#gyro always felt like he’d be one of THOSE parents you know?

[writebackatya]

“I built a sophisticated robot who is capable of many things and he has decided to those abilities to blindfold himself and play a game where you get candy by mindlessly batting a papier-mâché project shaped like a donkey. It’s fine! I’m fine! Everything is fine!”

[breitzbachbea]

Day 3: Culture [TurGre]

My second entry for @aphrarepairweek2021! Some embers don't warm you, but they still burn.

Ship: Turkey/Greece (Sadık Adnan/Herakles Karpuzi) Set in a Human/Organized Crime AU Read it here on ao3

The Turkish words are translated at the bottom - I marked the words in red, so that you can easily find where you left off if you jump to the translations!

The Iraqui kid that Sadık mentions in one of his memories is supposed to be APH Iraq. However, since I didn't have the time to look at Iraq OCs so far, they sadly have neither gender nor name as of right now. Or you could interpret it as them being non-binary. Whatever suits you. From what I could gather after a brief look at Iraq's history, I'd interpret them to be younger than Sadık in the same way Herakles is younger than him.

Much thanks once more to @amber-isnt-a-precious-stone for betareading this oneshot!

Küllerinden

The last rays of sun, not yet obscured by the taller mountains, fell through the trees’ leaves.

Sadık pinched his eyes shut and pulled a face. He wished he would have brought sunglasses with him.

Herakles yawned. The next moment, Sadık heard the old patio couch creak and the shuffle of the cushions. A warm, but heavy weight came down on his thigh and he opened his eyes to look down.

“Get off my lap,” he buzzed. “I’ve gotta make coffee.”

“Thought you were still waiting for the sand to heat up.” Herakles hadn’t even opened his eyes.

Sadık brushed a streak of hair out of Herakles’ face. “Should be ready any moment now.”

He’d been itching to do something since this afternoon. Herakles had made them dinner hours earlier – chicken gyros, so that it’d be halal.

At first, Sadık had enjoyed to kick back on the couch while Herakles cooked. Had indulged in the sounds that came from the kitchen and the feeling that had made his heart feel lighter with every beat.

But the feeling had worn off over time. The book he had been reading wasn’t very interesting. One of these stray cats that Herakles let in and out of his house as if they owned it had glared at him from the armchair. He had grown restless.

He enjoyed cooking, after all, even more so for other people.

“Herakles?” He had called from the living room.

“What?”

“Do you need any help?”

“No.”

Sadık had grunted to himself with brows furrowed. He glared back at the cat.

At one point, he had gotten up and strolled into the kitchen.

“Are you sure you don’t need help?”

Herakles had looked up from the rice he’d been washing and glared at him. “Yes. Just go back and take a nap or something.”

Sadık had surveyed the ingredients that laid around, half chopped up at times. “I ain’t sleepy.” A cat had jumped onto one of the kitchen chairs. “Maybe you need someone to keep the cats from eating our dinner.”

“I don’t. You really don’t need to be here,” Herakles had insisted. The cat had jumped onto the table.

Sadık had been kicked out of the kitchen after an argument and being hit in the face with a spoon. The fucking cat had been allowed to stay.

Now most of the cats were gone. Out on the town to wreak havoc. Hunt mice. Serenade each other.

“C’mon, off me now,” Sadık told Herakles. The sun had finally disappeared behind the mountains and stopped poking his eyes out.

Herakles lifted his head and Sadık stood up.

They had to improvise a little, but managed to find a large enough cast-iron pan and a bag of sand. Sadık picked up the long handle of the coffee pot and twirled it twice in his hands.

When he had been a child and travelled all around the Levant with his parents, Sadık had been delighted to see the same thing in every place. Especially because at first, the ritual had seemed like magic to him. The cezve – or ibrik or kanaka or any of the thousand other names it went by – that glided so effortlessly through the smooth hot sand. The foam that bubbled after a few minutes, that threatened to spill but never did.

Mohamed had done it for him the first time he had visited Egypt alone, after his mother’s death. He’d been a grown man by then and his heart had beaten slower since Funda had died, his head heavy with all the shit she’d left him to deal with.

But for this brief evening, he had watched Mohamed slide the kanaka through the hot sand and felt again as if he was seeing magic being worked.

After he had slid the pot through the sand to see if it’d work and then held his hand close to the bottom to see if it had been hot enough, he picked up the coffee grinder. He had an electrical one at home, both in Istanbul and Ankara, and so did Herakles, but using it tonight had rubbed both of them the wrong way. To leave the garden and have the loud mechanic shredding cut through the birds chirping and the dull sound of the city. So Sadık did it by hand, as he did every time he visited his father.

It was probably the best use he had for his strength that had been made necessary by the life he was living. A life his father had no interest in partaking in anymore ever since his wife had died and a life Sadık had little interest in telling him about either. Alaattin had made the right call by moving into the countryside and now using all the time in the world to grind his coffee by hand and light up a charcoal fire to make sand coffee in the evening.

Sadık finally put the coffee grinder down and poured some water into the pot.

There was the distinct sound of heavy fabric rubbing against each other behind his back and he looked over his shoulder.

Herakles had shifted on the couch and watched him with eyes half–lidded.

“Do you want to do that now, too?” Sadık asked him.

“No. I think it’s good that you’ve finally got something to busy yourself with,” Herakles replied and Sadık chortled.

He wondered if Herakles would struggle with the sand. He still remembered when he had been a teen, his parents had just met with their Iraqi partners, who had brought their kid along. When he had dragged them out into the city at night, Sadık had seen the same spark of recognition in the kid’s eyes when they saw the pans filled with hot sand.

He hadn’t expected that spark in Herakles’ eyes when he had told him about it a few weeks later during a visit to Athens.

“Oh, we do that, too. But not with sand.”

“Then what do you use?”

“There’s a shop in town that’s got a fire going to roast nuts and stuff and when they’re about to close, they make coffee in the ashes. I can show it to you, if your … parents would allow it.”

“Yeah, yeah, don’t worry about it, I’ll find an excuse.”

Sadık slowly moved the pot along the sand. He lifted it and did it a second time, but quickly pulled it out when too much vapor rose from it. He dropped a few spoons of ground coffee into it and one of sugar. Herakles sometimes liked his coffee toothrottingly sweet, but Sadık wasn’t going to do that with the first batch.

“You’re not doing it the Greek way,” Herakles remarked.

“Why would I?” Sadık replied, focused on the task at hand. He ran the pot through the sand, lifted it and began the movement anew. “It’s similar enough, besides, you like it my way just fine.”

Herakles replied nothing. Some car drove through the neighbourhood. The birds had shut up. The embers of the charcoal fire and a few, distant streetlamps, all in different directions, were the only light.

He heard the couch creak. Herakles feet slapped onto the tiles, before he reached the grass and the ground swallowed the sound. He lit the electric lanterns in the garden.

“I thought of when I first told you about Turkish sand coffee,” Sadık said and laughed. “Can’t believe I was surprised to learn that you Greeks did it, too. Shoulda seen that one coming, Greece isn’t so different from the rest of what used to be Ottoman territory.”

Herakles turned the last lantern on.

“Hm,” he said and walked back to the couch. “We also share a lot of culture with the Balkans.”

Like that pork that I don’t eat. Dinner had been good, Herakles knew how to cook after all. He tried to concentrate on the warm, satisfying feeling of fullness. Not the twinge that Herakles’ words had caused for some reason.

“And I bet that some of that is also due to Ottoman rule,” Sadık said with a grin. “You know, like those spas in Hungary.” He lifted the pot from the sand, since the coffee was almost done anyways, and turned to look at Herakles.

Herakles was sitting up, one foot propped onto the couch and hands clasped together over his knee. “I suppose that’s part of it,” he replied and his voice is as soft as the face that’s framed by locks of brown hair and warm orange light. Sadık allowed himself to stare for a moment. “Is the coffee done?”

“Almost.” He got back to swiping it across the sand. “You know, it’s a pity, if you think about it. We’ve got so much in common, Turks and Greeks, and yet, we can’t get along. Wonder why.”

He shouldn’t have said that. Sadık knew he should not have said that.

Herakles couldn’t keep his voice low and soft, no matter how hard he surely tried. There was an edge to the words: “Probably because you people always act like you own everything.”

Sadık turned to look at him and saw the slightest furrow between Herakles’ brows.

A deeper one settled between his own. “That’s because you people can’t see further than your own nose,” he replied. “If you could get your head out of your own ass, maybe you wouldn’t think everyone’s out to get yours when they just try to be closer.”

Something hissed. Sadık whirled around.

The coffee had spilled over and one drop had hit the sand, which now sizzled as it congealed.

“Siktir!” he shouted and took the pot off the sand. He slammed it down so hard on the tablet he feared it might break and looked at the pan. He turned back to the tablet, grabbed a spoon and scooped the wet sand out of the pan. He flung it to the ground, where it disappeared between blades of grass.

His chest heaved. He felt his heartbeat thrum in his throat. He closed his eyes, but it didn’t help the dizziness that unfolded in his skull.

“Are you alright?” Herakles asked. His voice was soft and flat again. Because there was too much to be said, but nothing that they hadn’t yelled at each other before.

“Yeah,” Sadık said. He swallowed. He picked up the pot and peered inside. There were splashes of coffee on its rim from when he had slammed it down.

Again, the shuffle of fabric and Herakles’ steps. “I’ll throw it away,” he said. A moment later, he put his hand around the handle. His fingers overlapped with Sadık’s.

Sadık didn’t dare to look up at him, lest he did something he’d regret.

“I’ll make some again,” he said and let Herakles take the pot from him.

“Mhm.” That was the only response. Herakles’ steps receded and disappeared into the house.

Sadık dared to lift his head and to breathe, before he staggered back. Away from the coal’s heat that had been lapping at his thighs and arms the whole time. He sat down in the grass and took deep breaths to get the adrenaline out of his system.

Because the backdoor was still open, as was the kitchen window, he could hear Herakles rinse the pot.

You ruined the coffee. He closed his eyes and his head throbbed, because he knew that was what Herakles had wanted to say instead of Are you alright?

He hadn’t said it, because he didn’t want another fight. Or maybe because he hadn’t thought it at all, he tried to remind himself, because Sadık didn’t want another fight either.

He wanted a cup of coffee and Herakles next to him. He wanted talks about philosophy. He wanted to hang onto the other’s lips when they told about mythology and he wanted him to hang onto his own when he recited poetry. More than anything, he wanted to kiss those lips and taste all the godforsaken sugar that Herakles would’ve made him put into their third cup of coffee and have his tongue explore his mouth as if to lick every single last grain of it away himself.

“Tired?”

Sadık jumped when Herakles’ spoke up next to him.

“Lord, one would think you’re a fucking cat yourself with how you sneak up on me.”

“I didn’t sneak up on you. You just were somewhere else.” Herakles looked down on him, with eyes half lidded, and held the pot out so casually that it almost slipped from his fingers.

Yeah, in a far better place than the one we ended up in.

Sadık got to his feet and took it from him.

“Thanks, canım,” he said, voice soft and flat but exhausted, because he was worse at pretending without his mask. He brushed Herakles’ cheek with the back of his knuckles.

Herakles didn’t look at him. He wrapped his own fingers around his hand for a second.

The second passed and Herakles walked back to the couch. Sadık’s fingers felt even colder than before.

He twirled the handle twice. He’d make some coffee and it’d be delicious and if they kept their mouths shut, maybe he’d get to taste it on Herakles’ tongue.

~*~

"Siktir!" = Fuck! (A little bit more accurately: Get fucked!) "Canım" = My heart; My soul. Term of endearment.

[gladly-be-the-good]

"Hi I'm Boyd, a definitely real boy! Do you want to see the lab?" Danny raised an eyebrow as his eyes narrowed in suspicion.

"Suuure." Jazz smiled widely at the little boy bot and said, enthusiastically,

"We'd love to!" Boyd reached out for their hands. Jazz took his immediately while Danny shoved his hands in his pockets. Boyd didn't seem too discouraged, so Gyro wouldn't eject the moody teen from his lab, yet.

As soon as they were in another room Boyd started taking.

"This is where Dr. Gearlose first thought up the Gizmoduck armor! He made it as a tool to help around the lab, but then Dr- um, I mean, someone totally random that I definitely don't know and love, nailed it, wanted to help people all over duckburg, and beyond!"

"So he's a good person then? Not someone who would be upset with another superhero reaching out to him?" Jazz asked.

This little boy was clearly incapable of subterfuge, so his goodness was genuine. She could trust him as much as she could trust any other sweet ten year old.

"Oh yes! He loves when he gets to work with other heroes! He needs breaks sometimes and is happy for any help he can get."

"Is he someone that would approve of, I don't know, magic or ghosts or underaged superheroes?" Boyd smiled at her, taking her words at face value even as Danny, who had been listening carefully, shot them both incredulous looks.

"You've never met Mr. McDuck before have you? He employs Gizmoduck and he has a ghost butler! And a niece that used to be a spirit and is entirely magic. We even have an intern here who is.... I don't actually know, but he's really nice too! And as far as thinking kids can't be heroes, he wanted me to be one! And he works with Darkwing who has a sidekick that's twelve. Here at McDuck enterprises, we follow rule 53 in the Junior woodchuck guidebook! Greet the unknown with an open mind and an open heart."

"Wow. You people are basically perfect aren't you?" Danny asked sarcastically. He didn't like where Jazz was going with this and he really didn't need a little kid, who obviously couldn't lie to save his life, knowing a secret that would get Danny killed. Or, more killed, at least.

"Oh no, nothing is perfect. Even machines are flawed."

"So Boyd, tell me about Dr. Gearlose?" Jazz interrupted, a nervous lilt in her voice.

"Dr. Gearlose is amazing!" Boyd exclaimed, spinning in a circle with his arms above his head. Danny swore he saw a rainbow in the background. "It's a secret, so don't tell him please, but I like to call him Dr. Dad."

"He's your dad?"

"Well I don't exactly have a dad, but he was the one who created me so- I mean, in the way that all kids, are, created, dude?" Little bulb smacked his head, the sound of metal hitting glass was the only sound in the room as Jazz and Boyd both looked nervously at Danny, though Boyd was looking at Jazz too.

Poor, sleep deprived Danny, who had grown up with awkward Tucker as a best friend, just blinked slowly and said,

"So, are we gonna learn about any of the science stuff here or just your family?"

"Oh! Yes! Those two things are definitely separate things! Over here we have, uh, no that's for Gizmoduck, but this upgrade is-! Oh, no, that's for me, me phone! Yup. Me phone. Ha ha hahahaha. I'm a definitely real boy!!" The kid started shaking and looked so stressed.

Jazz big sister mode: activated.

"Boyd, come here." He ran to her without hesitation. She hugged him and said, "I know you're a robot-"

"He's a what?!"

"And we don't care. Do we Danny?" Jazz emphasized her messing with a sharp glare. Danny raised his hands in submission.

"Nope. Totally cool with the robot boy. I'm just surprised."

"How? How are you surprised by this? When was the last time you got a good night's sleep?"

"Oh come on, Tucker pretended he was secretly a robot for nine months when we were kids."

"You, aren't scared?" Jazz cooed and held Boyd tighter.

"How could anyone be scared of someone so sweet?!"

"A lot of people used to think I was bad, a lot of people still do. Even Dr. Gearlose was worried I was going to hurt people, that that's all I could do." This was a story Danny knew all too well. He looked away and scuffed his shoe against the floor.

"So, what changed?"

"I don't know, actually. One second my programming is being overwritten to terrorise the world, the next I'm being held." Danny moved his hands out of his pockets so he could cross his arms tightly against his chest.

"And you've never worried about, I mean, the guy's a scientist, robotics especially, aren't you worried he'll open you up one day to, to see what's inside? Or break you down for spare parts?' Boyd rubbed his chin.

"I, never thought about that before. I don't think he would, because he loves me. But maybe..." Boyd's chin started to wobble. "What, what If I disappoint him? What if I hurt somebody on accident and I'm too dangerous to be online anymore!?" Little bulb burned a bright red and shook a first at Danny.

"Woah, sorry, just um, stop that? Please? I'm sure your dad loves you too much to ever turn you off okay?" Boyd wiped at his eyes, even though he couldn't cry, and said, desperation and fear in his voice,

"I'll go ask him!" He jumped out of Jazz's arms and ran to the conference room.

"Boyd!"

When they burst into the room, Scrooge McDuck was standing on the table waving his cane in the air.

"Now see here you huanter hunting hooligans-!"

"Dr. Gearlose!" Gyro, the only person in the room that had still been sitting, bolted to his feet and caught Boyd as he jumped into his arms. Gyro instinctively cradled the boy bot and glared at the other kids. Boyd was literally vibrating. Fenton, who was already standing, watched with worried eyes. This was going to end badly.

"You. What did you do to Boyd?" He growled. Little bulb hopped from the chair to the table to Boyd and pat his little brother's head.

"Our kids didn't do anything! We've raised them to be fine upstanding citizens!" Maddy insisted.

"That's right! They know how dangerous ghosts are, don't you kids?" Danny felt all the emotions, guilt, regret, bitterness, jealousy, fear, resentment, building inside of him. It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair for him to be angry because Boyd had parents who loved him no matter what. It also wasn't fair that Danny didn't. He was so tired of always being scared to go home. Of having to run away from his parents as they shot to kill or capture. If they knew what he was, Danny didn't doubt for a moment that the only reason they'd want him alive would be to dissect him. The fact that Jazz had been asking questions about the heroes here proved that she knew the same thing.

"In my experience," Danny said, voice carefully controlled, "ghosts are very dangerous." His parents looked over at the table of angry strangers victoriously. It was the proudest they'd seemed of Danny in a long time. Seeing Boyd, burying his face in his Dr Dad's chest, he felt the words coming out, and with them all the pain and resentment he'd felt for so long, all before he could try to stop it. "But so are people. In my experience."

"Danny, what are you saying?"

"And you don't just throw away a person because they cause you trouble!" He continued. Looking Boyd directly in the eyes as the younger boy had turned his head. "You don't break them down into usable parts, or molecules. Because they feel things and want things and love things! They're just like anyone else!"

"Danny, what has gotten into you?!" Danny walked right up to Boyd and said softly,

"The only people who don't believe that, they," Danny swallowed past the lump in his throat and the realization that came with saying the truth out loud. "They don't really love you." Boyd sniffed and held out a fist. Danny smirked wryly and bumped it with his own.

"What are you talking about? Ghosts don't have feelings, you know this."

"Do we though? Do we even know why they haunt people? Even if they are just, just bad, we don't have to tear them apart." He implored. This was the first time he'd contradicted his parents. This was the closest he would ever get to asking if they could really love him, spooky bits and all.

They weren't even looking at him anymore, they were holding at each other.

"He gets this from you, you know." Jack said, arms crossed.

"What?!"

"Well we Fentons sure don't have that kind of open mindedness."

"I'll say! Who's idea is it out Fenton before everything we own?!" Jack, clearly offended, raised his voice.

"It's called branding! It was your idea to bring the kids with us anyway! It'll be good for them Jack, they'll experience different cultures. Look at what cultural diversity did! It poisoned our impressionable son's mind against ghost hunting!"

"Well excuse me for wanting our children to be educated!"

Danny sighed and his shoulders slumped. His courage died inside of him.

"I was only kidding. Haha. Let's go back to Amity and live in ignorance for the rest of our lives." Jack's face lit up.

"Atta boy!"

"Honestly Jack, he's clearly lying."

"Danny wouldn't do that, we raised him better than to lie, at least to his old man."

"Kids, RV, now. Jack, we'll be discussing this later." She turned back to the scientists and said, professionally, "Thank you for your time, sorry it was a waste for us both." Boyd waved hesitantly, still sniffing,

"Bye Jazz, by Danny." Danny offered a single wave of his hands before slumping it the door. Jazz waited a moment after her parents were gone too. She hurried and took the card she'd made for just this purpose and handed it quickly to Boyd.

"See you soon." She whispered. She was almost at the door when Jack poked his head back in.

"Come on Jazz, we don't need these ghost-lovers."

"Coming dad." Just like that the Fenton family was gone. Scrooge, still standing on top of the table, summed up the feelings of the group pretty well.

"What in dismal downs just happened here?!"

[wherefancytakesme]

“Mistakes”

(BOYD gets to spend the afternoon with Gyro, then Mark Beaks shows up and brings on emotions that BOYD has never had to face before.)

The day so far had been one of harmless goings-on and quiet excitement. BOYD went to school with his adoptive brother Doofus Drake, for once not being as much the studious little database he always was in class—he was going to meet with Gyro Gearloose and Fenton Crackshell-Cabrera after school, and it filled him to the brim with joy.

Since the day he’d reunited with his creator, BOYD loved spending time with the scientist, always awaiting a time when he would call the Drakes over the phone and ask to pick their ‘younger’ son up and bring him to the underwater lab. Gyro always said he needed to perform regular checkups and maintenance on the little android, but BOYD was hoping secretly that it was also about spending time together; The doctor was becoming gentler now that everything in the past was behind them.

Regardless, BOYD’s feet were bouncing lightly under his desk with the anticipation of it all the way until the final school-bell rang—any excuse to see Gyro, someone he considered so close, gave his mechanical heart inexplicable delight.

Finally when class had let out for the day, BOYD took Doofus’ hand, smiling, and pulled him gently along.

��Come on, come on, big brother! Dr. Gearloose and Dr. Crackshell-Cabrera are waiting outside!”

Doofus grunted. His parents had strictly told him to be on his nicest behavior in front of Scrooge McDuck’s scientist, especially for his little brother’s sake—and to say nothing at all if he hadn’t anything nice to say—or else not expect any dessert for the next several weeks. He threw a fit, of course, but eventually resigned to not ruin anything for BOYD—or his chance at still being allowed to eat an ice cream float every night—and let BOYD have all the ice cream for himself.

Some part of Doofus’ subconscious didn’t mind the constant company of someone his own age. But all the unpleasantness that buried such feelings from his thoughts and actions that proved Louie Duck right kept the boy from understanding any of that, and so he simply allowed BOYD to pull him along—small as he was, the android could easily overtake his brother—and decided to be pouty but uncharacteristically quiet the rest of the day—though not altogether unhappy.

When the two boys reached the front gate, Gyro and Fenton were waiting at the entrance. The latter grinned and waved a friendly hand. The former smiled a bit more visibly than he’d have liked to when BOYD ran out to him.

“Dr. Gearloose!” BOYD called out, immediately throwing his arms around Gyro’s knees.

The gesture pushed Gyro to hide his previous smile by putting a fist to his mouth and clearing his throat. But his tone wasn’t harsh.

“It’s nice to see you, 2BO—er—BOYD.”

He had no idea how to greet Doofus Drake, however. He groaned with his mouth closed, awkwardly, and looked away, but Doofus had nothing to say either anyway.

“Are we going to the lab right away?” BOYD asked with bright eyes.

“Well I have an errand to run in town first, but it shouldn’t take long.”

Fenton chimed in;

“We could make a fun outing of it! Uh—nothing that would deviate from the plan, of course,” he said drawing back once Gyro side-eyed him, “Just something to do while Dr. Gearloose is busy.”

“Yeah, like find a local landmark to learn about!” BOYD did some drawing back of his own when he noticed his brother pout, but did so more graciously than nervously as compared to Gyro’s assistant. “Or maybe there will be a park nearby!” He smiled more when he noticed his brother’s frown fade a small amount.

“Whatever we do,” interjected Gyro, “Stay close to me. I do not want everyone running all over and taking up too much time.”

BOYD’s sunny smile remained as he put his hands behind his back, determined to be well-behaved.

“Yessir, Dr. Gearloose!”

About twenty minutes of walking had led the group of four to an obscure electronics store. Gyro needed a special kind of copper wire before going back to the lab and his odd specifications were hard to meet. While he spent his time inside, Fenton and the boys went to the adjacent shop to buy ice cream. Gyro had told them not to wander off, so once both kids had a cone of their own, they walked out to wait for the doctor.

It had taken several minutes longer than usual for the store owner to fetch what he needed, but by the time he had his purchase in hand, Gyro pondered over taking another minute or two to browse recreationally for spare parts. However, the thought was suddenly halted by the sound of a piercing shriek from outside.

“BUT I DON’T LIKE PISTACHIO!”

Gyro’s whole body jumped at the sound before he bolted out the door to see what the commotion was.

Oh.

Of course. Doofus Drake was throwing another tantrum, shaking his ice cream cone violently.

“Then why did you ask for it?” Fenton asked, confounded.

Gyro ground his teeth and rubbed his middle and index fingers against his temples. But the eyes he’d at first squinted shut opened back up when he heard the screaming stop at a kind voice.

“It’s okay, big brother. I’ll eat yours and we’ll trade!”

BOYD had a warm little grin on his face, holding out his hand.

“Fine!” snapped the spoiled drake, fuming as he thrust the treat into his brother’s hand. “You wanted to try a new flavor of ice cream anyway!”

This caught Gyro’s attention particularly. That little brat shouldn’t be forcing something on a robot who wasn’t built for consumption. He approached, and took on a less-than-pleasant tone that now commonly became him.

“Ice cream?” the chicken asked, twisting his face, “2B—er, BOYD, doesn’t eat.”

“I don’t need to,” answered BOYD, “I like to! My big brother told me about all the different kinds, and now every time I eat a new one, I add it to my memory. It’s fun!”

There were so many words in there that Gyro had to take a moment to think over. First and foremost, it was still mystifying why someone like BOYD and someone like Doofus Drake would consider eachother brothers—leaving aside that the former was much older than the latter. But he chuckled mentally a bit at the association between ‘memory’ and ‘fun’. The only other boy he knew who thought like that was Huey Duck, and it was nice that he and the android had found someone like the other. It felt nice too that such a thought could soften him back up again and make his migraine go away.

But Gyro wondered what eating must really be like for BOYD—he didn’t remember programming BOYD specifically to eat, but on a technical level, he supposed it was possible, given the way he’d built him.

“Can you taste it at all?” he said looking down at BOYD now, curious at the answer.

“Yeah! It was actually only recently I first had ice cream. I didn’t know I could taste anything until then, but it seemed to register, and I really liked it! So when I got home, I asked about it, and now I get to have it every day!”

Gyro didn’t realize how much he’d been missing out on the little boy’s life. Even the very first tests he’d run on him didn’t experiment with things like taste, or smell. Body temperature, vision, maybe—but those were comparable to how a computer would run. Gyro had made BOYD with sentient, behavioral programming, but he supposed he never put any of it into practice, in a real-world scenario. Part of that may have been Dr. Akita’s fault, but… Well, Gyro didn’t want to make excuses for what he did and didn’t do back then.

It was strange—and a little sad; BOYD went twenty whole years unaware of whether or not he lacked the sensation of taste, and Gyro wasn’t there when he finally tried. Gyro knew every single robotic modification BOYD had—from the USB drives in his fingertips, to the blasters throughout his body—he’d put every one of them to the test, but how often did he actually take the child outside the old laboratory? Did the small creature have any memory of Tokyolk before his core was overridden?

Quickly Gyro shook any dwelling thoughts from his mind. No matter. He was making up for it now.

At least he hoped so.

All of a sudden, Gyro felt someone bump against his side, sending him back into the conscious world with a jolt. He made a startled squeak, which embarrassed—and therefore slightly angered him.

“Can’t you watch where you’re—Oh.”

The scientist wrinkled his face with annoyance when he turned and saw a slightly younger man on a self-balancing scooter.

“It’s you.”

There was no mistaking it. Sleek cardigan, large overconfident eyebrows, phone in hand… It was Mark Beaks.

Mark Beaks blinked when addressed. He had no doubt everyone knew who he was, but the lanky chicken facing him seemed to be acting like he’d met him before.

“Oh heeeeey… Uh, do I know you? Probably, right? You see so many faces every day when you’re this famous, they kinda all just blend in, y’know?”

Gyro looked up at Beaks with half-lidded eyes.

“Dr. Gyro Gearloose? Scientist of Scrooge McDuck? You’ve stolen and modified my tech about four different times?”

Beaks looked up and narrowed his eyes, stumped.

Gyro sniffed. Mark Beaks had pointed him out in public several times; This was quite obviously being done to wind him up. “Perhaps he looks familiar to you?” he said, throwing a hand out to gesture at BOYD.

“Ohh yeah! You built that guy? No wonder he went all terminator on me!”

Again Gyro responded sarcastically, with more of a scoff this time.

“That is not my fault. Likely you reprogrammed his hard-drive and rewrote his memories so many times, one simple question overwhelmed him to the point that he couldn’t even tell a person from a flyswatter.”

“Ugh, whatever.” Beaks said, waving his hand, “If you make faulty robots and don’t wanna keep the improvements I put in there, that’s on you. Kid was pretty popular online though. I mean, come on!”

Mark Beaks pointed back and forth between himself and BOYD with both of his index fingers.

“He looks just like me!”

When Beaks acknowledged the android a few feet in front, suddenly two yellow eyes stared back. A little gasp emitted from the little black beak that was previously opened to eat ice cream. BOYD hadn’t seen his older doppelganger since the day he met Doofus Drake. His whole face suddenly beamed with cheeriness at a familiar face.

“Da—”

He bit off the word ‘Daddy’. That was a memory overwrite, he knew now. Still, he was happy.

“Mr. Beaks!”

BOYD instantly ran over to the addressee to jump up and hug him. Beaks just as instantly wheeled back with his scooter board, holding his palms up.

“Woah-ho-hooooh, don’t like touching, remember? What was the number one rule?”

Oh. Right. Remembering that made BOYD’s smile fade.

“No hugs?”

“Exactly, see? You’ve still got some of the good ol’ Beaks programming clunking around in there somewhere!”

Gyro rolled his eyes at a statement like that, but for BOYD it started to set a certain train of thought in motion; Mark Beaks had programmed him to be like his son. At the time, he had felt like it, not simply had it wired into his head, but… now that he thought about the standoffish way the young adult was acting, was that all he was to him? Like a son?

That couldn’t be true, could it?

“Um, Mr. Beaks?” BOYD said, voice starting to grow more shy, “I know things are different now—the two of us living separate lives and everything—but even so, would it be okay if I still spent time with you once in a while?”

Beaks sucked his teeth at BOYD.

“Ooh, no can do, sport. See, if we’re not family, there’s kinda no point anymore. Nobody looks at pics of me just hanging with some rando kid, y’know? Outside that, I’m like super busy all the time, sooo…”

“But… Didn’t you have fun with me?”

“Sure, I did all kinds of awesome stuff in a whole day! Took lots of great selfies!”

BOYD faced the ground at that response, trying to process it. All the words were simple, but slowly, they triggered the most complex of memories… ______________________________

The first memory he had after the incident in Tokyolk was the faint recognition of someone’s voice in the garbage dump he’d evidently wound up in. He didn’t know what was going on, and had no recollection of where he came from, how he worked, or hardly even who he was. All he could bring to mind was an assigned identification number—2BO—and a gut feeling that he was a definitely real boy.

But when the voice came closer, BOYD felt his OS booting up again—his processor bringing things back online. What life he may or may not have had before, he knew not. He only understood that there was reason to be up and running now—alive. These feelings hadn’t manifested into thoughts at first—and then he heard the moving figure above him make a noise. When BOYD parroted back the mimicry of lasers, it was purely instinctual—technological sounds, technological creature. But it made someone notice him. It made someone marvel at him. It made someone give him a real name. It made someone want to take him home. That someone was Mark Beaks.

Even if he had only programmed into him the title of ‘father’, the wealthy parrot was the first person he knew to give him somewhere to live. With or without his original memories, BOYD had never really had an actual home before. He’d never had anyone so willingly look after him like a normal kid—like their kid. In many ways, both literal and figurative, Mark Beaks was the first person to be a parent to BOYD. Even lacking the memory of Akita’s cruelty and Gyro’s hesitance, when BOYD was around Mark Beaks, he felt like someone’s son with no hint of abandonment for the first time in his life.

Yet some underlying doubt lie buried, deep down in one of the many corners of his mind that BOYD didn’t have access to—only this one wasn’t blocked by another person’s override. Anytime he called out ‘Daddy’, Beaks didn’t always turn around right away. He might look confusedly around the room, or take a second or two to respond. And even then, he didn’t seem to say things other than ‘Hey you’, or ‘Need something?’—they were happy, but one-sided. BOYD didn’t think about that then. He was just glad to have family, and to have anything a kid could ask for.

But that was another thing that suddenly made BOYD think. The two days he’d spent with his new father were the best of his whole life; He spent time at an office filled with apparatuses to play on, candy to eat, and places to nap everywhere—even if he didn’t need to nap. Then for the rest of the day, the two Greys went all over Duckburg having fun—eating, playing, exploring… And still, through everything, there didn’t seem to be a connection. When BOYD and Beaks spent time at a show, flew kites, or wore novelty hats, the latter was always taking pictures with the former in them, but seemingly never with him. BOYD was too distracted by the thrill of spending time with someone he considered family to notice before, but now that Beaks worded it the way he did, only mentioning the fun he himself had that day, the signs were becoming obvious. He never once touched him—never once looked at him when he took those selfies—BOYD might as well have been a part of the background.

Come to think of it, did Mark Beaks ever touch BOYD? His biggest aversion, which he’d made clear several times, was touching, after all; The hopes of the first hug BOYD thought he’d ever had at the time were straightaway brushed off. Maybe once or twice, when he needed to be kept from getting wet or from going haywire… But otherwise, the man hardly paid physical attention to him. He didn’t want to feed into the worry that was always secretly there, but the recollection of everything made it impossible now. It hurt BOYD so badly to consider that he was only there to serve a purpose—as he had been his whole life—after all. He couldn’t remember Beaks saying his name, he couldn’t remember Beaks saying something gentle to him… Sometimes if he didn’t act the part he was made to, Beaks would scold him. He tried to avoid calling to mind that once, Beaks struggled to even remember the familial title under which BOYD was programmed.

“Yeah, I love this… What was it again? Uhh, uh, son!”

Oh no.

Mark Beaks never even said the words, ‘I love you’.

But no. No, it couldn’t be true that he didn’t at least care about BOYD, it just couldn’t. It was painful all the same, though, no matter how trusting and unassuming a child BOYD was.

He had to know. He wanted just a little word of assurance that he was wrong, that it was all in his head, that it was just worry that came with twenty years of feeling unloved. Even if Mark Beaks saw him as means for attention first, surely there was some sort of fatherly instinct left over from caring for someone made to be for all concerned his family.

BOYD was feeling some sort of physical discomfort he couldn’t pinpoint when he made his next inquiry, as if he was swallowing something down.

“Mr. Beaks,” he questioned, blue irises still fixed on the ground and fingers toying with one another, “Do you…”

He swallowed physically this time.

“Do you love me…?”

Mark Beaks’ face froze, and before answering made a noise somewhere between the word ‘I’, and an ‘Uh’.

“Kid, what kind of question is that? I don’t do the whole affection thing, okay? Much less with someone who’s not even in my entourage anymore.”

Oh, that hurt. That hurt far too much. Normally with Dr. Akita’s overriding, emotional triggers like this would have BOYD glitching. But that wasn’t there anymore. He was open to feel whatever a boy would feel any time he wanted now, without malfunctions and without something to block his true childlike wiring—too open, perhaps, because now instead of his mind going blank over spiritual pain, his mind would take in every single thought that set him off, and fester. What Beaks said to him now was festering. It made him feel vulnerable. Even if it didn’t hurt or scare him as much as when Gyro told him he was going to shut him down for good, or when Gyro constantly put him down, there was nothing to keep BOYD from blacking out afterward anymore. The feelings over Mark Beaks’ statement were flooding all throughout him.

“But…” BOYD persisted still, wanting some sort of kindness—at least for a fresh start. “Couldn’t we at least be on friendly terms? Isn’t there anything you like about me?”

“Aw come on, little man, it’s not like I was letting you get close to begin with. You’ve got other rich people and tech geeks to be with now. So you don’t need me and I don’t need you.” The man crossed his arms.

If any justice could be done, it might be stated here that the biggest reason Mark Beaks was beginning to act more and more bitter with the small child was out of a sour-grapes mentality. Visible weakness wasn’t characteristic of the young trend-chaser, but in a situation like this, where something he genuinely found impressive and thought he’d made his own had been lost to him, and had been left in the hands of someone else he barely knew—knowing that a technological wonder like BOYD was something he could no longer have—Beaks was annoyed, and he would never dare let it show through. Instead he increased his shallowness ten-fold.

Poor little BOYD’s eyes went wide, wanting so terribly not to believe what he was being told, wanting so desperately not to be outright rejected by someone he’d let himself previously grow so attached to. He looked into Beaks’ black eyes, searching for some kind of reassurance in spite of only hearing cruelty. He wanted so much to hear something that would make the building pain he’d never understood before shrink down.

“But,” he said, voice more quiet and in disbelief than he could ever remember expressing, “You gave me a name. You took me home with you. I was like your family.”

Mark Beaks rolled his eyes back, looking only more annoyed that the little creature almost forced him into guilt with such words.

“No way, kid. I just scooped you out of the trash because I thought I could make something out of you. But four-eyes over there took out all the mods I made to begin with—the new voice I gave you isn’t even there anymore. Hate to say it, but without any of that, you don’t mean anything to me.”

He shrugged his shoulders, talking for a minute more so to himself than anyone, but nonetheless just as aloud as before.

“Guess all the time I put into you was a waste. ‘Least with everything else, I got some money or permanent attention out of it.” Beaks blew air out through his nostrils almost like a laugh when he thought about it. “Jeez, kid, you were my worst investment.”

BOYD didn’t know what the feeling was, but those awful words broke something within him. His face tensed up. The tightness in his chest started to swell. All that desperation to disprove his first proper parent didn’t actually care about him, all that pain welling up inside him the more said person shot down attempt after attempt for requited affection… And now he’d dealt him a blow like that? Mark Beaks had thoroughly destroyed his spirit—he might as well have slapped him in the face. And incidentally, his face started to burn. BOYD had no idea what this meant, but the reaction was involuntary. It hurt so much, he couldn’t understand. The heat concentrated in his eyes. His nose and mouth trembled as he faced his former caretaker. A warm, salty liquid began slowly to fill his eyes and then roll down his cheeks.

BOYD was crying. ______________________________

All the time Beaks had been talking, Gyro and Fenton had been narrowing their eyes in anger and darting them back and forth between the two parrots facing one another, the taller one saying nastier and nastier things to the smaller one. Neither Fenton nor Gyro knew quite what to say or do, or how to intervene—for Fenton in particular because he also had to keep an eye on Doofus Drake, who any second could stop being content licking the inside of his ice cream cone and go ballistic again. It irritated him that he had to keep his mind on such a small matter when clearly there were bigger fish to fry at the moment—and also a little bit that BOYD’s adoptive brother didn’t seem to be noticing how much he was hurting.

Gyro wanted to speak up at some point, but couldn’t bring any words into his head.

And then out of the blue, when Mark Beaks had finally pushed innocent BOYD to a breaking point, the tiny thing cried. He cried.

Gyro’s heart stopped dead in its figurative tracks.

His eyes went wide and dropped their gaze to the ground. This was something he had no idea was physically possible. An invention of his had been, through instinct alone, pushed to actually cry. He didn’t understand. He didn’t specifically write that sort of thing into BOYD’s coding when he made him—certainly Akita didn’t put that in—so then what? BOYD was a definitely real boy, but, to this extent? Gyro wanted to react, to do something for the boy, to get angry at Beaks, but everything failed him. He was stock still, frozen with a horrible blend of shock and concern.

Meanwhile, BOYD continued to stare up at Beaks as tears stained his face, disbelief and utter heartache consuming everything from the waist up.

The first reaction was when Doofus Drake turned and took notice of what he had been sure was a robot his parents adopted, somehow leaking sadness out of his eyes. The Drake boy physically reeled back, socially perturbed.

“Agh, he’s broken!” he yelled, unable to understand, “Do something and fix it!”

Fenton reacted second, clenching his hands into fists, intent on indeed doing something to ‘fix it’, but not the way Doofus imagined. He held back solely on the basis that Gyro was going to say something.

But Beaks was the immediate one to react next.

“Yikes, buddy,” he said to BOYD, backing up uncomfortably. He didn’t mean to make anyone cry, but then again, he didn’t think BOYD could feel anything that real. “It’s not my fault a lack of Beaks tech makes you basically worthless.”

Where Gyro normally would have gotten angry, this time Fenton stood in—he saw that the doctor was too dumbstruck to do so for now. But Fenton was certain both of them were equally as angry.

“What on earth are you thinking saying that to his face,” he snapped, “He’s a kid!”

Mark Beaks shrugged, as if his next reply was a matter of fact.

“Well I mean yeah, but like, not a real one…”

Each adult’s face in present company sneered at Beaks. That was the final straw. With that, Gyro Gearloose was finally able to pull himself out of his stunned state and draw up the emotion to straighten his back and snatch BOYD’s hand, dragging him away. Whatever he was thinking or wasn’t able to think at the moment didn’t matter. This child wasn’t going to be tortured by being here any longer.

“Cabrera, you take Doofus Drake home and get rid of this…” He struggled to find the words; “this, while I take BOYD back to the lab.”

Fenton nodded, determined, as Gyro stormed off, leaving Beaks to be thoroughly dealt with. ______________________________

The walk back to the underwater lab wasn’t a long one, but when Gyro wasn’t seething mad, he would look down at BOYD and notice a look on the boy’s face not dissimilar to his own from earlier—it contained surprise, the fearful kind, as if he didn’t know he could shed tears either. He didn’t look up at his creator, even though he followed the aggressive tug of his arm compliantly, and he didn’t try to wipe at his face. He seemed, again, to be having the same sort of shock that tried to question what in the world was happening to him.

When the two finally did make it inside, Gyro relinquished his tight grip on BOYD’s hand, picked him up by the waist, and sat him down on his center loft work desk.

“BOYD,” he said directly, but not ungently, “Keep your face still for a moment, okay?”

Gyro cupped the little creature’s face in his hand, taking a moment to peer into the huge ovate orbs that were wet as ever. There was nothing physically wrong with them… Nothing functionally wrong with them… Lightly touching the substance that had wavered within them didn’t seem to prove this was some sort of fluid leak. As far as Gyro could tell, these were tears, plain as plain.

So then how was that possible? It wasn’t as if the scientist had actually sat down and built a mechanical version of every single organic function an ordinary person had when constructing BOYD—he and Akita wanted a defense drone—but he knew the little one had an approximation of a heart, and bones, and lungs, and other such things; He was an android, which meant he was deliberately supposed to resemble other people in addition to all the access ports and ribbon wire. Still. Things like tear ducts, taste buds, the need to sleep? Gyro didn’t physically install those things into him. Now a possibility occurred to him. He decided to address BOYD again.

“Can you tell me… Can you tell me everything you’ve been feeling since you talked to Mark Beaks? I know it might be hard, but I need you to try for me.”

BOYD felt Gyro place both hands on one of his. It was the first time the doctor had engaged him like that, and it brought on a warm confusion in spite of the pain he still felt at his core. BOYD’s teary eyes were trained on the floor when he started to analyze what kind of things that pain entailed.

“I’ve… been feeling…” he began, voice thin and shaky, “Sad… and overwhelmed… and afraid… and alone, and… and confused… Before, when I had programming issues, I would start to malfunction anytime something hurt me. But now instead of glitches coming on that I can’t control, it’s more like…”

BOYD’s whole body started to shiver. “It’s more like something my heart can’t control, I guess? Not literally, but, I…”

His vision grew blurry and his voice shakier than ever. “I don’t have anything holding me back from losing emotional control, and I don’t understand. What Mr. Beaks said really hurt, but… I’ve been told things that made me lonely and sad before. I don’t know why I’m only reacting this way now.”

BOYD shut his eyes, rubbing at them as he made a little whimper. “I’m sorry, Dr. Gearloose. I know that doesn’t help. The only other thing I know when I think about all this is that it scares me.”

Gyro felt choked up. He wanted to react beyond keeping his hands palmed over the one BOYD wasn’t wiping his own face with, but twenty years of distrust and cynicism had clouded his ability to be as kind as he used to. But that answer actually helped Gyro a lot. Before, he remembered BOYD saying something about eating—he didn’t need to, but he liked to—that he wondered whether or not he was able to taste, but it ‘seemed to register’. Gyro then supposed while he didn’t build BOYD to eat, it wasn’t impossible given the way he was made; He likely found some sort of place in his structure to double as a stomach, being that he was basically the same as any other boy.

This was what made it click in Gyro’s brain. He had programmed BOYD, for all intents and purposes, to be a living child. Even if the actual hardware wasn’t there, even if Gyro hadn’t thought of specifics when creating… Akita called it ‘real boy programming’—there were things within BOYD that could adapt, and apparently had adapted, themselves to become a part of his sentient reactions and behavior—there were things inside him that manifested because at the end of the day, BOYD was… well, BOYD was a boy.

BOYD wasn’t crying because he was built for it. He was crying because all boys were built for it.

Oh god. A realization like that sent a heavy weight into Gyro’s chest. This wasn’t just some invention that was child-like he’d made, as he initially thought two decades ago. He had brought a life into the world.

He was responsible for every bad thing that life would ever face, because he was the one responsible for ever having made something that could feel, could want, could hurt. Why hadn’t he once considered that when wiring sentience into a body? Gyro felt sick to his stomach.

Yet here was BOYD sitting on a desk, afraid because he wasn’t ever told what would happen if he was sad enough—as if crying was normal, but not for him.

“Dr. Gearloose…?” The timid squeaks in BOYD’s broken voice coupled with glumness on every part of his face made Gyro feel pain in every inch of his body. “Is there something wrong with me?”

Shocked as he was still, an automatic reaction came on that brought Gyro to dry the small creature’s eyes. This reaction, too, shocked him.

“No—no,” he answered nonetheless, just as reactionary.

“Really?”

The nervousness in that inquiry pushed Gyro on. What he was grappling with wasn’t important. There was a child in front of him, needing to be consoled. And while he normally was awkward with children—with people in general, really—Gyro knew about BOYD at least from a technical aspect. He wasn’t a medical doctor, but he did have a doctorate in mechanical engineering. He could work from there—he knew hardly anything about children from a biological standpoint, anyway. In a way, BOYD being an android worked to his advantage here. Gyro sobered up mentally and placed both hands on the little one’s shoulders.

“Yes,” he replied, surprised with himself that he was able to sound so matter-of-fact so quickly. He tried as hard as he could to sound gentle too. “Besides your internal structure, you are otherwise indistinguishable from organic life. You have thoughts and feelings, wants and needs. It’s inherent for you to be sad just as any normal boy would—because that’s what you are.”

BOYD looked back at the ground for a moment, then up at Gyro again, putting his tiny hand over the fold of the man’s thin elbow. There was something he wanted to know—there was still pain in his chest that was building up beyond his control.

“Then…” he asked with teary, pleading eyes, “Can I cry a little more?”

Gyro wished that he knew just what to say—his heart ached so much to hear such a little boy ask for permission to feel—but he simply gave a pitying, guilty, yet mostly obligatory, “Yes.”

That one word of acceptance sent BOYD over the edge. A little hiccup escaped him, and what had previously been only silent tears that fell on their own turned into a full-on fit. BOYD covered his face and wept.

Gyro tried and failed to swallow the lump in his throat when he saw BOYD truly cry for the first time. But in under a minute, his creation said something that brought him to accommodate without a single thought.

“Dr. Gearloose? I know you said back in Tokyolk that hugging was just for that day, but—”

BOYD was interrupted when Gyro immediately drew him in with a one-armed hug, bringing him close and holding him tight. BOYD in turn drew himself closer to his creator, no longer holding back.

BOYD’s little cries then were soft and whining, innocent and unhinged in the way that became any child. Any time he needed to sniff or dry his eyes, he buried his face into Gyro’s chest, and sunk his tiny fingers deep into his vest. The length in each wail that came on now and again reflected the fact that BOYD had never cried before, and that he was discovering in the moment just how much he needed to all this time.

Poor BOYD, Gyro thought, barely ever allowed to simply hug anyone before. He was the sweetest living creature Gyro had ever known—always smiling so jubilantly and talking politely to everyone and everything—and yet so many people met him only with malice? That was far too unfair.

Oh.

But then, that was exactly what he’d done, wasn’t it? He’d so readily assumed when Inspector Tezuka brought BOYD down that he’d created something evil—he’d thought the evidence was everywhere, quite literally. But couldn’t it have been just as easy to think that someone like Dr. Akita who’d turned out to be a known criminal could have been responsible? Couldn’t Gyro have at least considered for a second that it wasn’t BOYD’s fault and defended him more? But he hadn’t. Instead he’d let his young mind believe everything his former mentor drilled into his head; His inventions were weapons, plain and simple, and nothing would change the fact that that would be a part of him the rest of his life—that he would always know somewhere in the back of his mind that he was just a big screw-up. And Gyro had taken that out on BOYD. He’d turned his anger and fear over himself and projected it into anger and fear over his first real invention. He’d defended inventions like Lil’ Bulb to the last ditch—even when the evidence they were turning evil was just as seemingly apparent, if not more so. Even they weren’t referred to as failures. All that bitter sarcasm and unkindness that became a part of who he was had all been based on nothing. When they’d reunited, he lashed out at BOYD over and over again, scornful whenever he even looked at him, refusing to call him anything other than an ‘it’, saying he was dangerous to his very core, saying he didn’t have feelings—even when the sadness and frightened tentative motions in his expression and body were clear as day—he even said straight to BOYD’s face that he was going to ‘fix’ his malfunctions by essentially flat-out killing him.

Gyro was furious when Mark Beaks made BOYD cry. But the first person to ever treat him inhumanely, was Gyro himself. It made him feel so unbearably guilty he almost couldn’t breathe. No matter what his eyes would look like anytime Akita’s programming kicked in—those things weren’t even there anymore. Anytime Gyro thought back, those big eyes were always so full of light—light of happiness, of sadness, of kindness, of intelligence, of innocence. How could he have ever looked at eyes like that—eyes that were capable of producing tears—and thought BOYD was evil?

Even if the child wouldn’t say so, Gyro knew there must still exist an ache within him over being rejected by the person that gave him life. He owed it to him to make it known just how sorry he was for it—even if the words kept getting jammed in the middle of his throat.

“BOYD,” he faltered, though it was now becoming easier to call him by his real name, “I need to apologize for the way I treated you back then. I know Mark Beaks hurt you when he told you that you weren’t worth his time. But the awful things I’ve said to you… they’re no different.”

BOYD calmed himself down a little to be able to speak. He didn’t face Gyro when he answered, but it wasn’t out of unacceptance—his answer was simply an automatic one.

“It’s okay…”

Gyro let go of BOYD for a moment to stare at him gravely in the face.

“No. It’s not okay.”

Gyro couldn’t remember when he’d talked so seriously before. He’d talked sternly—talked angrily—shouted several times… But as far as he knew, nothing compelled him to speak so straightforward and strict and deadpan as this in his life. He wasn’t going to let anyone make excuses for him ever again—not BOYD, and most certainly not himself.

“I said I’ve spent my whole life trying to live down my first invention being evil. But you were never made evil. I made you out to be evil. And now I’m going to spend the rest of my life living down ever having damaged you like that.”

Gyro found himself astonished that he was able to say what he did next, but nonetheless let it be said; BOYD needed to hear exactly what he was deserving of.

“And I’m going to spend the rest of my life trying to do right by you. Because after everything that’s happened, I am so proud that a boy like you does right by me.”

In spite of BOYD’s constant shivering and whimpering, he was able to smile comfortingly just for a moment, nestling his head further into Gyro’s scrawny arms.

“I of all people know what it’s like to be new to Duckburg and down on your luck with nothing—with nobody. But I was fortunate. I met Scrooge McDuck and he gave me a place to work, and to make my way up the ladder. He was the only one to give me a second chance—to trust me.”

Gyro sighed.

“I’m sorry I didn’t do the same for you—as if I didn’t learn. How you stayed the same as I built you this whole time is beyond me. I’m nothing like you.”

“That’s… That’s not true,” BOYD sniffed, rubbing his eyes again, “If I make you as proud as you say, then some of that had to come from you—where else would I get it from? The only other person around me then was Dr. Akita, and then I spent twenty years asleep in Duckburg. I’m like this because you made me. And if I’m still like this, that part of you has to still be in you too—doesn’t it?”

Gyro couldn’t respond to something so kind. He couldn’t. Gyro didn’t deserve merit like that. Instead, he turned to another question that he’d been thinking of as BOYD stayed settled under his arm—something more technical, but still in reference to the android’s feelings and his sentience.

“When you shiver…” he asked with difficulty, “Is it because you’re cold? And if you overheat, do you feel feverish?”

“I do feel sort of sick when something overheats inside me… At home, it’s treated like I have a cold, which usually helps. But… when I’m cold, I operate at peak efficiency, so that’s never uncomfortable.”

BOYD’s voice was still full of quiet hiccups and characterized by the hurt within him.

“I guess I’m shivering because of how sad I feel. There are a lot of things I’m scared of—and things I’m so glad of, they hurt—but mostly, I just keep thinking back to what Mr. Beaks said. He brings up this little voice in my head that tells me people don’t want me. Like I’m making it hard for them.”

Gyro surprised himself again by stroking the back of BOYD’s head lightly. Nevertheless, he responded with defense and firmness in his tone.

“You should make it hard for people like that to want you. If you’re a waste of energy to someone like Mark Beaks, then good. The more you keep being yourself, the less they’ll stick around to hurt you.”

BOYD looked up at Gyro once more with his wet, shining eyes.

“But you won’t do that if I’m myself around you, right?”

That question pulled Gyro into a riptide of guilt so strong that it almost drove him to cry. But he squeezed his eyes shut, fighting down the urge for BOYD’s sake—this was about him. He made it clear to himself he’d never let his little creation down again when he hugged him in Tokyolk—and now he was going to make it clear to BOYD, say it out loud to his face so there was never any doubt again. Gyro rested the hand he had on BOYD’s head, held him just a tad closer with his arm, and said,

“I’m only saying this once; There is nothing you could do in front of me that wouldn’t make me want you. Ever. You can come to me for whatever you need. I’m not going anywhere.”

Gyro watched as that sentence prompted tear after tear to fall down BOYD’s heated face, nearly every part of his insides nagging uncontrollably at him when the little creature encircled his puny waist with his arms.

“I’m so glad!”

The sobs that BOYD let loose figuratively jabbed the scientist in the gut as he thought of the fact that were it not for his sheer irresponsibility, the poor little thing would never have had to be born into a world that presented such harsh treatment.

Still, BOYD wanted to cry. Didn’t the need to cry come from getting to let go—to feel better—to be alive?

Gyro thought as he instinctively continued to stroke the small head under him with his thumb. If he had brought a life into the world that was going to have bad moments, that meant that the same life was going to have happy moments too, didn’t it? Well—he already had! BOYD might as well have been built as a bluebird. Gyro should be glad BOYD was finally allowed to have this kind of release. It meant he could finally, truly, feel like the definitely real boy he was. The pain of fault and responsibility still wracked Gyro—he figured it always might—but at this point, he was relieved the poor thing he held close in the underwater lab wasn’t going to be mistreated any longer—not if he could stand to help it. ______________________________

BOYD sat in Gyro’s lap, beginning to feel better as he allowed himself to let everything out in the embrace of someone close to him. He could cry as much as he needed around Gyro. And he was going to take that allowance for all it was worth.

Part of his crying now came from the warmth he felt knowing that the old Gyro he thought he’d lost was still in there somewhere—that he hadn’t gone after all—and that even though he’d through no fault of his own gotten it lost, he had brought its return as well. That restored a lot more of BOYD’s self-worth than he fully realized.

BOYD was so grateful—so, so grateful to have that Gyro here again. He didn’t understand why at first it hurt so much to be called an ‘it’ by his creator—he didn’t remember Gyro was his creator at the time—but to think that someone was afraid of him and that someone hated him just for being himself stung so badly. He didn’t cry then—he didn’t know he could. But he cried now, over the cutting things Mark Beaks said, over Gyro’s hand at his back, over anything he could think of that needed crying over—mostly however over the knowledge by now that Gyro didn’t see him as nothing more than a destructive machine—as ‘evil down to his core’ any longer. He could tell that even if Gyro didn’t say it, he loved him; He risked his own life just to hold him in his arms, to save him and others from himself. Now BOYD really did have someone who loved him the way a father would a son. He could hug Gyro if he wanted—as many times as he felt like it—and never be brushed off. That thought brought such relief to him, his processor couldn’t take it all in.

But he didn’t tell Gyro any of this; He noticed all those looks on his face—they gave away just how terrible he felt over not being able to do as much as he wanted for him right away. So he kept any more words from leaving his mouth in order not to burden his guardian with any more guilt. BOYD simply let himself release all the emotions he could which he didn’t know he had before, as if he were wringing himself out—and as such, began soaking up all the comfort he was being given like a dry and thirsty sponge.

BOYD learned some wonderful things that day as he clung so strongly to Dr. Gearloose in that lab—much as it hurt to tremble violently, and bleed out feelings until one’s eyes burned, and let out enough raw noise fit to make one’s throat sore. He learned that being allowed to feel so sad was rewarding, and cleansing. He learned that tears were something he could produce no matter what he felt. And he learned that everyone in the world would make mistakes, no matter what or who they were, but that it was never too late to grow from them.

~ Holy shoot, wow, this is the first serious fic I’ve ever posted on here before.

I really wanted to share it, because it took so long to write—although I didn’t think it would turn out so long… 8k words! It’s the lengthiest thing I’ve ever written.

Anyway, this is a story that is very dear to my heart, not only because I put the most into it out of anything, but because studying Gyro Gearloose as a character and loving his dynamic with BOYD has been one of the most amazing things to think of through the hiatus that came after Astro BOYD.

I always loved BOYD, of course, but once I started seeing all the art and fanfics that others had started doing out of the emotions that came with his and Gyro’s backstory, I got swept up in it too, and wanted desperately to get out all those feelings into one story.

The idea came from the concept of whether or not BOYD can cry. We’ve never really seen him do it before, and it’d probably be hard because he’s normally so happy—but I kept wondering if he, as an android, even could. So it hit me; What if BOYD could cry, but Gyro wasn’t aware of it? What if even BOYD wasn’t aware of it? I kept playing with what would possibly make him cry, because even when Gyro was threatening to shut him down or was calling him ‘it’, BOYD only frowned a little. Suddenly I got the nasty idea of Mark Beaks showing up and telling him he never wants to see him again, and it built from there—I started also thinking that maybe what brings BOYD to cry is just a long enough buildup of pain, and maybe he couldn’t feel as much because Akita’s meddling with him had gotten in the way before.

On a sidenote, Mark Beaks was pretty hard to write at first; I had to make sure his confidence was switched on all the time or he’d come off a little out of character. But much as this is about Gyro & BOYD, Beaks being awful is so deliciously fun to write. I think it’s because he makes you love whoever he’s being mean to even more.

Anyway, after I’d written that part out, I spent a lot more time than I initially thought I would focusing on how all this would make Gyro feel—that is, how much guilt his responsibility would bring on. I’m really desperate to see for myself how they interact in canon from now on, but I always imagine that Gyro’s feelings which are most associated with being a father are of guilt; They make him protective of BOYD, they make him sensitive to BOYD, and they might drive him to treat BOYD—again, be more like a father. Pretty much all Gyro’s niceness comes from wanting a do-over.

I never post my serious writing publicly—mostly because I’m really tentative and shy about showing my literary ‘skills’ and the kinds of raw emotion I spill out in words sometimes—but this fic slowly became something I wanted really badly to share with the DT fandom, as a thing that could both be a way to show my own interpretation and thoughts of Gyro and BOYD, and could maybe even be liked by people as much as it is by me.

I know a good few episodes have aired since Astro BOYD did, and that it’s been a long while since the episode has been talked about, but I’ve only now been brave enough to decide to put this story out there for all to see.

I really hope you enjoyed it.

(Incidentally, I wanted to be sure to post it before Let’s Get Dangerous! airs, because I know this fic would get swallowed up by all the emotions to be had from that episode… ^^; )

[fangirl530]

Returning Boyd, Part 2

part one

Ao3 link

One week later

Gyro sat at his desk, drawing up blueprints for an invention that would butter toast for you. It was unimaginative and way beneath him, but he was unable to think of something new and different. He knew why he felt this way, as did the lab's other occupants- it was fairly obvious. None of them knew what to say to him- even Lil bulb had been avoiding him, choosing to charge in the main part of the lab instead of at Gyro’s desk.

Normally he might have been frustrated at his inability to focus and be his usual genius self, but he just couldn’t muster up the energy.

The elevator dinged, and an achingly familiar voice immediately cried out.

“Dr. Gearloose, are you here?” he shoved his chair back from the door, his heard pounding in his chest.

“Boyd?” he called, unsure if he was imagining things- and daring to hope that he wasn’t.

Footsteps pounded on the stairs, and the robot boy was there. He threw himself at Gyro, squeezing tight.

“What- what are you doing here?” Gyro asked, looking down at him in shock. “It’s late." For children, at least- even robot children.

“I missed you,” Boyd said simply, burying his head in Gyro's stomach.

“It’s only been a week,” he said. Still, he put his arms around the boy and blinked back a few tears as he held him close. After a few moments, he looked around. “Where are your parents?” he asked. Boyd tensed in his arms.

“Oh, um…”

Gyro narrowed his eyes, releasing Boyd from his embrace only to take him by the shoulders and move him back.

“Boyd,” he said warningly. The boy cringed, guilt filling his gaze.

“They don’t know I’m here, “ he said quietly. “I sort of… snuck out of the house?”

“Boyd!”

“I’m sorry!” he cried. “I wanted to see you so badly, but they’re always so busy… so I decided to come myself.” he looked up at Gyro, looking like he might cry. “Are you mad at me?” he asked, his voice wavering.

Gyro sighed. “I’m not, but I can’t say the same for your parents.” he took Boyd's hand, walking down the stairs. “Come on, We need to take you back.” Boyd looked down at his feet, not responding. Gyro swallowed the lump in his throat, stopping by his desk.

“Come on Lil’ Bulb,” he said, tapping lightly to get his attention. “After we take Boyd back, we’re going home.” the robot, having heard their conversation, glowered at him but still climbed up to sit on his shoulder. Neither he nor Boyd said anything as Gyro walked to the elevator. The whole trip was silent- none of them said a word. Gyro suspected Lil’ Bulb was angry at him. Boyd may have been too, but to Gyro, he seemed more sad. That didn’t make it easier- he still had no idea what he should say. They had to take Boyd where he belonged.

Thankfully, they had arrived at the Drake’s house. As he pulled up to it, his eyes widened and he cursed under his breath. Boyd and Lil’ Bulb both looked at him questioningly.

“They called the police,” he told them, nodding at the familiar black and white car.

“Oh,” Boyd said, his voice quiet. Gyro looked at him, suddenly worried for the boy.

“Don’t worry, it’s just because you were missing. That’s all,” he comforted. “Everything’s going to be fine when they realize you're okay.” Boyd nodded as Gyro parked the car, but still looked nervous.

“Will you… hold my hand?” he asked.

Gyro smiled. “Of course, if you want.” he held out his arm for Lil’ Bulb to climb up, but he didn’t move. Gyro looked at him strangely. “Aren’t you coming?”

Lil’ Bulb flashed a few times, pointing at Boyd. Gyro sighed. “I understand. I’ll be back soon, okay?” he climbed out, then opened the other door for Boyd.

“Why isn’t he coming in with us?” he asked as Gyro took his hand.

“He doesn’t like goodbyes,” gyro explained, leading him to the house. He had just barely knocked on the door when it flew open.

“You found him!” Mrs. Drake cried. Officer Cabrera instantly appeared at her side, her eyebrows raised.

“Actually,” Gyro began. “I didn’t- he came to my lab. When I found out he’d snuck out without you knowing, I brought him straight back.”

Mrs. Cabrera nodded, stepping back from the door. He complied to the unspoken command, stepping inside.

“Do you know why he snuck out?” she asked him, her gaze piercing. He met it without flinching.

“To see me. He said his parents were too busy to bring him, so he came by himself.”

Officer Cabrera turned to the Drakes. “Doing what?” she asked them. “Mr. Drake, you’re starting your new job on Wednesday. Why couldn’t either of you take Boyd to see Dr. Gearloose?” Gyro looked at them, narrowing his gaze.

“Well…” Mrs. Drake said, looking uncomfortable. “We were hoping that if we said no, he might forget about it.” Boyd gasped, and they both cringed.

“He seemed so sad when you left, Dr. Gearloose,” Mr. Drake said quickly. “We hoped it might be easier if he didn’t see you. We were just trying to help.” Mrs. Drake nodded frantically, and he continued. “We’re not even sure why he’s so attached, and we didn’t want him to be a bother-”

“First of all,” Gyro said, cutting him off. “He wouldn’t have been a bother at all. And second, he’s attached because I’m the one who built him,” he snapped, anger filling his voice. The Drake’s eyes widened.

“You? But we thought Mark Beaks-”

“No.” Gyro shook his head. “Beaks found him in a junkyard, and decided to pass him off as his own.” he rolled his eyes. “Like usual.”

“And how did he get there?” Officer Cabrera asked, switching her gaze to him. Gyro shrugged.

“No idea- I thought he was still in Tokyolk. I only recently discovered he was even here.”

Mrs. Drake looked guilty. “So… we’ve been keeping him from his true father?”

“Well, I’m not exactly-” Gyro started, before being cut off by Officer Cabrera.

“Looks that way,” she said, crossing her arms.

“We’re so sorry- of course he should be with you,” Mrs. Drake said to Gyro. “Even though we love him, you’re his true family.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Gyro saw Boyd stand up straight. “You mean, I can stay with Dr. Gearloose?” he asked hopefully.

“Normally,” Officer Cabrera cut in. “We’d need adoption papers. But this situation isn’t normal. So…” she smiled down at the boy gently. “You can, if that’s what you want.”

Boyd nodded furiously, squeezing Gyro’s hand and smiling up at him.

“Thank you, Officer Cabrera,” Gyro said, a smile making its way to his beak. “I trust you’ll let me know if there's anything I need to do?”

“Of course, but for now-” she nodded at Boyd. “I think you need to take Boyd to his real home.”

“Yes- it’s late after all.” he nodded to the Drakes, then led Boyd outside. The second the door closed, Boyd was squeezing him tight.

“I liked the Drakes, but I’m really glad I get to stay with you,” he said, his voice muffled. Gyro smiled, ruffling the boy’s hair.

“Me too, Boyd. Me too.”

... 

(For those worried about the Drakes, Boyd did give them the fortune he “inherited” from Gummeemama. I wasn't sure how to put that in naturally, and I wanted to focus on Gyro and Boyd instead of that conflict)

part 3

[drummergirl231-2]

I apologize in advance if this is a heavy topic, but do you still see many comments/thoughts from people who heavily detest Della? I recall that you mentioned there being many of them back in May when she was still new. I was wondering what your thoughts might be on Della now and how some react to her, following the events of the last episode bomb of S2. For the record, I still admire her, but I'd be lying if my thoughts on her didn't sour a bit after some of the writing choices made.

I feel like those who full-on hate her are going to hate her no matter what she does or how she’s characterized. The very haters who criticized her for not disciplining her kids before “Timephoon!” turned around and started criticizing her for disciplining her kid after “Timephoon!”

Sooner or later though, part of Della’s story arc in learning how to be a mom was going to have to include her learning how to discipline her kids, because that’s part of motherhood. And I can think of no better setup than the one the writers gave her.

1. Louie reeeeally messed up. 

She didn’t ground him for forgetting to take out the trash or something. She grounded him for stealing Gyro’s time tub out of greed, and nearly killing his family and destroying the universe. If that doesn’t call for action, I don’t know what does. Technically, Louie could be incarcerated for what he did.

If a teenager without a license stole a car and caused an accident that nearly killed a dozen people and then stood in front of a judge and said, “But I’m reeeally sorrrry...” the judge wouldn’t sit there and go, “Oh, alright. I’m sure you’ve learned... something,” and let him off the hook. That kid’s butt would be going to juvie! XD

Della was merciful in grounding Louie when she could have reported his crimes and had him locked up in juvenile hall. At least he doesn’t have a criminal record now.

2. No one else was going to discipline Louie.

As far as people’s objection that Della was new in his life and therefore didn’t have a right to discipline him, that’s incredibly childish thinking. And considering no one else was stepping up to discipline Louie when he deserved it more than ever, it was definitely up to Della.

The whole episode, Mrs. Beakley was trying to coach Della on how to be a stricter parent and put her foot down, telling her “Even good kids do dumb things, and we have to make sure those dumb things don’t turn into bad things, like destroying all of existence.”

But after they discovered what Louie did, and after he did almost destroy all of existence, Beakley was like, “Oh, okay.”

What else could fans want of a situation where Della had to learn to discipline her kids? Louie almost destroyed the universe in his quest for selfish gain (it’s nearly villain stuff) and all other parental figures stepped aside and were refusing to do anything about it.

Della had to endure losing two of her sons all over again, and then technically all three of them once she was zapped to the middle ages - stranded and with no way of getting back. It was the Moon all over again. Then as soon as she was back, the very person who told her she needed to be stricter decided not to do anything at all, and Della stood there listening to her family call this stunt, “classic Louie,” and say that they “always,” let these things go. If this was as regular a thing as they were making it sound, Della knew she needed to do something to stop this behavior and teach him that his actions have consequences.

And no one else has more authority to teach him that than someone who had to learn that lesson the hard way.

Here, Louie acted like Della hadn’t learned from her mistakes or like she was a hypocrite. But Della had more than ten years of imprisonment on the Moon to think about what she did and battle self-hatred as she desperately tried to make things right and get home to her family. Just because a parent did something they regret in their youth doesn’t mean they can’t warn their child not to do the same thing, and it certainly doesn’t give the child the right to throw their parent’s deepest regrets back in their face like they don’t regret it at all. 

^I know this moment was the one that was a bit sour for you, because it seemed like after humbly asking to be part of her sons’ lives, she was threatening Louie’s place in the family. But I don’t think it was a threat to boot him out at all. She knows taking the Spear of Selene, whatever her motive, hurt her family. She knew it would hurt them before she left, so we know it wasn’t blind adventure. But again, whatever her motive, her plans to explore space only led to bad things for her family, and now she doesn’t feel like part of the family, as desperately as she’s trying to fit in. She wanted to warn Louie not to make a similar mistake and lose his place in the family by chasing plans - or in his case - schemes.

And despite Louie defending himself and saying how he really was sorry, we know he wasn’t sorry for the time tub scheme itself... only for the unexpected consequences. He hadn’t actually learned that selfish scheming was wrong after what happened. 

So it’s not like he really learned his lesson nearly losing his family. He’d have just gone on to come up with some other scheme to get rich. And technically, he did... but I really think this incident helped prepare his heart to learn the lesson he needed to learn later on.

Also, from a storytelling perspective, if he hadn’t been home when Glomgold showed up, he wouldn’t have conned the bad guys and Scrooge out of their money, become the richest duck in the world, freed the Bombie, learned humility, or taught Scrooge humility.

And for all the Louie stans’ talk of speaking on Louie’s behalf and saying how he feels... they didn’t actually get it right. They were just saying how they felt. Louie didn’t feel like his mom didn’t have a right to discipline him just because she was new in his life. Louie didn’t feel like she was kicking him out of the family (though it may have stirred up some feelings of trying desperately to fit in and not knowing how). Louie didn’t hate his mom or reject her as a parent. 

He just hated getting disciplined - as all people do - and he didn’t know how to handle the surprise of his mom coming back. But we learned in the finale, once Louie had been humbled and grew up a little, that he feels his mom coming back was actually a good surprise.

“Sometimes, a robot boy uses you as a piñata.”“......I think I’m losing the thread, here.”“But sometimes, the mom you thought you lost... comes back. And that’s a surprise, too. So you deal with bad surprises because they may lead to a good one.”

[dyscrasia-eucrasia]

<<Prev | Next>>

Part 18

"Are you sure I can't help with any of that?" Angel asked. 

"Would you let someone who doesn't know anything about your culture's food help make it?" Demie said, looking over his shoulder to where Angel sat at the kitchen table. 

"Dude, my parents both worked sixty hour weeks," Angel said with a shrug. "I grew up on Kraft mac and cheese and Bagel Bites." 

"Ew," Demie said, wrinkling his nose. He had no idea what Bagel Bites were, but he'd seen Elaine make mac and cheese out of those bright blue boxes. The stuff looked positively radioactive. 

He turned back to what he'd been doing. He had very much wanted to make dolma - it felt befitting for having a guest over for the first time in his entire life - but Elaine had been very firm when he gave her the shopping list that she was not going to drive to Charleson in search of grape leaves and pine nuts. So he had to make due with tomatokeftedes and patzaria. 

Currently, he had the fritters chilling in the freezer and the potatoes mashed, and was in the process of peeling cucumbers for tzatziki. He had had the good sense to make the beets a day before. 

"So, you're like… really into food, huh?" Angel asked. 

"I'm Greek, of course I'm into food," Demie said absent-mindedly as he pulled a knife and the sharpening rod out of the knife block on the counter. 

"No, I mean like…" Angel paused as Demie swiftly drew the blade along the steel before dropping the rod back into the knife block. He sliced the cucumber down the center lengthwise and then chopped the vegetable with the speed and skill of a trained chef. 

"Like you said you have a garden, and you clearly made those goat treats yourself, and you can do that with a knife…" 

"I make my own cheese, too," Demie said.

"Omigod, really? Are we having some with all this?" 

"None of these recipes really use feta…" Demie said. He was loath to do anything in the recipes that hadn't been taught to him by his grandmother. Angel made a noise of disappointment, though, and Demie looked over his shoulder at him. "Why, do you really like feta that much?" 

"I don't think I've ever actually had any, I just really want to try homemade cheese," Angel said. "Especially if it's made by you." 

Demie felt the tips of his ears get hot, but he couldn't really figure out why. No one had ever been impressed by his cooking before. Then again, the only people he'd ever cooked for were Marius and Elaine. Marius would always compare Demie's cooking to their grandmother's, and Elaine had the most garbage tastes in food he'd ever seen, so neither of them were particularly enthusiastic about what he made. 

"Uh… I mean, if you really want some, there's some in the fridge," Demie said, nodding over his other shoulder at the fridge. 

He saw Angel start to stand up out of the corner of his eye, but right at the same time, the front door opened. Both he and Angel stopped and turned towards it, to see Elaine step inside. Her hair and arms were covered in sawdust, no doubt from trimming lumber at the hardware store, and she looked even more pissed than usual. 

"Oh, hi!" Angel said. His voice was bright and chipper, and felt entirely out of place in the trailer. No one was ever that happy in this place. 

"I'm Angel," he said, holding out his hand. 

Elaine narrowed her eyes, looking at the hand offered to her. "I know," she said, and stopped off towards her bedroom. 

"Did I say something wrong?" Angel asked, turning to look at Demie. 

"Nah, Elaine's just a huge bitch," he replied. He swept the ingredients on the cutting board into the blender and blitzed it on high. The vintage machine complained loudly, the blade sputtering as the engine tried to generate enough power to move. Demie felt extremely self-conscious. The blender, along with everything else in the trailer, needed to be replaced, but there was no money for it. Most of the time he just put up with it, but having an outsider see how he lived made him feel deeply inadequate. 

Finally the blender managed to work the cucumbers into a chunky paste, and he set it aside, turning his attention to the stove. 

"What's that?" Angel asked as Demie poured oil from a large plastic jug into a large pan. 

"Uh, peanut oil," Demie said, lifting up the jug and looking at the label. "It's supposed to be healthier than canola oil." 

"No, I mean, what were you humming just now?" 

The heat spread from Demie's ears across his face. He hadn't even noticed that he'd been humming. It just sort of came naturally. Music was just ingrained into his life - it had been, ever since he was a kid. Cooking, gardening, herding… basically anything that required any sort of care towards another living thing, his family would hum or sing to. There was no proof their voices affected food or plants or animals like it did people, but there was always the possibility that maybe they could make the food taste a bit better, or the plants grow a bit fuller, or the animals act a bit more tame. 

He didn't really know how to explain that to Angel, though, so he just mumbled something that he wasn't even sure were words. 

When the oil started shimmering, the tomato fritters came out of the freezer and went into the pan. They sizzled and splattered, and Demie had to jump back just a little. Most things in the kitchen didn't bother him, but the stove was just about at crotch height for him, and he'd splattered hot oil on his balls enough times to know it wasn't pleasant. 

That was another thing he was self conscious about - he was technically naked from the waist down around another dude. Of course, he was always naked from the waist down. He didn't see the point in wearing pants; they just seemed constricting, especially since his knees and ankles were anatomically in different places than a human's. But he did technically just have his ass and balls out around a gay guy, and that was kind of weird. 

He didn't have too much time to think about that, though. He had to keep an eye on the tomatokeftedes so that they didn't get too dark, fishing them out of the pan and laying them to dry on a piece of paper towel. Next he got the beets out of the fridge and got two clean, but mismatched, plates out of the cabinet to serve the food. 

"This smells amazing," Angel said as Demie set the plate down on the table in front of him. "I don't think I've ever had Greek food before. Except gyros, are gyros Greek?" 

"It's pronounced yee-rohs," Demie said as he sat down in the other chair. "But I've never had food from wherever you're from, so whatever." Was that racist to say? He wasn't sure. Angel was Asian, and Demie thought he could remember him saying something about his ethnicity, but he couldn't remember what it was. 

"You've never had pho?" Angel asked. 

"I don't exactly eat out," Demie said. 

"You don't even get delivery?" 

"Delivery from where? Billy Brook has like one shitty diner." 

"Oh, right." Angel looked a little bit embarrassed, and quickly took a bite of food. "This is amazing," he said after he swallowed. 

"It's alright," Demie responded, picking at his plate. 

"You don't really take compliments well, do you?" Angel asked. 

Demie had to stop and think about it. Did he? "I guess I'm just not used to getting any," he said. 

"Aww," Angel made a sad noise. Demie looked up to see him pouting. He couldn't help but snort. 

"Dude, what the fuck?" 

Angel's face broke into a smile. The corners of Demie's mouth reflexively lifted in response. He felt weird - he didn't smile a lot, but seeing Angel smile wanted him to do so, as well. It was kind of like how performing made him feel less anxious and empty inside, but multiplied by ten.

"Can I ask you something?" Demie said. 

"Sure." 

"Do you actually listen to heavy metal? No offense, you just don't seem very… hardcore." 

"Yes, I listen to heavy metal," Angel replied. His tone was a little strained, a little annoyed. 

"What bands?" 

"Is this a test?" Angel narrowed his eyes at Demie. 

"Huh? No? I just… just wanna know, I guess." 

"Well," Angel said with a dramatic sigh, "back in middle school, I knew this kid, he was a few years older than me… he was a total metalhead - a lot like you, actually. With the hair and the beard, at least, not a goatman, I mean. But no one would really hang out with him, because he wore a trenchcoat and stuff. But no one would hang out with me, either, because I was the one Asian kid in school. So we just kinda wound up hanging out together, since there was no one else to hang out with. And he turned me on to Korn and Slipknot and from there I just fell down a rabbithole, y'know?" 

Demie furrowed his brow. "Seriously?" 

"What?" 

"Korn? Slipknot?" 

"What's wrong with them?" Angel asked. 

"Nothing," Demie said. He wasn't really sure how to word it. They just weren't… great. 

"Oh? So who do you listen to, then?" Angel asked, aggressively pointing his fork at Demie. 

"Uh, Iron Maiden, Black Sabbath, Slayer…" 

"Oh, and you're going to judge my tastes in metal, when you listen to the most basic metal bands ever?" 

"Hey, no, I listen to other stuff. Like… Blind Guardian, Labyrinth, Rhapsody of Fire…" 

"Yeah, you would listen to Blind Guardian," Angel muttered. 

"What's that supposed to mean?" 

"It means you definitely seem like the kinda guy who'd listen to nerd metal." 

"What!? Blind Guardian aren't for nerds, they're like one of the most influential European power metal bands--" 

"Yeah, who sing about their LARP campaigns." 

 "They aren't for nerds!" 

"WILL YOU TWO SHUT THE FUCK UP, YOU'RE BOTH FUCKING LOSERS THAT I'D BEAT UP FOR LUNCH MONEY," Elaine bellowed from her room. 

Angel glanced over his shoulder, then back to Demie. They were both silent for a minute, but then Angel's face cracked into a smile and he wheezed, and all of a sudden they were both laughing.

[rotzaprachim]

good God, let me give you my life

(Mattelektra, Teen, language, fluffy college flashbacks + also pain because these two just won’t leave me alone)

--- 

"We should get married."

It slips out of his mind without thinking, lulled by the quiet peace of the morning. It's a Saturday and neither of them have anywhere particularly important to be, so they're lying in on Elektra's bed, feeling the lazy heat of the sun through her massive windows. The only time he's gotten up all morning is to try to make a coffee on her fancy machine, only to be befuddled by the inaccessible smooth, unmarked switches and electronic screen. (He's helped by strong arms that snake around him from behind, her face burying distracting in his neck.)

Now they're back between her sheets, Matt wrapped around her as she pages through the weekend headlines on her i-pad, reading out the most outrageous headlines with her usual biting, accented commentary. He says that, though, and he immediately regrets it from the way she stills beneath him, heart skipping a beat.

Shit. Fuck. Bloody fucking hell. No no no, everything with Elektra is casual and dangerous and it's all going to end when the semester's over and she goes back to her rich girl life in Athens and he's left to-

Her voice, harder and icier than he's ever heard it, cuts through his downward trajectory.

"If you were ever going to pull this Catholic guilt bullshit on me, I would have thought it would be after the first time you fucked me in the back of a stolen Maserati."

He chuckles, a veiled affirmation that yes, he would have gotten down on one knee right then and there (or, down on his knees in a different manner of speaking) if she'd only asked. Because he'd been gone from their first conversation in the tight-ass faculty party, that she was the sea that had pulled him under and that he'd be happy to drown in forever.

It isn't just about the sex. (Although there's plenty of that as well.) It's about the sync they find themselves in, the daily give-and-take that he'd be happy to live in forever. It's about the long hours they spend in the public library poring over their work (and maybe making out in periodicals.) It's about the shared mission they go on to scare off the Starbucks employee who won't leave one of the freshmen girls alone. (Matt's the good cop, Elektra scares him till he shits himself in an alley, the man never resurfaces.)

It's about the time she drags him all the way out to the Bronx on the subway to go to some Cambodian restaurant that pricks tears in the corners of her eyes. It smells like lime juice, chili paste, coconut milk and fish sauce, and, for Elektra, home. (She had a life before being the richer-than-God greek heiress, she offhandedly mentions over a table laden with fish amok, nom banh chok, Angkor beer. And for the first time, Matt has a feeling he might know a little about what it was. She keeps a tighter eye on money than any other trust-fund kid he's ever met but is looser with her wallet when it comes to tipping and buskers.)

It's about the times when they get drunk off their asses and collapse on his couch, screaming about the injustices of the world, young and dumb and fool-headed enough to think that they'll be able to do something about them.

It's about the fact that this is the longest romantic relationship Matt's ever been involved in, the closest he's felt to another human being in years, and he better not fuck it up with his grand plans for the future.

"Not now. My parent's got married young, and that- it didn't work out."

She relaxes a bit under his touch, her hand reaching out to run through his hair.

"But one day, you know. When I'm the fearless defender of New York-"

"Mmmhmmm," she intones, egging him on.

"Lawyer by day, protector of truth and justice who fights bravely on behalf of the innocent and the wronged." There's a hit of sarcasm in his tone that shakes him to the core because really, jokes aside, isn't that exactly who he's trying to become?

"And what are you by night?" Her voice is almost a purr and it sends a shiver through him.

"Well, in the evenings, I'm arm candy to the honorable Elektra Paraskevi Natchios, brilliant reformer of modern Greece. Does a lot of work with women's groups, immigrants, students- her people fucking adore her."

"Fuck no. That sounds positively monarchist. My father would approve."

"Fine. You're the ambassador then. Can't argue with that, can you, miss International diplomacy?"

She laughs. Fucking music. "I suppose not." And kisses him.

"So tell me, Matthew, what about later at night, after the boring meetings are done? Who are you then?"

He positions himself over her, leaning down and feeling her laugh into his kiss.

"I think, Miss Natchios," he runs his hands up her sides, lifting the loose sleep shirt, "that's up to you to decide." And there isn't a lot more talking for a while after that.

-o0o-

"Alright," she says afterward. "I'll do it."

"What?"

"Marry you. One day. Three conditions, though."

"Hit me."

"No children. Which might be hard to wrap around that Irish Catholic brain of yours, but-"

"Sure." He surprises her with the intensity of his answer. "Any other demands?"

"It's in secret. No Greek tabloids, no way my father can use it to rub shoulders with politicians and the godfathers of the night."

"Can Foggy come? I mean, I think we need a witness."

"Don't think you can stop him."

"What's the last thing, sweetie?"

He can feel her smirk. "Not one of those tacky Irish rings with the hands and the heart and the crown and all that crap."

He pretends to feel offended. "A claddagh ring? You've broken my heart, Miss Natchios."

"I don't think your heart was ever mine to break."

"It always has been. And it always will be."

----- o0o-----

They get on with their day, second cups of coffee and class assignments and gyros for lunch and then continually beating each other in the ring at the gym. And then falling asleep on her couch to the sound of one of the romantic comedies she secretly has a thing for. And then he wakes up early the next morning while she's still passed out asleep and dressed for Mass and heads back to his shitty apartment.

They don't talk about their conversation. They don't talk about the future, beyond wild drunk hypothesi about why most of the federal administration has irrevocably screwed up both America and the world.

It doesn't even come up again until he's laying on a freezing marble countertop and watching her slice expensive cheese on his abs, and she talks about what happens "when we get married" and follows it off with a long list of things that push it into the realm of fairytales, and he laughs and plays along because it's a joke, but he can't help but wonder if it's always been a joke to her.

And then Roscoe Sweeney happens.

And not for the first time in his life, Matt's world rends itself apart.

After, when he's walked the miles home, the endless blocks in air that nips at his skin because he's a dumb ass who forgot to bring a jacket- After, when he's finally calmed himself down about the possibility of police of worse, Roscoe Sweeney's thugs coming to call- After, when he's finally got the door dead-bolted behind him, he reaches under his mattress and digs out a tiny box, velvet under his fingertips. He can even smell the hint of pure metal in the air.

(It cost so damn much. It cost more than any single physical thing he's ever bought, more than the IKEA futon or the junkyard fridge Foggy helped him fix up or the three piece suit he was leant as a charity case. He didn't need to spend that much- Elektra has never asked him to spend anything on her, and he hadn't really been able too, even though it interfered with every rule of chivalry his dad had ground into him and Elektra had dismissed as archaic. But he'd wanted to, wanted to show her a glimpse of the future he had planned for them, and so with the aggravated shop attendant's help [and Foggy's, because even in whatever haze he was in he knew better than to trust the attendant's advice] he's chosen a double-shank gold ring with a ruby. Modern. Red. Gold. Her.)

First thing the next morning, he throws the box into the Hudson.

Ten years later, he wants it back.

[ventoaureorun]

Hello!! Could I have sole headcanons for Gyro, Johnny and Giorno as husbands and fathers? Please and thank you, I love tour blog ^^

[ I’m so glad you asked this. At first I was like oh no idk what to write and now that I’m done im just like oh no thats adorable i want to marry them all.]✖ Gyro Zeppeli ✖- He’d be the kind of husband that if you we’re to complain about any work aches, he’s already giving you a back massage telling you to just relax, even if he himself just came home from a long day at work, he’d still place your comfort over his- Gyro would be one of those husbands where you wake up on a lazy Sunday morning to see his hair tied up as he cooks you breakfast in the kitchen as he sings his own song. Or be really cheesy about it and ask you to come over so he can feed you those scrambled eggs he just made. “ Do you like them? I woke up early just so I could cook them for you!” - Though because of his upbringing, Gyro would probably be the kind that wants to have a lot of kids, he thinks a big loving family is the best thing and at the very least will have two children, he doesn’t want his child to ever get lonely.- There’s nothing he loves more than coming home after a long day of work to his partner and kids welcoming him home. It just fills his heart with pride knowing that his family is always there for him.- He’d also try to bring the whole family out on vacation once every two years maybe to travel Italy or even visit his friend Johnny in America. The Joestars and Zeppelis would be quite close.- If you have a daughter you bet he would be the one doing the hair braiding instead, he loves it if his daughter was to end up tying his hair instead. If she wants a tea party sure as hell he was going to sit down with Mr. Fluffles and talk about how nice the air tea is.- If its a son he’d be the sporting kind of dad bringing him out to look at horses or continuing the Zeppeli tradition and teaching him about the medical uses of the Spin from a young age.- Gyro would also be that dad you see cheering the loudest at school sports carnivals or anything the parents can attend. He is supportive dad number 1 and even if his kid doesn’t win he still celebrates like they came in first.- Though when it comes to academics he always tries his best to teach his children whatever he can, if they were to ask him any nonsensical questions, why the sky was blue or why does grass grow, no matter how busy he is he would try to sit down and explain to them never brushing off their curiosity. 

✖ Johnny Joestar ✖- Johnny would be the kind of husband that’s more like a best friend, he’d pull small jokes on you at home every once in a while like scare you out of bed in the morning or switch the salt and sugar before your morning coffee- He’d love to feed you whenever you guys get to eat together, he finds it adorable and loves teasing you with it to like offering you a spoonful before eating it himself and laughing.- He does have bad days though, [bad flashbacks to the Steel Ball Run] so there’s some days where its just quiet nights with him sitting beside you, leaning into you for comfort. Running your fingers though his hair and telling him how you won’t ever leave him is the only thing that makes him feel better. He cherishes you dearly for that.- Johnny would try his best to be a good father, but there’s always the residing fear in the back of his mind that he’s going to end up like his own father. [ When you assure him he’s doing a good job though he just can’t help but to smile]- He’d always be trying his best not to make the same mistakes his own father did, he makes sure to never downplay any of his kid’s efforts, always being as supportive as he can with whatever they do.- If his child is proud of something he is to, today’s the first time the horse let you pet it? We’re celebrating. He wants to make sure his kids know they’re loved.- He’d make a super big deal out of their birthdays too, who cares if his child is only 10, he’d buy them their first horse. He just tries so hard to be the Best Dad™- Johnny would probably be satisfied with having one child though if you wanted more he wouldn’t complain, he’d just get nervous hoping favouritism won’t ever be a thing, but when you assure him that you’d keep him in check he’ll calm down.- He’d love to teach his children the beauty of horse riding though he wouldn’t push them to it if they didn’t want to. So from a young age he’d bring his kids to visit the ranch and to teach them the very basics of taking care of horses, so even if they didn’t pursue a career in it, you bet they all do ride in their free time.- If its a girl, Johnny might end up spoiling her, he just loves his daughter so much he can’t help but try to give her anything she wants, so its up to you to play the bad guy here and lecture her when Johnny can’t bear to.- If its a son though Johnny is probably stricter with them, wanting to make sure they don’t end up like he did in his younger days, as a playboy wasting his life away.

✖ Giorno Giovanna ✖- Your husband is the Don. You want something, you get it. Unless you really wanted to work, he would be fine with you just being a housewife, being around him in Passione would make him happy enough.- Giorno would be one to bring you out on dates once a week to some expensive restaurant making sure you only eat like royalty and he’ll pamper you to bits.- When it comes to official D & D events in the mafia, expect him to bring you around, he’d love to buy you gorgeous gowns or tuxedos and show you off to everyone. - To most people in the Mafia, you are well known as Passione’s Consigliere. An outsider yet it was because of your cool that Passione’s power just continues to grow, if you’re seen in a meeting between gangs they know it will go well for both sides. You we’re not only the wedded partner to the Don but now a mother hen to the whole of Passione too. Everyone trusts you as much as they trust Giorno.- Everyone even out of Passione know not to mess with you as Giorno himself would personally wipe an entire gang from power if he so hear’s they threaten you. He would do anything to ensure your safety yet make sure you didn’t have your freedom taken away from you.- When you both finally have a child, Giorno would be the happiest dad. Making sure they had the best childhood. Education came from only the best private tutors, with Giorno being the Don he didn’t want to risk the child getting kidnapped thus making sure they were homeschooled- Giorno would only want one kid, being part of the Mafia he felt it was unfair to bring a child into such a dangerous world, but yet he’d still want an heir so for him, one is enough.- Though he would still want to make sure they had friends, so if any other members of Passione had children expect to see them out on play dates a lot, with the Don himself overseeing their playtime if he’s free.- Although he’d try to keep his children out of the mafia, if its a boy, eventually when they reach their late teens, Giorno himself would expose them to the mafia, assuming they inherited a stand, he would teach them self defence too.- If it was a girl, she would eventually grow in popularity amongst the boys in the mafia, known as Passione’s Principessa it took Giorno’s personal strict teaching to ensure she wasn’t spoilt by the amount of suitors she gets. [ Oh shit I got too carried away with this omg i typed so much??? but its so cute though I like the idea of these precious jjba boys as parents]

[flora-fenton-blog]

private—

[Flora'd been at work since 3 that afternoon. It was a favor she was doing--covering another's shift as there was an emergency baby brother being born and an excited librarian student sibling dying to meet the infant.  And though rearranging her plans proved to be simple- she had just called her father to pick her up later- she hadn't realized she didn't plan on dinner as normally, she'd be helping her mother with the cooking or cooking herself.  And since she was covering such a late shift, her parents were going out to eat. Luckies!

So it was a quarter until 6 and her stomach was rumbling with hunger, and yes, it was obvious in an all too quiet library.  Usually she was certain to make sure to pack a snack or two to eat throughout the day, but dairy free yogurt only holds for so long, and the apple was long gone. Drats!

So there she was minding her business, waiting for the clock to hurry, and though it was only ten minutes later, it felt like an eternity. So she leaned against the counter, discomfort clearly on her face, and along comes a Thomas to check out a book.  She doesn't notice him at first because she's too busy suffering, okay that's a little melodramatic, but for once, Flora feels completely justifies.  There's another rumble in her stomach and she lightly groans to match the noise.]

Ahem..?

[Flora straightens up at the sound of his voice, because it startles her a bit.  She attempts to hide her involuntary grimaces, but apparently is unsuccessful as Thomas's face grows in concern.]

Hi, how... are you?

B-brilliant.

[Her voice almost too quiet as she is still a little embarrassed from their last meeting. She nods towards the boy, and smiles, trying to stick to her librarian duties. She lies, through her awkwardness, as she wasn't quite ready to be forced into a conversation with him.

And this boy who she ran into and now, he's probably thinking she's wayyy too weird for him to even think about a rain check for coffee, so taking the book, scanning it, printing out a receipt, she makes quick of their encounter .] Two weeks, sir. [There's a smile, after her quickness, and she goes back to pressing her face against the cool counter.]

Flora...? Are you gonna make it?

[She sits back up, her eyes on the clock on her little librarian desk, and tick, tock, tick, tock, and finally.]

One... more... second.

[So she waits, and Thomas is standing at the counter awkwardly, but he's waiting with her. What for? No idea, but finally the time is up. After typing her password on the computer, and successfully clocking out, she rounds the corner with her bag, and begins to take her leave.]

Freedom!

[So Thomas follows her.] Is it that terrible working here? I always thought the silence would comfort me-- I do find an escape here when my mind won't stop buzzing.

Oh, no, nothing like that. I'm just not used to working so late, and I'm--

[There was a stomach grumble, and she laughs to cover her mortification.]

Oh. That's too relatable right now, and oddly... adorable..

Starving too?

Yeah, I know this cool Mediterranean place. I was heading that way actually... if you'd like to join me?  Or is your Dad on his way again?

I'm sure he's not as they went out to dinner. They haven't been on a date in a while... I wasn’t planning on waiting around.

So is that a yes?

[Flora gives it a thought, and though she was honestly hesistant, something inside her told her that everything would be okay, so she slowly begins to nod.]

Awesome.

------------------------

[And so Thomas leads the way to his car, and they are there in no time.

Upon arrival Flora noticed it was a nicer restaurant than she had expected, and though she'd never been on a date, she was now wondering if that's what this was. Thomas was nice, nicer than nice, and Flora was sure to read all of his intentions-- true or untrue, because despite what her mind admonished, her weary heart weighed heavy in between her sighs and swoons from him opening almost every door for her, and pulling out her chair, and the way his eyes seemed completely on hers the whole night.  

So they ordered an appetizer, veggie kabobs, and the tahini sauce was almost too perfect with the seasonal vegetables, and Flora's hunger seemed to slowly dissipate. She was in heaven. A food heaven, and Thomas, his company wasn't that bad. Great actually. He'd given her a reason to laugh for such a long time, and while he would joke around at times, there were serious notes to his personality, which she felt most engaging.

So for her plate, she ordered a falafel wrap, and he ordered angus gyro, and though he apologized for ordering meat in front of her, she didn't mind. She'd almost forgotten about the idea altogether. So she shaked it off, and picked around little leaves of cilantro--because it tastes like soap to her, and she forgot to ask for no cilantro. But she ate fast, and though it wasn't entirely lady-like she was hungry! So it wasn't long before  would be time to go.  Alhough she couldn't help but not want to leave.]

------------------------------

[She'd gotten up to use the restroom and when she came back the bill was already paid for, and though she insisted on placing some cash in front of the boy, he denied. It was ~his treat.

And now, she was certain this was a date, because isn't that how dates worked? And now did she owe him something? Maybe she could trust him in return, or would that be too hasty? How many dates would she have to go on until she would be able to trust him? And would that be fair to him?

With her mind racing, she had little time to enjoy a conversation with the boy in the car, but once it was stopping, she was sure she didn't want to be in a tiny space with him alone.  

So full on panic mode, Flora is sitting frozen in her seat. and she feels Thomas staring at her. Finally he asks her the question she wasn't ready to answer.]

Someone's hurt you, haven't they? In the past, I mean.

[And she peers at him, and pulling her head up from her lap, she takes a deep breath because was it that obvious. Was it, and would it be forever written on her forehead? Would any other person she spent time know for the rest of her life? Would she have to be alone in order to avoid such a question? And why did he have to ruin the conversation flow. Just as she was now thinking she could talk to him about everything, now he had to ask? She didn't supply an answer, and she didn't give any inclination that she would answer either.]

You don't have to talk about it. I realize it probably makes you feel uncomfortable. I'm sorry I asked.

[And she's under the impression that he's letting things go, but he continues on with his train of thought after a momentary pause.]

But I noticed--- after last time, and the way you look at people as if you're trying to figure out if you can trust them.

[She stares out the car window.]

I don't know who or why anyone would ever hurt you intentionally.

[She pressed her mouth into a line, and switched her attention back to her feet at the floor, because she was still having trouble with that one too.]

But, you can trust me, Flora. I would never, ever, intentionally hurt you. Complete opposite actually. If you need protection, I've got you covered. Like a personal bodyguard, if you need it.

[So that's when she pulls her hair out of her face, because, yes, she was hiding behind it. And a personal body gaurd was a wild thought, but it was really nice of him to offer. And though  it was as if all of her darkened thoughts resurfaced into the air, and her heart-her weary tiny beating heart-pulled her away from that thought because words were just words.]

And I can prove that to you in any way possible if I have to. If it means I have to follow you around and scare off all of the monsters, real and imaginary.

[So now she was looking at that boy, and his e y e s, because she was a fan of those, she was beginning to realize. And though almost lost in the darkness surrounding them, she could make out the sincerity in his face, and she believed him. So an involuntary smile escaped from her lips because how could she not smile at that?]

Okay.

[There was nod, and though the tarnished parts inside of her told to be cautionary, she didn't want to be.  He was nice. He was funny. She could tell that he meant what he said, and for once, they were things she wanted to hear. This had to have been evident as he smiled back, and as he drove home, he just mIGHT HAVE GRABBED HER HAND BECAUSE THAT SEEMED LIKE A SAFE PLACE TO START.]