going is probably right” he said, jabbing his finger at him, and Stan knew at that moment that his attempts to conceal the fledgling dread he felt was all for naught.

Ford began gesturing with his hands as needed as he continued to explain his experiences. “You see, the problem with this dimension is that their time stream was fragmented. The very nature of time was in constant flux. Here, time could move forwards or backwards in any sequence without pattern or warning. Inhabitants might experience hours, weeks, or even entire years of their lives completely over again, all while still retaining full memory of every cycle. Even visitors to this world weren’t absolved from its effects”

“And you willingly stepped into a place like this?” Stan asked his twin quietly, brow furrowed.

“I had no choice. Like I said, this dimension was the only place I could find the specific isomer of a rare element stable enough to use in my weapon. I knew the dangers of entering far in advance… and yet I went anyways.”

“So, you made a gamble.”

“Put bluntly, yes. It was a gamble against the universe that the time stream would remain relatively stable during my visit. One that, ultimately, blew up in my face. Ironically however,” Ford continued, his eyes narrowing with deep irritance, “the Do Over Dimension hadn’t experienced a Great Rewind for centuries until the one I was caught amid.”

Stanley watched as his brother limply fell backwards, meeting the rear cushion of the couch. Frustration and bitter anger painted his face when simply recalling his story; as such, Stan couldn’t begin to imagine what it must have been like to live through such a traumatic experience. Slowly- so as to not spook him with unexpected movement- he slung his arm over the couch back.

From outside, a distant roll of thunder sounded alongside the July rainstorm.

“And I was so close to completing my mission!” he growled, shaking a tight fist that likely had little half-moon indentations in his palm where his nails were. “I had the element in hand, I was only hours away from exiting the dimension… when without any warning, time slipped about fifty years into the past, and I found myself physically reverted to the size of a eight or nine year old kid. What’s scary is that despite my misfortune, I still got lucky. For any visitors to the dimension who weren’t over fifty years of age, they would have simply perished. Ceased to exist.”

“Well damn,” Stan muttered, right hand pressed to mouth and left still lightly slung around his brother’s shoulder, resting on the seat cushion.

“Damn is right. I had a hard enough time traversing the multiverse as an adult, so to add this as a hinderance?” Ford looked up, meeting his gaze. “It was hell. Most days I barely managed to get the nutrients I needed to remain healthy in this growing body. I’m sure I’ve fallen close to malnourishment more than once. Adding onto that, physically defending myself the way I used to became a near impossibility. And thanks to the constant threat of… of the interdimensional child slave trades, I feel like I can’t trust anyone in a crowd anymore.”

Fresh teardrops prickled at the corners of his eyes as he spoke, glistening in the dim lighting of the parlor. Ambient light from outside shone through the blue and green stained glass window. It cut a clear path through the shadows cast by the rest of the room, illuminating one side of each of the brother’s faces. With a soft, sympathetic sigh, Stan let his hand drop onto Ford’s shoulder. Letting him know he was there beside him as he blinked through the tears.

“I’m sorry you had ta’ go through this.”

“It’s not your fault,” Ford said with a shrug, voice thick in that way it gets when one’s deliberately trying to hold back the full brunt of their emotions. “It’s not anyone’s fault. It’s just… time, really.”

It’s not your fault, his mind echoed his words. And inwardly, he’d love to believe that were true. He’d love to delude himself that he were entirely blameless. But as much as he wanted to take Ford’s statement to heart, all he could see was the memory that had replayed in both his nightmares and in every waking moment he spent fixing the portal, flickering through his subconscious with a frightening vivacity. The force of his hands against Ford’s chest. His terrified screams, “Stanley! Stanley please,” shredding his vocal cords in unbridled desperation. The almost sickeningly blue glow of the portal swallowing his brother whole while he, in his worthless, wounded body couldn’t do anything more than gape in abject horror.

Frankly, everything that happened to the guy on the other side was his fault, far as he was concerned. But fat luck trying to convince Ford of this. Ford, whose abject blame of the universe only served as deflection from the blame he truly placed on his own actions. Stan wasn’t an idiot. He recognized what guilt spiraling looked like.

He glanced towards his twin from the corner of his eyes, and gave his shoulder a pat. “Well I’m sorry for ya’ anyway.” Another relevant thought from earlier today entered his mind then, and he turned towards him inquisitively. “Hey, so don’t feel like ya’ gotta answer this if it’s anythin’ too uncomfy, alright? But... why were you so adamant on the townsfolk not thinkin’ I was your pa, or grandpa, or whatever?”

While it was subtle, he could visibly see the muscles in Ford’s shoulders flinch at the movement of their conversation to this topic.

“Okay, we uh, w-we can talk about something else then,” he said hastily, pulling his arm back to allow him some space. Or perhaps it was time to leave him alone entirely. “Guess I shouldn’t ‘ave brought it u-”

“It’s because you’re my last connection to the past,” Ford blurted out suddenly. “Of who I really am. I don’t- I didn’t want that perverted by having to spend every day in public living a lie. Not now. Not when I’m like this,” he said, gesturing broadly down at himself.

Stan frowned at the unclear wording in his statement. “What do you mean, ��perverted?’”

He stared down at his six fingers, wringing them together. “Well, I uh- sometimes, these past three years… I often found myself in a place where it felt like my memory almost- I guess, like my mind wanted to forget. Over time, it became hard to remember that I’d ever had any other childhood. And now,” he said more quietly, looking for all the world as if he wanted to slip through the floorboards and away to his basement, “faced with the reality of having to grow up all over again, I- that still scares me.”

Stan nodded slowly, thinking he understood the scenario from his perspective a little more. He placed his hands firmly on either side of his twin’s shoulders, looking at him earnestly.

“Ford, no matter what we tell those townsfolk, you’re my brother. First off. You better believe I’ll remind ya’ every day for the rest of my life, if I have to. And that’s never gonna change, y’hear? It doesn’t matter to me if ya’ look like a kid, ‘cause far as I’m concerned, you’re still you. Still as nerdy and annoying of a twin bro as I remember, anyways! Hah!” he exclaimed, and gave Ford’s head a noogie, fist ruffling through his untamed brown locks.

His brother let out a giggle, pushing his hands away in protest, and for the first time the smile on his lips truly reached his eyes.

“But hey,” Stan continued, expression growing genuine again. “From now on, whatever explanation we give ta’ other people about ‘who you are?’ We’ll figure that out on your terms. I won’t force ya’ to behave a certain way in public or in private because of some perceived ‘relation.’ That fair?”

“Yeah.” Ford nodded slowly. “Yeah, that’s fair.”

“Good. You… d’ya want a hug?”

He held his arms open. To his delight Ford accepted the offer of affection without hesitation. He wrapped his smaller arms as tight around his middle as possible, and buried his face into his shoulder.

“Stanley?” he whispered.

“Yeah?”

“Thank you.”

Beyond the walls of the Shack, the rain stopped.

#my writing stuff #gravity falls #stanley pines #stanford pines #stan and ford #gravity falls fanfiction #smaller than he seems au #THERE we go #there's the tumblr text version #its by habit that i always like posting it in full text form here too

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swissmissficrecs · 8 years ago

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First-Person POV Fics

I just saw a post complaining about first person POV fics and I was all ??!!??!? because some of my FAVORITE fics are in the first person, to wit:

(Disclaimer: This is by no means an exhaustive list of all the first-person POV fics in my bookmarks. This is just the ones that were appropriately tagged. If I have time I’ll go through more closely and make a second list.)

Act IV by SilentAuror (39K, Johnlock, Explicit) After Sherlock is shot, John moves back into Baker Street. They spend the autumn together as John tries to make sense of his life and make some important decisions about both Mary and Sherlock. Canon-compliant, excerpts from His Last Vow.

Against the Rest of the World by SilentAuror (151K, Johnlock, Explicit) Sherlock has been away from London for nine hundred and twelve days and counting, and has no idea what sort of reception to expect when he finally returns. Post-Reichenbach.

Anyone Else by SilentAuror (39K, Johnlock, Explicit) Sherlock is in the middle of a case involving a vigilante serial killer when he discovers that John has been cheating on Mary, and not with him.

Coming of Age by 221b_careful_what_you_wish_for (13K, Johnlock, Mature) It’s not easy growing up when your father is best friends with Sherlock Holmes. It’s even harder when you stumble across their secret.

He Was a Friend of Mine by SinceWhenDoYouCallMe_John (38K, Johnlock, Explicit) Sherlock presses his nose into my hair and inhales. “Told myself the whole way here we wasn’t gonna get into this again,” he says low. His breath moves soft against my scalp, and his words rumble deep into my bones. It sounds like the open sky throwing wind against the boulders up on Baker, rattling the thin walls of the tent with the rushing force of the mountain.I hum. I don’t believe him for a second – steppin’ out of his gleaming white Ford back in Signal with his best shirt on and his curls all combed lookin’ up at me like he just took a breath after five years of holding it.I know because I did the same.

Hounds by quietasasleepingarmy (21K, Johnlock, Explicit) Sherlock enlists John's help with a case that falls far beyond his area of expertise. Post-HLV.

Mind the Gap by sweetcupncakes (45K, Johnlock, Explicit) An introspective journey through the life and relationships of Sherlock Holmes. "I can hear the bones hum beneath pale and freckled skin, this sack that holds my form together. Bits and pieces that start at the bottom and end at the top, hiding the blood, muscle, fat. Cells, knit together, constantly in motion. They'll live and die, and replicate, until total equilibrium is met."

Not Broken, Just Bent by Schmiezi (87K, Johnlock and Warstan, Explicit) "For a second, I allow myself to remember teaching John how to waltz. There is a special room in my mind palace for it. A big one, with a proper parquet dance floor. For a second, I go there. I remember holding him, closer than the World Dance Council asks for, excusing it with the fact that we are training for a wedding, not for a competition. For a second, I feel his hand on mine again, smell his sweat, hear the song we used. For a second, I allow myself to love him deeply. For a second, only a second, that love reflects on my face." Fix-it for S3, starting at the end of TSoT. Written from Sherlock's POV. If you like to see Mary as one of the good guys, you might want to stop reading right here.

Penumbra by Saki101 (46K, Johnlock, Explicit) A gothic AU of the Sherlock universe inspired by the universe of Dark Shadows (the television series), presented in four episodes*, and written for the Miniseries March Challenge at Fall TV Season Sherlock. Preview: In Maine, there was Collinwood and the three centuries of history that were woven into its walls. In London, there is Holmeswood Manor (or the Manor on Baker Street as the urban legends have it), tucked now into a city street when once its oak woods rolled from the heath to the river. John’s grown up with its stories of ghosts and wizards and things that hunt in the night. They are certainly not going to keep him from interviewing for a residential post at the Manor because he cannot afford London on an army pension and there could not possibly be any truth to the tales.

Pattern Behaviour by SilentAuror (14K, Johnlock, Explicit) Sherlock doesn't even know why he resents John's dates so much. Until the day he does know. Slight angst, unrequited feelings (but don't let that scare you off!)

Shallow Grave by SilentAuror (31K, Johnlock, Explicit) Starts as Sherlock's plane is taking off at the end of His Last Vow. When he finds out that Moriarty is alive and that he's being recalled from his mission, Sherlock decides that he should have told John how he felt before he left. So he walks off the plane and kisses him.

Table for One by SilentAuror (13K, Johnlock, Mature) Sherlock has returned to London, only to find that the John he left behind has changed. Why is he spending so much time alone in cafés, hardly eating, limping again? Why has he become so beige? Sherlock slowly begins to realise that this is not going to be as easy as he had thought.

The Quiet Man by ivyblossom (157K, Johnlock and Warstan, Explicit) "Do you just carry on talking when I'm away?"

The Progress of Sherlock Holmes by ivyblossom (62K, Johnlock and Warstan, Explicit) “I had,” he said, “come to an entirely erroneous conclusion, my dear Watson, how dangerous it always is to reason from insufficient data.”

The Road Less Traveled by verityburns (56K, Johnlock, Mature) Sherlock realises that John's dating habits involve an unacceptable level of risk... what if he meets an unusually tolerant woman and ends up getting married?

The Semantics of Crop Circle Formation: a case study by Sherlock Holmes [unpublished] by canolacrush (41K, Johnlock, Mature) "Look at these photographs," I said, gesturing to the wall of crop circles. "What do you observe?" "Crop circles," John replied."Obvious. What else?" "Are...are those intestines surrounding them?" "Yes. The majority are bovine and ovine in origin. The farmers who have acquired these crop circles in their fields have also had a tenth of their livestock murdered and arranged thus." "Why?" John said, presumably in a rhetorical fashion.I detest rhetorical questions. "That is what I must find out, John."

Through the Looking Glass by obsidienne (96K, Johnlock, Mature) When you chase criminals over rooftops, death is always a possibility. We woke up in 1889 instead. Which is not a place two men in a relationship want to be.

Tomorrow’s Song by agirlsname (24K, Johnlock, Mature) How can he think a relationship with me would be a good idea? I am the sort of person to take a break from my life and when I come back after two years, I expect to find it exactly as I left it. In reality I find it shattered to pieces. (I actually equate you with my life. When did I start doing that?)

#rec list

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