#he may be growing very obviously inhuman but he stays silly!!!

[cutter-kirby]

there's more story with my son eddy now uh yippee!

i don't think i ever clarified but the deal that his father made with wiggly was essentially the reverend gets a new son to replace his deceased one while wiggly gets the reverend's "greatest regret" down the road

if enough time passes in a timeline eddy starts developing eldritch traits that get harder to hide until he inevitably discovers his true origins and confronts his dad about it

good ending - um eddy and his dad actually communicate and things aren't perfect but they are better and somehow eddy lives a long and fulfilling life (if it's not an apocalypse ending). he becomes a teacher i think.

bad ending (most timelines unfortunately) - eddy discovers his origin and after arguing with his dad the reverend says he never should have made that deal so. well. eddy is his greatest regret and the boy gets subsumed into the black and white. his dad covers up his disappearance by saying he went to find his mother in clivesdale. eddy is now trapped in the black and white and is forced to spend time with his otherworldly dad-thing (no one is happy with this)

also i drew him! my darling boy!

[welcometotheosworld-blog]

My first story, “Say Your Prayers.”

Prior to the summer of 2012, if I were to hear the term “spiritual warfare,” I most likely would have conjured up a darkly humorous image of ghosts dueling with rusty pitchforks, or perhaps associated the term with a cheesy, supernatural-themed video game.  However, after existing for nearly two decades in this strange world, I have come to the terrifyingly lucid conclusion that paranormal threats are as real as the more tangible (and less taboo) forces that plague mankind.  What triggered my rather extreme transformation from a “I’ll-believe-it-when-I-see-it” atheist to a hardcore spiritualist with a rosary in his pocket?  The first edgings of my enlightenment (if you could call it that) emerged during a barbecue, of all places.                  

Six years ago, my family lived in a large, New England saltbox-style house near the ruins of a once-decadent plantation.  Surrounded by miles of wetland and the constant smoky haze of chemical refineries, my life in the dreary town was sheltered to say the least.  My friends often joked that I lived on a raft in the middle of the swamp and complained about the long drive from the big city to the isolated suburban development.  Prior to the events that lead to my unwanted enlightenment, opening the screen door to find a small alligator basking in our plastic kiddie pool seemed to be the most fearsome thing my twon had to offer.  Until a certain someone decided to crash my cousin’s birthday barbeque.                      

On a balmy July night, while my family gathered around a picnic table under the Spanish moss and scrolled through the silly pictures we had taken with my brother’s phone during our celebration of my cousin, Olivia’s, birth, my mother, a no-nonsense sort of woman, noticed something...odd.  In the corner of a photo of Olivia and I, there was a distinctive figure that resembled a little girl, around six or seven years old, with a particularly large nose.  Upon closer inspection, Big Nose (as my family had christened her) seemed to be watching us, frowning, through a window in the background.  Though slightly blurry, it became obvious to us that the figure was, in fact, a small girl and not a freakish trick of the light or a reflection.  To add to the growing paranoia of my mother, there were no small girls that we knew of who lived near our property and the girl in the photo didn’t look quite...normal.  We had never seen this mysterious girl before, and my mother suspected that due to her unnervingly inhuman appearance she may have been a spectre, or as Catholic superstition would have it, a demon or an evil entity of sorts.  Everyone besides my mother found the picture creepy, but we laughed off the unexpected "photo bomb" and mused that she was a plantation owner’s daughter who had died during the Antebellum days and decided to haunt us since she wasn’t invited to the party.  Olivia joked, “I don’t care if she’s a demon or whatever-she better have brought me a present!”                                                                              

Though we were all pleasantly spooked, we eventually forgot about the odd event until a few months later, when my mother received a disturbing phone call from Ms. Farrah, a family friend.  Ms. Farrah was a kindly Persian woman with an even-keeled temperament and slight accent who never seemed to get angry.  She was more of a listener than a talker, and always offered mints and peanuts to my brothers and I whenever we visited her home.  Ms. Farrah was the last person I would have expected to make such a phone call.  My mother said Ms. Farrah called to report an unusual sighting; when she stopped by to retrieve some tupperware my mother had lent her, she caught a fleeting glimpse of a man dressed in 19th century clothing wandering through woods behind our house.  When Ms. Farrah joined my family for dinner later that week and told her story again, my parents joked with her.  She insisted, “the guy looked at me, turned around, and vanished like he didn’t want to be seen.  I have no idea where he went.  I’ve never seen him around here, and I’ve lived in this town for almost fifteen years.  He didn’t look like a normal man, either, but it wasn’t only because of how he was dressed.  He looked a little blurry, even though he was only about 50 feet away from me” she recalled, only to be mocked.  “So, who’s the lucky guy?” asked my father, alluding to Ms. Farrah being single at the time.  She wasn’t amused in the slightest.  She stuck to her story, solemn as an Medieval executioner, and she was obviously quite perturbed by what she had seen.  After our previous encounter with Big Nose, we were reluctant to believe her, but eventually did.  After all, what motivation did she have to lie about such an unusual and random event?  

At this point, my mother was not planning on hosting any more otherworldly visitors.   According to an ancient Sicilian Catholic tradition, she inscribed a protective Latin prayer above our door with chalk, hoping to deter any evil entities from intruding.  My mother was a devout Christian and believed in the presence of demons and angels on earth.  “Spiritual warfare is real,” she told us that night, “and the only protection is to stay close to Jesus.”  Although I had mocked my mother’s musings about demons and spirits in the past, even naming my pet fish Beelzebub to simply get a rise out of her,  I wasn’t so sure that our world was free from visits from some other spiritual dimension.  A horror movie enthusiast, I suggested that she put salt around the doors, a little trick I had seen in countless cheesy films to keep the demons from making a guest appearance.  My mother complied.  My brothers laughed and reminded her that this wasn't The Exorcist, and, forever the die-hard capitalists, jokingly suggested that we should turn the house into a museum to milk these so-called specters for as much cash as we could, but my mother didn’t find anything about our situation funny.  To add to her woe, the Latin inscriptions and salt did not work.  Instead, our weak defenses against these odd spiritual going-ons only seemed to only make matters worse.                    

A couple of weeks later, my mother told us that she had a feverishly frightening dream in which her great-aunt (long-dead at the time) appeared to her and warned her, "Kira, you best take caution-dark times are ahead."  She woke up in a cold sweat, and told us that the next day she had suffered a throbbing headache.  My mother decided to add a new weapon to our pitiful arsenal.  She insisted that we say a rosary with her every night, thinking this practice, the useless salt, and the failed inscription were “caution” enough.  After telling us about her dream, my mother claimed, “This is it, guys, this is spiritual warfare.  The devil has his tricks, and Aunt Celeste warned us.  Don’t try to summon the spirits or upset them, it will only make things worse.  Ignore them.  And say your prayers.”  

However, about two weeks after the eerie dream and her speech about our family’s call to a sort of a paranormal battle, my mother was plagued by yet another night terror.  She woke up at 3:30 A.M. to an old, haggard woman in her bedroom, who screeched hellishly and suddenly coughed some yellowish, phlegm-like substance unto her nightgown.  Traumatized and angered, my mother preserved a sample of the substance, disposed of the tainted nightgown, and ordered me to accompany her to show the sample Father Joe, a respected priest whom my family had known for decades, to recount the strange events that preceded this experience and ask for spiritual guidance.  Despite being a jovial man, Father Joe didn't find our ordeals the slightest bit funny.  I was admittedly shocked that he claimed to have dealt with this sort of thing before.  "This is very serious," he said, his expression grave.  "You've been slimed."  My mother and I almost laughed.  It sounded like something from a B-rated horror movie.  Even I wouldn't see that movie.  "I'm not kidding," said Father Joe, "this is spiritual warfare."  There was that ridiculous term again, that despite my slipping grip on denial of our situation, was proving itself to be a grotesque reality.  Father Joe continued, "There is something evil that is trying to take over your family's house.  It is trying to call attention to itself, and it knows the more attention you give it, the longer it can stay.  Malevolent spirits tend to be invited in.  Does anyone in your family play with Ouija boards?" he asked.  "No!" replied my mother, who refused to buy my brother a Harry Potter wand in Disneyland (much to his dismay).  She was right; aside from the going-ons at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, my brothers and I were truly terrified of the supernatural and openly expressed our disdain for supposedly supernatural rituals popular amongst kids our age, such as the “Three Kings” and the “Charlie, Charlie Challenge.”  Father Joe then said, "The strongest form of protection you can take is having the house blessed."  Desperate and confused, my mother agreed.  The following weekend, Father Joe paid a visit to our household and chanted Latin prayers while dousing our house with sage, a common defense against unwanted spirits.  My brothers and I looked on in a glazed sort of helpless horror, the way a doctor might look as the last light of life slipped from his patient's eyes.  "Pray every night, and remember the devil tries to deceive us in whatever way he can," Father Joe instructed us.  Even though we haven’t had any paranormal experiences since Father Joe’s visit and it seemed we emerged victorious from our spiritual battle,  I no longer laugh at those who claim to believe in ghosts.  And every night, my family gathers in the living room to pray, but from time to time, I still sometimes catch fleeting glimpses in the corner of my eye of a small female figure...  

[freaoscanlin]

Given Unsought, Part 6

Jemma came back from Maveth with a little something in tow. She and Daisy attempt to deal. Part 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5

A/N: And now we enter the plot. Or fun bits of the plot. Either way, Jemma has a question for Daisy and Fitz, Daisy gets confused, and then: plot. Silly plot. 2949 words, still rated PG-13.

Love sought is good, but given unsought is better. The Twelfth Night, Act III, Scene I, Line 147

Week Sixteen

New Year’s Eve at SHIELD was kind of a mixed bag, Daisy found. Some agents gathered in the Playground’s lounge with champagne and sparklers, others hit the local bars, but nobody took the full day off. Daisy caught lunch with Coulson and Mack, discussing strategy for an upcoming meeting with the still-elusive Rosalind Price. She spent her afternoon sparring with May, helped Hunter (who’d lost a bet) with inventory, and spent an hour on the shooting range with Fitz’s new icer design.

By dinner time, she should have been in a party mood, and she knew that. The pall of Grant Ward had finally ceased hanging over SHIELD. No more nights wondering if he waited around the next corner, ready to manipulate her and talk at her and gaslight her. No more wondering which operations he’d hinder, whose lives he’d put in danger. She was free. She should have felt relief, overwhelming relief.

All she felt was a sort of numbness. Ward was gone, life snuffed with a bullet to the head. And even though she’d watched his body fall—or precisely because she had—Daisy had woken up in a cold sweat every night since, gasping and trying to maintain her hold on reality.

So after dinner, she retreated to a seldom-used lounge with her laptop to try and track Lincoln. They hadn’t made any progress on the inhuman front, and Lincoln had been a transition specialist at afterlife and a medical doctor. There was literally nobody on the planet more qualified to assist SHIELD and the ATCU with inhuman transitioning, and yet he continued to run.

Daisy typed this into an email four times and erased it since there wasn’t much else she could do. When Jemma poked her head in, Daisy couldn’t deny that she was relieved to have a distraction.

The serious look on Jemma’s face dried that relief right up. “Is something wrong?” Daisy asked, closing the laptop.

“No, but d’you have a minute? You’re not in the middle of anything important, are you?”

“Nothing that can’t wait.”

“Oh. Good. Erm, stay there? I’ll be right back.” Jemma vanished, leaving Daisy at the table. A minute later, she returned with Fitz in tow. Jemma gestured that they should take a seat. “There’s something I need to talk to you both about.”

Fitz still had a screwdriver in his hand and the puzzled furrow of his brow matched what Daisy felt, which comforted her somewhat. “If it’s about me being testy, Daisy and I already talked about that and we’re getting along much better,” he said.

“It’s not that. Though I do appreciate it.” Jemma took a deep breath.

Her bottom lip was trembling, Daisy realized, a sign that tears could be imminent. She reached across the table and laid her hand over Jemma’s. “What’s going on, Jemma?”

Jemma rubbed the thumb of her free hand over the corner of her eyelid. “I’ve been thinking a lot this week. Specifically about—well, about Ward, actually. What happened with him was awful. I don’t think any of us have gotten a real night of sleep since.”

Fitz glanced swiftly at Daisy, and she looked at the table. She’d thought she’d kept her nightmares quiet, but apparently not. She really needed to switch rooms so that she wasn’t Fitz’s neighbor anymore.

“What happened was scary, but it’s also just an accepted truth in our lives that we face danger so others don’t need to,” Jemma said after a deep breath. “And I’m proud to do that, and I know you are, too.”

“Why do I sense there’s a ‘but’ in here?” Daisy asked.

“I’m proud of what we do, but it’s not just me anymore. I’ve had my…I’ve had my denial, and a good long sulk, but it’s time I accept some things. I’m having a baby. If I’m lucky, it’ll be around the first of June and not before. It wasn’t planned, but the first thing one learns at SHIELD is that nothing ever goes to plan. So I’m having this baby, and I hope you two will be there right alongside me.”

“Obviously,” Fitz said at the same time as Daisy said, “Duh.”

Daisy continued, “We’ll be the best honorary aunt and uncle ever. You and Fitz can teach Simmons Junior nerdy science things, and I’ll teach them how to fight back when the cool kids try to take their lunch money for being a nerd.”

Fitz and Jemma looked like they would very much like to protest that, but they exchanged a look. “It’s a useful skill,” Fitz said begrudgingly.

“See? I bring things to the table occasionally,” Daisy said.

Jemma’s lips quirked upward. “There’s something else,” she said. “It’s a big request to make, especially since we’ve literally just got back from visiting my parents, but if something were to happen to me, I was hoping you might be willing to…step in?”

“Step in as in raise—raise your child?” Daisy asked. Oddly, her voice had gone up nearly an octave and she was suddenly at least thirty percent more aware of every exit location in the base. “That kind of step in?”

Jemma bit her lip. “It’s a lot to ask.”

Daisy’s mind went completely and utterly fuzzy. At least Fitz had been stunned silent, too. It was one thing for Jemma to be pregnant because that meant Jemma would be a mother. But if something happened—her stomach pitched and rolled at the thought—it would fall to Daisy and Fitz. He was a competent adult when he wasn’t being crabby, but Daisy could barely take care of herself. There was absolutely nothing in her background that would have ever prepared her for the possibility of taking care of another, more helpless, smaller person.

Jemma turned her hand over on the table to link their fingers. “It’s something you said that made me consider it,” Jemma said. “On the rooftop, remember? You reminded me of all the children like you in the system, who didn’t have a backup. I don’t want that for this child. You turned out lovely, but I don’t want to subject anybody to that kind of pain.”

“What about your parents?” Fitz asked.

“I’ve talked to them about it, and they’ll do whatever is needed in the event the worst happens. Jack, too. But as much as I love them, and I want them to be a part of this baby’s life even if I’m gone, I left when I was fourteen, and it wasn’t until I was at the Academy that I finally began to find myself. Where I met you.” Jemma looked at Fitz. She then looked solemnly at Daisy, who couldn’t look away. “And then in the field where I met you. You are the people that mean the most in the world to me, and who truly know me best. If I’m gone, if something should happen to me, the two of you would be the best tether I could keep to this child.”

Daisy managed to swallow past the lump in her throat. “Well, first of all, nothing is ever going to happen to you, just so we’re clear,” she said.

“Agreed,” Fitz said.

“You can’t possibly know that,” Jemma said, but Fitz and Daisy glared. “What? You can’t!”

“Even so.” Daisy cleared her throat. “But if something did happen to you, of course I’d be there for Simmons Junior.”

“Me too. Anything they needed, anything at all. Though I refuse to call him—her—it—‘Junior.’” Fitz had an odd look on his face. Daisy had never asked about the end of their romantic relationship, but now she wondered how much of a role the unborn baby had played in that. “I will say, try not to let anything happen to you. I’m not much good with babies. I prefer it when they’re older. Or monkeys.”

Daisy stifled a laugh. “Don’t ever change,” she told him.

“Of course I’ll change, that’s the point of living, isn’t it? If I never changed, I’d be static.”

“I didn’t mean it like that, and I think you know that.”

They both looked over in confusion when Jemma burst into tears. “Sorry, sorry,” she said, flapping her free hand in front of her face. “You two go on. I’m just so relieved—don’t mind me—it’ll pass in a moment, I’m sure—”

“Is it the hormones?” Fitz whispered to Daisy.

“Yes, but you’re not supposed to say that out loud, dummy.” She rounded the table and hugged Jemma, rubbing her friend’s back. Jemma held on tightly, sniffling, and didn’t move, even when Fitz got up and rested his hand on her shoulder.

The enormity of what she’d agreed to sat heavily under Daisy’s ribcage, pushing against her heart, but she knew she’d never have been able to say no. She’d grown up in the system, clawing to find her way out and never really knowing how to do that. Jemma had already put measures into place so that the same wouldn’t happen to her child. And it wouldn’t, Daisy thought. She would personally do everything she could, she realized, to ensure that the baby would never know any of the pain she had at growing up, shuffled through the system as she was. Which had to be precisely why Jemma had asked this of her and Fitz.

For now, though, she merely held on until Jemma stopped crying and, obviously flustered, left to go make herself a cup of tea. The minute she was out of earshot, Daisy turned to Fitz. “What would it even be like? Would we have shared custody or…?”

“It’s a bit of a grim topic, don’t you think?”

“Well, obviously,” Daisy said. “Obviously I hope the worst never happens. That goes without saying. But, like, if it did?”

“Then I imagine the baby would go to you first,” Fitz said. “And I’ll be around to help out.”

“Is this because I’m a woman?”

“Of course not.” He gave her a look like the very idea was absurd.

Daisy blinked at him. “Then, wait, why me? You two have been friends forever. You finish each other’s sentences, like, all the time.”

“You’ll figure it out.” And with that cryptic statement, he awkwardly reached out and seemed to think about it for a second. He settled for patting her on the shoulder, and left.

Though Daisy really wasn’t in a partying mood after that, Mack found her and dragged her out into the lounge, where even May had been coerced into being present for the festivities. She wordlessly pushed a bottle of beer into Daisy’s hand and tilted her eyebrow at the ping pong table in the corner, where Bobbi and Hunter were currently in mid-crow at their current state of being undefeated. She’d done more surreal things than helping May beat the divorced couple at beer pong, Daisy was sure, but she couldn’t think of them off the top of her head. May’s time deep undercover with Hunter had changed quite a few things, it appeared.

At fifteen seconds to midnight, her phone buzzed with a text from an unlisted number.

Not safe to talk but wanted to start your year off right. Happy New Year.

It was signed by only a smiley emoji, but there could be only one person. Daisy frowned at the text. She texted back her well wishes to Lincoln, forgoing the smiley face, and pocketed her phone. As she did, she spotted Fitz and Jemma over by the stove, apparently deep in an argument. Fitz gestured at the room and Jemma gave him a look that would blister the paint off of the quinjet.

Better to stay out of that one.

Daisy dropped onto the couch between Coulson and Bobbi, raising her bottle and shouting the countdown. At midnight, she hugged both of them, stood on her tiptoes to kiss Mack on the cheek, and ducked the glitter cannon that Hunter had dragged out. She bounced over to Fitz and Jemma afterward. They both abruptly stopped arguing as she drew near.

“Happy new year!” She hugged Fitz first, then Jemma, holding on tight. “Here’s to a great one, right?”

“Indeed!” Jemma raised her sparkling apple juice in a little toast, clearing her throat. Why she elbowed Fitz in the side, Daisy had no idea. “I think we all deserve some happiness. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“Definitely. Ooh, May made more cheese puffs. I don’t know about you, but I am starting this year right.” Daisy nudged her way through them, making a beeline for the tray May held before Hunter could get to it.

She swore she heard Fitz mutter “Coward” at Jemma as she moved off, but maybe it was just her imagination.

May was back, Coulson was in charge, she had all of her friends and coworkers gathered close, Lincoln was staying in touch. It was going to be a good year, she determined.

Week Seventeen

Five days in, and this year already sucked.

All along. All along the inhuman killer had been right under their noses, directly in their camp. Talking to Jemma, talking to her, providing therapy for god’s sake, and not one person had seen the similarities between Andrew Garner’s travel for SHIELD and Lash’s kill pattern.

Daisy felt hollowed out, brutally empty, as she watched the ATCU load the containment pod onto the bed of a semi. Rosalind Price had assured Coulson that he wouldn’t be harmed, that Andrew would be in the best possible care, but Daisy no longer had no idea what to believe. Getting into the ATCU’s servers was nigh on impossible without getting an inside man into the facility, and Coulson had refused to sign off on that mission—yet. Daisy was pretty sure she’d been wearing him down, but that didn’t stop him from doing that weird flirtation thing with Rosalind that made Daisy feel like frowning.

Coulson might not actually be her father, but it kind of felt like being introduced to a new and already hated stepmother.

May was nowhere to be found as the pod was carted away, but Daisy hadn’t really expected to see her. She knew her SO had to be nearby—May wouldn’t let Andrew go without overseeing it—but the woman clung to shadows like she’d been born to do just that. So after they closed the semi’s doors and the agent climbed into the front seat, the truck rumbling as it left the bay, Daisy wordlessly turned and walked back to the quinjet.

Lincoln, sitting numbly in one of the jump seats, glanced up at her and away just as quickly. He’d already apologized three times. Daisy knew he meant it, but she lacked the emotional strength to handle it at the moment. So she simply kept walking, and settled into the copilot’s seat.

May joined her five minutes later and didn’t speak a word, not even when Coulson climbed aboard and said they were cleared to take off. Daisy watched the horizon beyond the cockpit, remembering all the times the noise in her head had grown too loud after Ward that she’d climbed into the cockpit of the Bus to simply sit in silence beside May.

This time, though, May flipped a couple of switches that put the quinjet on autopilot. She angled a look at Daisy. “Do you need to talk?”

“No,” Daisy said.

May didn’t reply with “Good,” but Daisy could read between the lines well enough.  

Back at the base, May squeezed her arm, just once. It was momentous enough to alleviate some of the tension pulling her shoulders taut, but it wasn’t enough to fight back the sick feeling in her chest. Without knowing where she was going, Daisy started to wander. Andrew had been a friend. A therapist. The first therapist she’d ever begun to trust. Daisy let out a humorless laugh as she wandered on with her hands in her pockets. It just figured.

Without her bidding, her footsteps carried her to the lab. There she stood in the doorway, arms crossed over her chest and one shoulder leaning up against the frame. She watched Jemma speak with one of the scientists on her team, no doubt conferring about the sequencing project she’d talked to Daisy about over dinner the night before. Daisy hadn’t understood more than the bare bones of it, but she’d liked the rise and fall of Jemma’s voice as she explained. She liked listening to what made her friend happy.

Now, less than twenty four hours later, she felt like happiness might be a long way off from ever occurring again.

As if sensing her, Jemma glanced up and over, locking gazes with her. She murmured something to her colleague and stepped over. Her eyes shone suspiciously, a hint of tears.

“You heard?” Daisy asked, and her voice came out thick and choked, shocking the hell out of her.

Jemma merely nodded.

“The ATCU has him—” Daisy broke off. Words built up, but it was like her throat had been stoppered. Attempting to speak only made it worse, so she shook her head a little wildly.

Jemma turned out not to need the words. “Oh, Daisy,” she said, and pulled Daisy into a hug. Andrew had been her therapist, too, one of the few people she would speak to about Maveth in those first days. And they all loved him. He’d become one of them. So it made sense that Daisy could feel her trembling as well. Or maybe that was from her. She couldn’t tell, and honestly, she didn’t care.

She merely closed her eyes and held on.