#i almost popped a blood vessel from this episode

[im-outofideas]

it’s not so bad here

fandom: criminal minds

w/c: 2155

pairing: platonic BAU (mostly prentiss and morgan), spencer reid

summary: perspective of spencer: on the jet ride home after a long case. The team is so tired they get a lil silly. fluff + minimum angst I mean it is spencer’s brain.

a/n: this is quite literally my first time for everything, my first time using tumblr and my first ever fanfiction. i had a lot of fun so perhaps expect more maybe?? I want to thank the amazing @nhasablogg for being the biggest inspiration and just so cool honestly. they helped a lot with this work and have just been the kindest person ever!!! anyway pls read the following with all this☝️in mind.

~~~~~~

Spencer never really got used to flying. The team was currently thirty-six-thousand-eight-hundred-sixty-four feet above what Spencer assumed (or more accurately, calculated) would be Tennessee based on flight patterns from Dallas to Quantico and the amount of time they’ve been in air for. Which was roughly three hours, forty-five minutes, six seconds. Seven. Eight. They had about three more hours to go.

The pressure was building in Spencer’s ears and he grimaced, swallowing hard in an attempt to pop them. He always felt a pang of anxiety whenever any pain came to his head, as his memory would replay his mother’s cries for relief during bad episodes.

There was one night when Spencer was eleven, experiencing his first true migraine after finishing his college applications. It was one of the few times Spencer remembered his mother taking care of him instead of the other way around, she was almost completely lucid. His fear was much stronger then, and while he was a boy-genius, his brain was still biologically too immature to handle it.

“I’m dying, mom.” The corners of his eyes wet with tears. His mother smiled at him. It wasn’t often that Spencer behaved his age like this.

“No baby, your head is just too full, and your skull is too small to contain it. The pain is just your head expanding, working to grow and stay ahead of your thoughts.”

“Actually, your brain can’t be too big for your skull. There’s just a blood vessel swelling, and that’s putting pressure on the surrounding nerves which is making the muscles around my skull tighten and causing…” he groaned in frustrated pain. His mother stroked his hair soothingly.

“Would you listen to your mother for once, Spencer? Just go to sleep, you can’t feel the world in your sleep, you know. Go somewhere other than this reality, where your head isn’t constantly working. Relieve some of that pressure... It’s too stressful here, isn’t it?” A far too familiar distant look crossed her eyes for a moment. He rushed to retrieve her.

“Mom.. would you stay with me tonight?”

She returned her son’s gaze. “Of course, I’m not going anywhere.”

His pain seeped out with every stroke, as if his mother’s fingers were magically sucking it out from his skin. As he fell asleep, he found that she was right. He didn’t feel anything. It was like traveling through time.

—————

The case in Texas was particularly rough. Over the past five days, the team got maybe a total of eight hours of rest each. And as far as successes go, they’ve gotten better wins. As a headache creeped up on Spencer, he kicked off his shoes and curled up on the jet couch for a nap. He fell asleep pretty quickly, ready to skip through the headache until he was in Virginia again.

But a funny sensation on his right foot caused his leg to jerk in. I thought I couldn’t feel the world in my sleep. He stirred to see Prentiss standing at the end of the couch.

“I like your socks, Reid.” She said, before wiggling her fingers over his left pink-and-purple striped sock.

“Hey!” He pulled his other leg in and smushed it against the cushion to smother the feeling. He checked his watch, the jet couldn’t be landing already? “What’d you wake me up for?”

“I couldn’t help myself. Purple’s my favorite color.” She grinned at his reaction, before it faded into a frown. “Hang on, now that you’re up though, how come you always get the full couch to sleep on?” Morgan leaned over from his seat, invested in the conversation.

“Thank you. I’ve been meaning to say something about that bull.” He craned his neck, exaggerating the pain of sleeping upright.

“Reid is the youngest,” Hotch said from out of nowhere, neither against him nor in his defense. Spencer hadn’t even noticed him watching. Had they all been watching him sleep? Rossi continued for Hotch, “I suppose he assumed he got first rights to the couch for being born last. And you all let him.”

Hotch went back to the paperwork in his lap, diligent even while running on no sleep. “No, what about Ashley Seaver? She was younger than Reid,” he said. Definitely against him.

“And he still took the couch. Like a gentleman,” said Rossi.

Suddenly, Spencer felt very ganged up on.

“Is that right?” Morgan squinted at Spencer as if he stole something precious from him.

“I don’t think that’s fair,” Prentiss said. “We can’t let him get away with this anymore.”

At first, he was confused by the rare playfulness of his coworkers, especially from Hotch adding to the banter after the crazy, long week. Then he realized; everyone was sleep deprived and filled with a goofy, delirious energy. And while they weren’t able to catch the unsub, they were able to return a young girl back to her family - traumatized, but albeit unharmed - something they saw far too little of. The feeling left everyone more fuzzy than anything, it outweighed the disappointment of losing the unsub. Reuniting a family always strengthened his own, Spencer thought. Perhaps that fuzziness and fatigue was expunging all the professionalism they maintained while the case was ongoing.

And now Spencer - who was just sleeping soundly on the couch that everyone was hungry for - was beginning to feel that fuzziness himself. He faced his back towards his team as he pulled his cover up to his chin and closed his eyes.

“If you wanted it, you should’ve gotten to it first.”

At that, he heard Morgan rise and make his way toward the couch. The blanket was ripped off him dramatically. He kept his eyes closed and opened his mouth to snore lightly. His snore lasted half a second before the sound was abruptly cut off, immediately snapping his mouth shut in a toothy grimace and slamming his elbow down to his side.

“Get your ass up, Reid,”

“No.” He buried his face into the back of the couch, trying to hide his smile as if the way his elbow followed each of Morgan’s delivered pokes didn’t give him away. Reid stiffened a bit more, he focused on schooling his reactions and moving less. If he started laughing, there was no way they would stop, probably even after he gave up what they wanted.

“C‘mon, it’s time to wake up.” His resolve began to crumble when Morgan tasered both sides of his ribs. “Share with the rest of us.”

“Ahhh-ha! Stop!” He huffed out a laugh before holding his breath to stop himself. His face quickly flushed as he wiggled on the couch.

“You know, everyone else sits during the whole flight. As a courtesy to the rest of the team. Except for you-” He accentuated by digging into his ribs again, causing another yelp and laugh to slip. “-who’s just sleeping here like a baby. What’s up with that?”

“Derek-“

“Hmm?”

He couldn’t speak.

“Aww, what’s the matter, Reid? You’re not ticklish, are you?” Prentiss cooed as if nobody could tell he would be just by looking at him.

That’s all it took to crack him. Once the hysterical laughter began he couldn’t stop it. Like a defense mechanism, his brain started working in overdrive to apply logic to best overcome this assault. It took no time to figure out he could never physically stop Morgan; in terms of strength he was far outmatched.

Well, tickling is essentially the body’s response to unpredictable stimuli, so theoretically he could dull the sensations by predicting the attacks. He could trick his brain into believing he was tickling himself. He applied it in a fraction of a second.

All he did was swat at Morgan’s hands in an awkwardly gentle manner, unable to take hold of them. It really did absolutely nothing. Spencer wondered if he were one of the few who could tickle himself.

Before he could think of another solution, Prentiss grabbed one of his arms and hoisted it up above his head.

“No no no, wait wait doN’T-“

Being able to predict was proven a completely worthless tactic. Morgan tickled under his arm and he screamed. His ears finally popped and he could hear the sounds of his own bright laughter at its true pitch. His defense mechanism was shot, as if Morgan’s fingers were sucking out any ability to form a useful thought.

“Oh my god, how’d an eagle get so high up here?” Prentiss teased before breaking down herself.

Spencer wailed and curled his legs in protectively. When that did nothing, he kicked and pulled down at his arm. When that did nothing, he fell back in a whiny giggle in an attempt to garner their sympathy. That did nothing but encourage them.

“Hotch!”

Hotch finished his note, glanced very briefly at his team before returning to his work with the slightest of smiles. Spencer felt betrayed. Supervisory special agent my AAHHAA-

“Oh oh, what’s going on? It sounds like fun, let me see,” JJ turned the laptop over to show Garcia what was happening: Spencer flopping red in the face with Morgan practically sitting on him, Prentiss crouching - legs wobbly from her own laughter - behind Spencer’s head, still holding onto his arm.

“Oh geez, Spencer. How did I not know you were ticklish! Because of course you are. What did he do to deserve this? Did he cheat at Go Fish again?”

Upon seeing Garcia’s grin and his own disheveled form mirrored back at him, Spencer felt embarrassed. If anyone was going to make this a recurring experience, it would be her. He wasn’t totally against the idea, which made him blush furiously harder.

“Okay, okayokay! Y-you can have the couch. I don’t want it. I don’t want it!” Prentiss let go and Spencer squirmed out of Morgan’s grasp, falling to the floor of the jet. He stayed there catching his breath in high-pitched giggles, bewildered by what just happened. He wiped his eyes and looked up at Hotch and Rossi, who stared down at him with immense amusement.

“Thanks for the help guys,” he exhaled, exhausted. They both shook their heads with fond smiles.

“I trusted my agents could handle an internal conflict on their own,” Hotch said.

“You mean manhandle..”

He looked to Morgan, who was settling comfortably on the couch with Reid’s blanket, Prentiss cuddling next to him. He rubbed his sides and looked down at the ground, defeated.

“There’s plenty of room for all of us, big guy,” Prentiss offered her hand, inviting him to the couch. Spencer took it with a smile and sat down awkwardly with his hands resting on his thighs. She draped the blanket over the three of them.

“I’m sorry for being a couch hog.”

“I’m sure you are,” Prentiss snickered.

“It’s alright, Reid, you seem like you always need the sleep. We were just having fun. Did we go too far?” Morgan asked sincerely, arm around Emily and hand on Reid’s shoulder.

“Nah.. I-I had fun too. I mean, I haven’t laughed that hard in a while. I don’t think you guys have either actually.”

“Yeah, well, you did look really funny.” Prentiss said.

Spencer nudged her with a smile, earning him a poke which he quickly followed with a soft noooo don’t.

Morgan scratched the side of his head, mostly to teasingly get his attention. But it felt nice. “Start preparing for a lot more of that.”

“Hmm.. my mom used to do this for me.”

“Tickle you?”

“Uh, no. Stroke my hair. Whenever I got a bad headache, she would tell me to sleep, and then she would pet me until I did.”

“Do you have a headache now?”

“Earlier, a little.”

Without saying any more, Morgan patted down his (now) short hair before stroking up and down soothingly.

“Like that?”

Spencer slumped over and began fake-snoring. Morgan withdrew his hand and sat up a little straighter, which immediately woke him back up “I’m kidding I’m kidding I’m kidding please just- keep doing what you were doing.” They returned to their original positions after Morgan shot him a warning look.

Prentiss rested her head on his shoulder. He leaned his own head back against the couch and allowed himself to relax. The reality of Emily being there with all of them suddenly hit him. Countless nights he begged for her death to be reversed, to be a hoax. To be replaced even. Back then he wished to go to another reality, somewhere without the pressure and the stress, somewhere he couldn’t feel the world. But now, how lucky was he for her to be returned, for her to be truly safe and sound and laughing with them again? He would rather be nowhere else.

He checked his watch, there was two hours left of the flight. The three of them fell asleep very quickly, but rather than try to skip through time, Spencer savored the moment.

[canefought]

i am this close scrapping everything and making a canon divergence to give oscar actual character development because rt can’t even do the fucking hero’s journey correctly.

[spinningwebsandtales]

Imagine Eddie Painting Your Nails

Eddie Munson X FemReader

Rating: T

Warnings: Suggestive themes

Word Count: 1,061

(A/N:) I have been doing a Stranger Things rewatch here recently (been a fan since it first came out) and now I’ve started on season 4. I had seen the Eddie hype but I truly didn’t join the bandwagon until that first scene in the first episode and I understood completely why everyone loves him. I’m on episode 7 so far but I couldn’t wait to write something and then I had this idea on my way home from work and had to write it. I still have some Top Gun stuff I’m going to write but this was just too good. So enjoy and until next time happy reading! ~Countess

Eddie ‘The Freak’ Munson the native outcast, the pariah, and terror of Hawkins Indiana. Teachers were sick of him, parents shunned him, and the kids avoided him like the plague. But you, you called him boyfriend. While others only looked at the outside you really truly saw what lingered on the inside. Now you looked at him sitting cross-legged on his bedroom floor with tongue sticking out of the side of his perfect mouth and brow furrowed in concentration. You sat on his bed, leg outstretched as he held your foot, ever so gently and gingerly painting your toenails.

“Eddie,” you giggled, “don’t burst a blood vessel. It’s just my toenails.”

He sighed setting the brush back into the bottle, “Sweetheart. Honey. Light of my life. It’s not just toenails, these are toenails that are connected to your toes. That connect to your feet. That connect to your legs which connect to your…”

“Watch it,” you warned teasingly, earning a cheeky grin from the long haired metalhead.

“That means that while they may just be toenails to you, to me they are part of the perfection that makes up you.” He had stood up during his rant so now he was leaning over you, long hair of curls brushing your cheeks, “So that means I must create absolute perfection to match you.”

“Okay ease up there Shakespeare and finish up.”

He nodded sitting back onto the floor, back in the zone. You admired your fingernails he had painted not too long ago. The shiny black a color you normally wouldn’t wear on your nails, but after Eddie had talked you into letting him paint them you were now quite fond of the color. Whenever you would look at his handy work it would remind you of him and how that even simple moments just sitting in his room letting him paint your nails was special.

“Hey Eddie.”

“Hmm,” he hummed still concentrating.

“You’re actually really good at this,” you complimented. Despite hiding his face with his hair you could still see the dusting of a blush. “Oh so the mighty Eddie does blush.”

“Shut up,” he growled mockingly. Growing tired of waiting for him to finish you stretched out backwards. Your back popped from the strain of sitting like you had been for almost an hour. Eddie continued his work uninterrupted but he couldn’t help but steal glances at you while you were preoccupied looking around his room while laying down. Normally he didn’t care what people thought of him but whenever you were planning to come by he always made sure his room was the cleanest part of the trailer house. He’d even changed the sheets on his bed. He had never felt this way before until he met you. Now his whole world seemed to revolve around you.

 Despite being on an extremely different wavelength than him, you both found yourselves actually sharing the same interests despite such a difference in social status. You still had both your parents, you did well in school, and it seemed like you had a good amount of friends. Eddie was different. Sure he had his own group of buddies but they were the outcasts much like him. But then he met you and everything changed. The Freak found his purpose and it shocked you both when he first asked you out. You had hesitated at first but there was something inside that said to give him a chance, so you did, and now you were here and you couldn’t be happier. You found more in common with the so called outcast of Hawkins and you found that the music you normally listened to (since it was socially acceptable) wasn’t really your taste at all. When you had first heard Metallica when Eddie shared his cassette collection you were hooked. Iron Maiden followed Metallica then Dio. Now you were a covert Metalhead in Eddie’s opinion and he was proud.

Eddie lowered your foot stirring you from your thoughts. His eyes were searching as you had been quiet for a little longer than normal.

“All done,” you asked looking at him while he stood up.

“Yep,” he stretched before launching himself onto his bed. His impact caused your whole body to jump up and when you landed you couldn’t help but laugh. Grabbing a pillow you whacked him causing his hair to stick up a little more than usual. He rolled over onto you, pinning you down underneath him.

“Careful Munson,” you growled before smiling. “You’ll ruin all your handy work.”

“That’s okay I can redo it. I kinda like touching your feet,” he wiggled his eyebrows.

“Ew gross Eddie,” you pushed against him but he didn’t budge. He kissed your forehead just enjoying your presence.

“Kidding,” he cooed. “Maybe.”

“Ugh.” Then you grinned menacingly. “Oh my gosh Eddie my nails look so rad. I just can’t get over how rad they are.”

“No! Stop it!”

“Totally tubular man. The radness can’t be contained,” you screeched when he started tickling you. He laughed as you tried to get away but his weight kept you from escaping.

“Okay! I give,” you relented and he eased his attack.

“Y’know I hate it when you do that.”

“I’m not sorry,” you replied trying to regain your air supply.

Eddie set up before messing with the collar of his shirt. He only did that when he was really thinking about something hard. “Out with it Munson,” you said scooting closer.

“It’s nothing.”

“Yeah sure nothing. Spill it.” You jabbed his side, poking him until he relented.

“I think I love you,” he blurted while his face blushed deep red. Now it was your turn to blush. You never thought he could surprise you anymore and then he went and said that. You had questioned recently if he even did, you’d both been dating for awhile now and he never said those three words that every girl longed for. You felt like you loved him but you didn’t want to scare him away if he wasn’t ready to hear them. You took his hands kissing his rough knuckles gently.

“I love you too Eddie Munson.”

He stared for a couple seconds, processing everything before he leaned in taking your lips with his. He didn’t know what he did to deserve you but whatever it was he was so thankful.

[teamfreewill2pointo]

Sam’s Emotional Arc 1/3

I hated the finale immediately, but I’ve spent some time with it and talked to friends who loved it. I can see now what it was about, and I’ve come to appreciate the story they were trying to tell, even if I think it didn’t land right.

I’ve been told that my meta on this has helped other people come to terms with the finale, so I thought I’d compile it in one place from across various discord channels and twitter posts. If you are struggling with the finale, I hope it helps you.

Part of this actually started with a shit post. I was making a joke about Sam being psychic since he was scared of clowns when Dean died by one. I realized that may have been deliberate. I dug into the story more and now I’m convinced it was. Then I came across some excellent meta that fit with the themes I was finding and opened up the series even more for me.

Happiness isn’t in the having, it’s in just being. It’s in just saying it.

Cas said it. Dean accepted it. Sam lived it. First, Sam’s journey. 

Clowns pop up in s15 before the barn scene. In 15.01, which was written by Dabb, Sam is injured by a clown. Castiel is able to save Sam and heal his injury. The clown keeps coming after Sam, with Sam having fight scenes with the clown, while others attack the other ghosts. The clown is kicking the shit out of Sam again, and Castiel saves him once more. Sam is unable to fight off the clown on his own both times.

They run until they are able to escape outside a magical barrier. Sam turns to the clown and says, “shut up”. 

This is literally Sam running from his fears. On top of that, this isn’t just any clown, but the ghost of John Wayne Gacy, from an episode also written by Dabb.

Dean: A serial killer clown. I mean, this is, like, the best/worst thing that’s ever happened to you, you know, ‘cause you love serial killers, but – but you hate clowns.

Sam gets nervous and struggles with the lighter before he’s able to get rid of the clown, for now.

I believe this is a metaphor for hunting in general: it’s both the best of Sam’s life and also the worst. The clowns symbolize his relationship with Dean.

Plucky Pennywhistle's Magical Menagerie was co-written by Dabb (see the pattern?). Sam’s fear of clowns was known since season 2. In season 7, Dabb explored where this fear came from.

On the surface, Sam’s fear is just because he found them creepy, but the episode explains that they actually come from Sam’s fear of being left behind by Dean.

This episode comes directly after an episode where Sam worried that Dean would get himself killed

Sam: Look... Dean, the thing is, tonight... It almost got you killed. Now, I don't care how you deal. I really, really don't. But just don't – don't get killed. Dean: I'll do what I can. Sam: Well, what's that supposed to mean? Dean: It means I'll do what I can. All right? You can shut up about it.

Sam is dealing with Hallucifer at this moment, but Hallucifer doesn’t really scare him. Losing Dean does.

Sam has a conversation with an employee about greatest fears.

Recognize the actress? She came back for s15 in 15.06. I don’t believe this was a coincidence. 15.06 featured Castiel helping a parent find their lost child in a season that features Castiel worried about losing Jack. Through his experience with her, Castiel confronts his fears and doubts and then returns to join in the fight against God. [I’ll touch on Castiel’s journey more in his chapter]

Sam’s greatest fear is losing Dean. There’s a lot in the series about how Sam felt lonely and abandoned for much of his childhood. A whole episode, Just My Imagination, centers around this. Sam hated when Dean went off on hunts without him.

source In The Chitters, Sam tells Dean how his fear of losing his family paralyzed him as child. It’s a story where an older brother dies and the younger brother never recovers from it until he’s able to lay him to rest (sound familiar???)

Sam: You know, whenever you and Dad used to leave me to go hunting, and I-and I wouldn’t hear from y’all for a while, I, um, I was always sure that some vamp or rugaru, or take your pick, I always figured one of them finally got ya. I tried to think what to do, you know, the next step to take. I was just lost. Dean: We came back, though, every time.

You might naturally think, “Wait a minute! Sam left Dean multiple times!” Honestly, this was something I had a huge issue with when watching through the show the first time. I didn’t understand Sam and hated him leaving Dean in s8. I was completely on Dean’s side at first. But, on multiple rewatches and talking to others, I’ve realized that when Sam left Dean, he was running from his fear. In this TV Guide interview, Jared perfectly sums up why Sam left in season 1; he couldn’t stand to see his family die. Dabb wrote Dark Side of the Moon along with a comic that explains why Sam left in detail. While the comic isn’t official canon, it shows Dabb’s thought process. In it, Sam sees his family as running towards a horrible end and can’t handle dealing with that.

Dean: So what are you gonna do? You're just gonna live some normal, apple pie life? Is that it? Sam: No. Not normal. Safe.

There are many more points in the series where we learn about Sam’s fear of Dean dying. This would be 3948573945 pages long if I wrote them all out, so I’m going to focus on the key moments that loop back to this ending, but there’s so much more there.

If you are struggling with this and need more, please let me know and I can do a deeper dive into that subject. We first see Sam’s inability to let Dean go in season 1 when Sam refuses to let Dean die in Faith.

Dean: You're not gonna let me die in peace, are you? Sam: I'm not gonna let you die, period. We're going.

Sam’s whole arc in s3 is him being unable to handle Dean dying. He wants to save Dean, but Dean won’t let himself be saved. This was what Gabriel was trying to teach him in Mystery Spot.

Trickster: This obsession to save Dean? The way you two keep sacrificing yourselves for each other? Nothing good comes out of it. Just blood and pain. Dean's your weakness. And the bad guys know it, too. It's gonna be the death of you, Sam. Sometimes you just gotta let people go.

This is how Ruby gets under Sam’s skin and what gets him to start working with her. Everything Sam did was to save Dean. In s4, Sam’s arc is about him sacrificing himself in order to save Dean. He’s gutted from being unable to save Dean. In 4.12, Sam decides to drink demon blood in order to save Dean

Dean: [says that they will die early] Sam: Maybe we'll be different, Dean. Dean: What kind of Kool-Aid you drinking, man? Sammy, it ends bloody or sad. That's just the life. Sam: What if we could win?Dean: "Win"?Sam: If there was a way we could just...put an end to all of it.

When Sam breaks out of the panic room, he’s suicidal. He’s determined to save Dean with his life as the cost he’s willing to pay. He didn’t think he would survive killing Lilith. He was committing suicide in that moment. The reason why Sam is so willing to sacrifice himself in s5 is because he has low self esteem. He blames himself for everything that goes wrong. In Sam, Interrupted 5.11, also by Dabb, Sam has a breakdown under the weight of his guilt. He hates himself and he feels his rage is out of control. In season 6, we see soulless Sam and, unlike souled Sam, he has no rage. Yes, he’ll kill when necessary, but he’s not angry. It was Sam’s fear driving his rage. He felt out of control of his life and let it lead him down a dark path. In season 7, he sees Dean heading down a dark path and he feels helpless to stop it. He worries about dragging Dean down and tells Dean to let him go. But, at the same time, he’s developing coping techniques. He’s starting to face his fears. 

And then Dean disappears and Sam completely falls apart. Sam didn’t have a healthy relationship with Amelia. They were two broken people clinging to each other. Sam and Dean struggle to reconnect after their time apart. There’s a lot of text addressing the horror of a partner dying and people trying to escape from it.

Mrs Holmes: He could see the end of my days were at hand, and... He had lived centuries all alone, but I don't think he could bear the thought of life without me. That's why he drove off that bridge. You must think I'm a monster.

In Hunteri Heroica written by GUESS WHO!?!? Sam finally acknowledges that he was living in a dream world with Amelia. He was running from his past. We see a flash back with Sam pressing on his scar, which he did to help himself distinguish fantasy from reality.

The episode is about a man refusing to engage in reality and harming those around him. Sam has a big confrontation with him

Sam: Look, it can be nice living in a dream world. It can be great. I know that. And you can hide, and you can pretend... all the crap out there doesn't exist, but you can't do it forever because... eventually, whatever it is you're running from – it'll find you. [CASTIEL appears to be taking Sam’s words to heart.] It'll come along, and it'll punch you in the gut. And then... then you got to wake up, because if you don't, then trying to keep that dream alive will destroy you! It'll destroy everything!

Likewise, when Sam was with Jessica, he wasn’t honest about himself. He was hiding from his family and his past. Running to avoid pain. Sam is avoidant in general. Not just in his relationship with Dean. When he talks with Rowena in 13.12 Various & Sundry Villains about his fears of Lucifer, he admits that he could talk about it with Dean, but he can’t bring himself to.

Sam: I’ve seen it too. What he really looks like behind – behind whatever vessel. It… Yeah, still keeps me up at night. Rowena: How do you deal with it? Sam: I guess I don’t deal with it. Not really. I mean, I pushed it down and, um, the world kept almost ending, so I keep pushing it down, and I don’t know. [stammering] I really don’t talk about it, not even with Dean. I mean, I could. You know, he’d listen, but… That’s not something I really know how to share.

In 15.20, Sam’s past is front and center. Literally. I know a lot of people found the Winchester family portrait odd and upsetting, but it symbolizes something I’ll get to in a bit. Instead of trying to avoid his grief, Sam has moments where he lets it wash over him. He goes and sits in the car. He’s no longer avoidant. He’s no longer running away. He’s letting his grief move through him. He’s literally sitting with it.

Soulless Puppy pointed out that the characters emotional arcs is similar to DBT. Please look through their awesome meta here.

Personally, I see them as similar to the therapy I do called ACT. Both are forms of therapy where instead of fighting against them, you accept painful emotions and allow yourself to feel them. If you don’t do that work, then you can’t stop feeling them and your fears/ghosts will always haunt you.  In Swan Song, Chuck tells us that “Dean didn't want Cas to save him. Every part of him, every fiber he's got, wants to die, or find a way to bring Sam back. But he isn't gonna do either. Because he made a promise.”  In 15.20, Sam initially didn’t want to let Dean go. He’s been refusing to do this since season 1. When he’s separated from Dean he lives a fake life or destroys himself/the world trying to get Dean back. There’s a moment in 15.20 where Sam looks at Dean’s guns. He wants to commit suicide, but he makes the choice to live. For the time in Sam’s life, he let Dean go and lived with his pain. He no longer ran from it. After Swan Song, Dean was unable to let Sam go. He wanted him back. After Carry On, Sam is able to do what Dean couldn’t do. He lives a life outside of Dean. What’s more, Sam has reconciled himself with his past and his family. It’s clumsy and I wish it were better shown, but having the family portrait and their parents in heaven isn’t meant to excuse the way Sam and Dean were raised. In order to move past the trauma of his relationship with his parents, Sam fully integrates them into his life. In Lebanon, Sam was able to confront and forgive his father. In doing so, he can also forgive himself. Mary asks for forgiveness too, and he grants it to her. He doesn’t forget what happened, but he’s able to move forward and leave the intergenerational cycle of violence. He’s able to raise his son, Dean, the way his brother should have been raised.

Happiness isn’t in the having, it’s in just being. It’s in just saying it.

Cas said it. Dean accepted it. Sam lived it.

I can see why people see Sam’s life after Dean as unhappy. I hated it so much because I saw it as horrible and sad the first time through. I had to sit with myself and my emotions first. I think it’s because we’ve been told by society that we have to get rid of our grief in order to be happy. The finale was showing us that it’s possible to do the opposite. [Personally I think it would’ve been better had they showed more overtly happy memories, but many of my friends saw this straight away] When I began therapy, one of the first things I learned was that there aren’t “negative” emotions. When working with our kids, we call them Big emotions. In DBT/ACT, all emotions are treated as normal and natural. Grief, anger, sadness, etc, these are all normal parts of the human existence. We don’t need to run from them in order to have happiness. We can live with them. As interstitial said in our chats, “you can't change the past, you can only change your relationship to it. To accept that your past contained both love and heartache, to miss it, but also know you can do better; that's actual recovery, as good as it gets.” As Soulless-Puppy explained to me, Sam lived in duality. Dean was dead, but Sam lived. Sam was happy, but he grieved. Dean was with him in the watch and the car and his son, but Dean also waited for him in heaven. I hated the finale the first time I saw it, then next watched it with my boyfriend who loved it. As we were watching together and discussing it, I realized that Dean’s death scene wasn’t just about him, but about the show itself. 

Dean promising Sam that he will be with Sam in Sam’s heart is also the show promising us that they will never leave it. That’s why Alex kept posting “The end has no end.” Just as Sam carried Dean with him in his heart, we will carry the show with us. I hope this helps. It’s a terrible thing to feel upset about an ending and thinking of the show this way, recognizing these patterns, is bringing me peace. I still have issues with how it was written, but now that I see what they were doing, I wish all the more that they had the chance to do it right. Please share your thoughts and experiences. I love hearing different opinions. Next up, Dean. Then Castiel.

[the-wild-wolves-around-you]

Carry Me Home (A Din Djarin/Reader Fic)

Summary: Din and Reader find themselves on a jungle planet hunting a bounty, but nothing goes as planned, and secrets are shared.

***Based off this line from a previous fic in this series: "Then the mysterious bounty hunter told you his name one day when you were trying to hold his femoral artery together with nothing but bacta gel and hope."

No spoilers. Set in Season 1 between Episode 6 (The Prisoner) & Episode 7 (The Reckoning)

Pairings: Din Djarin/Reader; Din Djarin/You

Rating: M(ature)

Warnings: Blood, gore, & violence. Brief mentions of past slavery. 

A/N: In true Star Wars fashion, I'm just writing shit out of order lol. But the idea for this fic kept bugging me, so i just had to get it out on the page. 

You don't need to read the previous fics to understand this one, though (since the others are set in s2.) I have some more ideas for out of order stories, too, so I'll most likely be continuing this series.But let me know if you'd be interested in a fic from Din's POV! I think that could be fun, but if y'all are digging Reader POV, I'll stick to that.

And in case anyone cares, the title is taken from the lyrics of Arcade by Duncan Lawrence, which I was listening to on repeat as I wrote this. 

As always, I’ve posted this piece on Ao3, but I’ll paste the text below. 

Ao3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28763814

I’ll also include the links to the other two fics here: 

The Sea Like Glass Ch 1: Here

The Sea Like Glass Ch 2 (includes smut): Here

“Dank farrik!” you hissed as the wire in front of you sparked and sent a jolt of electricity through your already singed fingers. Not for the first time, you wished you could wear your gloves, but some of the pieces that needed repairing were too small to feel through the bulky material, so you could do nothing more than sacrifice your flesh for the cause.

Didn’t make it hurt less, though. You sucked the smarting tips into your mouth, glaring at the trashed circuit board in front of you, but the ruined hardware only crackled in response.

If you were back in Hanger 3-5 in Mos Eisley, you would have probably trashed the whole part and dug through Peli’s stock for a replacement, or gone down to the market and haggled for something newer, but you weren’t on Tatooine. You were smack dab in the middle of a jungle planetoid you couldn’t remember the name of, and it was up to you to get the Razor Crest running again on what you had available.

Which, admittedly, wasn’t a lot.

You sighed as you sat back on your haunches, using the back of your wrist to swipe at the sweat trailing down your temple. The pre-Empire ship towered over you as you dug into her innards, having pried off one of the semi-melted lower side panels to access the appropriate circuits. Your thin tank top was already drenched, and the hair sticking to the back of your neck kept giving you phantom itches. You wanted nothing more than to tie it up completely, but you always felt naked when your nape was exposed. You weren’t necessarily ashamed of the scar there, or the past connected to it, since it wasn’t your fault you were born into shackles, but… still. It was a… personal story to tell, and you weren’t sure you were ready to share it with your new boss.

Well, “new” was relative. You’d been employed on the Razor Crest for several months now, but you didn’t know much more about the Mandalorian than you did when you’d first set foot onto his ship. You knew he was a bounty hunter, from a race of legendary warriors. You knew he had a partially sordid, and dangerous, past if your encounter with Ran and his crew of mercenaries was any indication. You knew the green baby was his ward, or foundling as he called it, and Mando was tasked with returning the little guy to his people. And you knew his Creed forbid him from removing his helmet.

That was about it. The Mandalorian didn’t talk much, but it didn’t particularly bother you. You’d always been a quieter person, and after years of Peli’s constant chattering, you were kind of relieved for the silence.

Most of the time, anyway.

“How’s it looking?”

You gasped in alarm, jolting yourself off balance and falling back onto your ass in the dirt.

“Maker, Mando,” you panted as you craned your neck back to stare up at the bounty hunter. “What have I told you about sneaking up on me when I’m working on electrics?”

The impervious mask of the Mandalorian stared down at you silently, blotting out the sweltering sun and providing you a modicum of relief. A moment passed, then two, and you shifted uneasily under his unblinking gaze.

“I thought you heard me approach,” he said finally, his modulated voice flat and unaffected, but he didn’t move from where he was looming over you.

“Well, I didn’t,” you grumbled as you flopped your head forward and popped your neck, stretching your legs out in the dirt.

The tight leggings you wore ended not too far past your knees, so your shins were streaked with the red soil of this planetoid. The dirt didn’t bother you, but the heat sure did. It was different than Tatooine’s dry desert. This heat was oppressive, stifling, almost cloying, and every time you took a deep breath, a small part of your brain panicked, images of drowning flashing through your mind even though you knew it was irrational. You were just grateful your clothes didn’t look a fraction as hot as the Mandalorian’s all black get-up and what had to be twenty-five kilos of armor.

“So,” the bounty hunter said after a few more moments of silence, interrupted only by the call of exotic birds in the canopy, “how are things looking?”

“Honestly?” you sighed as you pushed yourself off the ground, dusting the red dirt off your hands but not even bothering with your pants. “Not good. The bounty’s guns must have grazed us when we were still outside orbit, and entering the atmosphere certainly didn’t help matters. Some of the side paneling has been melted beyond repair, and a lot of the wiring is fried, too.”

“Can you get it flying?” Mando asked, crossing his arms over his chest and making his silhouette all the more imposing. The sun glinted off his silver beskar, and you squinted in the glare.

“Maybe.” You pursed your lips and averted your gaze, turning back to stare at the charred panels and sparking wires. Sweat trickled down your neck, and you reached back to cup your nape, feeling the bounty hunter’s eyes on you.

“Didn’t know I was paying you for maybes.”

“You’re not paying me at all if you can’t even catch that quarry,” you snorted before your brain could catch up to your mouth.

You froze when the words finally registered, nails digging into the back of your neck. Stupid. Your mouth always did get the better of you. You used to mouth-off to your former owner until he backhanded you into silence, and now you’re starting shit with a bounty hunter you’d seen kill half a dozen men in just as many seconds.

Stupid.

You waited for Mando to say something, staring at the Razor Crest without even seeing it, and even if you didn’t really believe he’d hurt you for a simple off-handed comment, your body didn’t get the message. Muscle memory was a hard thing to forget, and every fiber in you braced for the blow.

The birds chittered in the towering blue-green canopy above your head as sweat poured from every single one of your pores, and you were just about to come out of your skin when the Mandalorian finally spoke.

“Well, to catch the quarry, I need my ship to fly,” he said, and when you chanced a glance over your shoulder, you discovered he’d somehow moved further away from you, like he took several steps back.

Was he… giving you space?

His tone was still flat, but after several months spent in close proximity with the bounty hunter, you were now able to parse out several different minor inflections in his modulated voice. You were by no means an expert, but you knew for a fact he didn’t sound angry in this moment. When he was angry, his voice took on a softer, menacing quality. The few times you’d heard it—thankfully never directed at you—every hair on your body stood on end, and the lizard part of your brain had screamed to run and not stop running until you were in a completely different star system.

This wasn’t anger. This was… something else. You almost wanted to say… amusement, but that would have been crazy.

Still, the tension bled out of your shoulders like sand through a sieve, and you dropped your arms as you turned to face the Mandalorian fully again.

“Alright, this is the best I can do,” you said. “I can get her flying again, I think I can even get her shielded enough to withstand leaving the atmosphere when we’re done here, but it’s gonna take some time.”

“How much time?” he asked.

You glanced over your shoulder again at the damage, did some calculations in your head, and added some padding to give yourself a margin for error. Then you turned back to the bounty hunter.

“At least two days,” you replied, confident in your abilities. “Anything less, and we risk blowing ourselves to the Inner Core and back when I go to start her up.”

“Hmm.” Mando stared at you for a moment and then shifted to gaze into the jungle. “The bounty will most likely be off planet by then.”

“I don’t think so,” you contradicted him, and your heart actually skipped a beat when the T of his visor turned to look at you. There was something nerve-wracking about staring into the dark, reflective glass, but then you noticed your red-streaked appearance, and you cringed self-consciously as you looked away.

“Why do you say that?” he asked.

“Because,” you started, stooping down to pick up the tablet beside your tool bag, “when I first came out here and saw the damage, I was afraid we’d end up in this situation. But then I remembered that the quarry’s ship took more damage than we did in our little space battle. I know for a fact we landed at least one solid hit, I saw it myself.”

“And?”

“Well,” you said as you tapped at the screen, “given the make and model of his vessel, and the location of where we struck the ship, I was able to deduce that we most likely damaged his engines. If his engines are damaged, then there is a maximum distance he could have gone before he would have been forced to land, or even crash landed. With all this information, plus the fact that I knew the general location of where we lost visual of him when we entered the atmosphere, I’ve estimated the quarry can’t be farther than five klicks from our current coordinates. And with his entry trajectory, he’s most likely in this triangulated area three and a half klicks to the west, which should be easily reachable on foot.”

You turned the map on the tablet to face the Mandalorian, and he stepped forward to take the device from you. His gloved fingers brushed across your singed ones, remnant electricity shooting through your veins, and you stifled a flinch as you dropped your arm.

Mando studied the map for a long moment, cocking his head and zooming in to get a better look. You shifted uneasily in the silence, scuffing the tip of your boot into the red soil, but then the bounty hunter finally looked back up at you.

“When did you have time to do this?” he asked, and he actually sounded… impressed. “You were out here for less than ten minutes after we landed.”

“It wasn’t that hard.” You shrugged as your cheeks flushed with heat, but you blamed the sweltering sun overhead and the soup-like air.

“I didn’t realize you were so good with numbers,” he said, his helmet staring directly at you.

“Numbers are easy,” you replied, shrugging again as you raised your hand to chew nervously on your nails, but you stopped yourself when you saw the crimson dirt still caked on your skin. “They don’t lie, once you understand the rules.”

“Did Peli teach you how to do this?” he inquired, and you were surprised by all these questions. Most of the time, the bounty hunter asked you one-or-two-word questions and expected one-or-two-word answers. You couldn’t figure out why this situation was any different, but you found yourself responding anyway.

“Partially,” you explained, and you wondered how you could phrase your answer to be vague but satisfactory. “She… taught me a lot of the specifics for bigger jobs like ships and larger machines, but I’ve always been good at numbers and tinkering.”

That seemed good enough. You didn’t think it was relevant that you first started tinkering because your former owner used to lock you in his shop’s basement with broken droids when you misbehaved, and putting the discarded machines back together kept you from going crazy when your punishments lasted days. You also didn’t think it relevant that when your former owner found out and realized he could profit off your skills, you fine-tuned your abilities to become indispensable. The bastard still hit you occasionally, and his other slaves weren’t treated any better, but you had to admit, him locking you in the basement all those years had saved your life. If you hadn’t cultivated the skills you had, Peli wouldn’t have bought you at auction when the bastard bit the sand, and she wouldn’t have dug out your transmitter chip and effectively freed you the moment you walked into Hanger 3-5. The tiny woman had said she needed an apprentice, not a slave, and so that was what you became. Now, you were a mechanic in your own right, and a damn good one if you did say so yourself. Mando just didn’t need to know how you’d gotten there.

The bounty hunter seemed to think the same thing, too, because he nodded once before he looked back at the tablet.

“This is good work,” he said, and something in your chest preened at his words before you squashed it down. “If these calculations are correct—”

“They are,” you interjected before you could stop yourself.

“Then I think I can set out on foot, find the quarry, and bring him back tomorrow just as you’re finishing the repairs,” Mando went on, and he glanced up at you again. “Does that time frame sound right to you?”

“Maybe.” You shrugged. “Should work for me, but it could take you a little longer. I’m unfamiliar with this terrain, and there are too many other variables, like jungle beasts or indigenous species, for me to be sure.”

“The terrain won’t be a problem,” the Mandalorian said as he handed you the tablet back. “And neither will any beasts or natives.”

You cocked an eyebrow at the bounty hunter but didn’t contradict his confidence. “Alright. Then, yes, I should have the ship up and running by the time you get back. Are you leaving now?”

“Once I grab some supplies,” Mando replied before he paused and seemed to consider you. “Will you be… okay until I return?”

It was a familiar question, albeit still surprising. The Mandalorian was a stoic, usually silent warrior, literally a wall of beskar steel. You’d seen him kill men as easy as breathing, and he threw each bounty into carbonite without an ounce of remorse.

And yet, every time he had to leave the ship alone, he asked you if you would be alright until he got back. The question and concern would have made no sense… if you hadn’t seen the bounty hunter interact with his foundling. He tried to hide it, but he treated the little green baby so gently you knew there had to be a warm, beating heart beneath all that beskar. You just never expected any tenderness to be aimed at you, so it drew you up short every time.

“Yeah.” You smiled. “I’ll be fine. Besides—”

You trailed off as you felt something touch your lower leg, and when you looked down, big brown eyes set in a little green face blinked back up at you. Then little green hands lifted in your direction, and you laughed as you swooped down, picked him up, and set him on your hip.

“Besides,” you continued, still chuckling as you booped the child on the nose and left a smudge of red dirt behind, “I’ll have this little guy to keep me company. Right, kid?”

The baby cooed and reached out, his three tiny fingers settling on the bridge of your nose as he tried to boop you back. When he withdrew his hand, though, his skin was dyed black.

“Huh?” You frowned at the slick ooze on his fingers, your eyes crossing as you tried to bring his hand into focus. “What’s on your hand there, bud?”

“It’s grease,” Mando supplied.

“What?” you asked as you turned your head to the bounty hunter.

“Grease,” he repeated, and he touched the intersection on the glass T of his visor, right over where the bridge of his nose would sit. “You’ve got some just there.”

“Oh.” You blushed, your hand flying up to cover your face. Not only were you covered in dirt and sweat, but grease now, too. Typical. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I thought you knew,” the Mandalorian said, but there was that faint undercurrent in his voice that you were sure was amusement now. “Don’t you have any rags?”

“I did,” you muttered as you tried to rub at your face with your shoulder, “but I had to throw most of them out after that oil leak we had on the moon we left about a week ago. It’s fine. I’m already a mess anyhow, and I’m just going to get dirtier as I fix up the ship.”

Mando seemed to stare at you intensely for a moment, and you had the feeling he was taking in just how filthy your clothes were. You could read nothing from his body language, though, and since he wasn’t speaking, there was nothing to infer from his voice, either. Embarrassed heat crawled up your neck, and you suddenly felt naked in your tank top and leggings. You shifted the child in your arms a little to bring him more in front of you and block more of you from view, but the effort was useless because Mando was abruptly spinning on heel and marching toward the ship’s ramp.

“I’m going to gather supplies,” he said gruffly over his shoulder. “Don’t let the kid touch any of the wires.”

And then he was gone, his cape flapping behind him as he disappeared into the bowels of the Razor Crest.

“Okay, bye,” you muttered, and you frowned after him before looking down at the kid and lowering your voice. “Your dad’s a little weird, you know that?”

The child blinked up at you and then seemed to nod his head in solemn agreement.

You laughed and kissed the top of his head even though you knew you were toeing a dangerous line here. You knew you were just the ship mechanic, the hired help, but you and the foundling had spent a lot of time together when the Mandalorian was out hunting bounties, and you couldn’t help loving the adorable baby like he was your own. He was mischievous and always looking to put things in his mouth that he shouldn’t, but something about his presence was calming, soothing. Plus, those big brown eyes were to die for. You weren’t even that surprised the kid had managed to wiggle his way under Mando’s beskar. It had only been a few months, but you knew without a shadow of a doubt that if it came down to it, you would give your life to save this child.

Which was wildly inappropriate, but you chose to ignore that fact.

“It’s just gonna be the two of us again for a bit, little man,” you told the foundling, turning back to face the Razor Crest. “But we’re gonna have some fun, yeah? Do you want to help me fix up the ship?”

The child gurgled into your ear and patted your cheek, which you took as an affirmative.

“Alright,” you laughed as you set him on a large root right next to your tool bag. You dug around until you found a tool you would need eventually, and then you handed it to the kid. “Here, hold this until I need it, okay? But don’t put it in your mouth.”

The foundling seemed to pout at that last bit, but he dutifully wrapped his three little fingers around the tool and held it firmly.

“Thank you.” You smiled. Then you turned back to the ship, put your hands on your hips, and furrowed your brow. “Now, where to start?”

You spent the next ten minutes assessing what was completely ruined, what was salvageable, and what you had on hand that wasn’t necessary and could possibly be retrofitted to fix the damage. The skeletal beginnings of a plan were already forming in your mind by the time the Mandalorian was clomping down the ramp again. You set down the tablet you’d been tapping away at and picked up the child once more, and the foundling babbled as he waved around the tool he was still holding.

“Be careful with that,” you chuckled, and you craned your head back to avoid getting smacked in the temple. “I’ll need it soon, so keep holding onto it.”

The child cooed and then shifted to wave the tool at the bounty hunter as he approached.

“Putting the kid to work now?” Mando asked as he stopped a few feet away. The crescent-shaped hilt of his favored Amban rifle jutted out over his left shoulder, and a small bag was slung over his right, probably filled with spare ammo, cuffs for the bounty, and possibly some food. You’d never personally seen the Mandalorian eat, though, and a part of you was convinced he didn’t, even if you rationally knew that wasn’t possible.

“Nah, I’m just teaching him a thing or two,” you said as you settled the foundling more soundly on your hip. “You’re never too young to learn something new, and on the plus side, being my little helper keeps him out of trouble. For the most part, anyway.”

“Thank you for watching him,” the bounty hunter said, tilting his visor down minutely to stare at the child, who grinned a gummy grin and waved the silver tool again. “I know it isn’t exactly what I hired you for—”

“I don’t mind,” you cut him off, and you glanced down to smile at the kid. “He’s pretty good company, and some of Peli’s droids have given me more trouble than he does. It’s really no problem.”

“Well, regardless,” Mando replied as his visor returned to studying you. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” You nodded, flushing again under his scrutiny. Then you cleared your throat and gestured at the bag on his back. “All ready?”

“Yes,” the bounty hunter said. “Days are longer here, but the sun will set eventually, and I want to try and find the quarry before moonrise. If all goes well, I should be back tomorrow before sunset.”

“Good luck, then,” you told him, and you lifted your chin with confidence. “I should have the ship ready when you return.”

“Thank you.” He inclined his helmet.

The baby suddenly burst out babbling something, and you glanced down to see him reaching out with his free hand toward the Mandalorian. His three little fingers made grabby motions, and the bounty hunter sighed.

“Listen to her while I’m gone, okay?” Mando murmured as he stepped closer into your personal bubble and held out his finger for the foundling to latch on to.

The child cooed, swinging the Mandalorian’s finger from side to side, and the breath stilled in your lungs as the bounty hunter’s glove brushed the edge of your mouth. You smelled something like leather and smoke, probably blaster residue, but then Mando was stepping back again, and the baby was forced to drop his finger.

“Keep alert,” he addressed you as he adjusted the pack on his shoulder. “We’re pretty far from any civilization out here, so I don’t think you should encounter anyone, but don’t assume you’re safe. And get inside the ship once the sun sets. The jungle will be more dangerous at night. I’ll have my comlink on me, but it’s affected by proximity, so you most likely won’t be able to contact me until I’m on my way back.”

“Don’t worry, Mando,” you said, and you patted the blaster he’d given you that was almost permanently attached to your hip. “I can defend myself if need be, and I have no desire to be caught outside after dark. We’ll be fine.”

“I know,” he replied, but you weren’t sure if he was trying to convince you or himself. Either way, he seemed to compose himself because he nodded once. “I’ll be back soon.”

“We’ll keep a weather eye on the horizon.” You smiled. “Try not to die of heat stroke.”

“I’ll try my best,” he said dryly, but after one more moment of staring at you and the foundling, he turned on heel and marched off into the jungle without another word. The multi-colored trees swallowed him almost instantly, and suddenly you were alone.

The child cooed sadly as he stared after the Mandalorian, and he turned his big brown eyes on you as if to say, Where’d he go?

“Don’t worry, bud,” you said, turning back to the ship. “He’ll be fine and back before you know it. Now, let’s take a look at those power converters, shall we?”

You set the foundling down beside your tool bag again, but you couldn’t help glancing over your shoulder in the direction the bounty hunter had disappeared in.

He’ll be fine and back before you know it, you repeated silently to yourself.

~~~~~

Two days later, you were starting to doubt the validity of your statements.

The sun had set and risen twice, and there was still no sign of Mando. Now, the celestial orb was steadily making its way across the horizon for the third time, and you sat on the ramp of the ship and glared up at the chattering canopy.

The child was down for a nap in the hammock the Mandalorian had set up in his own bunk, and your eyes burned with a similar exhaustion, but the anxiety slowly mounting in you made it impossible to sleep. The past two days had passed uneventfully. You’d spent every hour of sunlight you had at your disposal patching together the ship, and since days were longer on this planetoid, you estimated you’d spent over seventy-two hours getting the Razor Crest in working order again.

And you’d done it. It wasn’t perfect, but the ship could fly, and you were ninety-eight percent certain it would withstand leaving the atmosphere.

Now, all that was missing was the Mandalorian and his bounty.

“Dank farrik, Mando,” you grumbled under your breath as you dragged your singed, cut-up, and bandaged fingers through your hair. “Where the Maker are you?”

The chittering birds and critters in the underbrush didn’t have an answer for you, and you huffed out an aggravated breath as another bead of sweat dripped into your eyes.

By your estimate, there were about six hours left before the sun set again. Part of you, the illogical, irrational part, wanted to charge into the jungle in search of the Mandalorian. You had a general direction and location he should be in. Maybe you could find him.

But the rational side of your brain thankfully pointed out all the problems with that plan. For one, leaving the ship unattended was dangerous. You hadn’t seen anyone in the past two days, but that didn’t mean you were alone in the jungle, and now that the ship could fly again, someone could potentially walk right in and steal the vessel if you weren’t here to stop them.

Then there was the issue of the foundling. Sometimes, Mando took you and the kid along with him when he was hunting a bounty in a more populated area, but he was always there to protect the two of you if something went wrong. What happened if you brought the child with you into the jungle and you couldn’t protect him? And you couldn’t exactly leave him behind. Someone could steal both the child and the Razor Crest in that scenario.

The most compelling reason to stay with the ship, though, was Mando himself. Before he left, he’d confidently declared that neither the jungle itself nor the beasts or peoples therein would pose any problem for him. If he was wrong, and these things had posed a problem for the bounty hunter, what luck did you have of doing something he could not?

Anddddd that’s where the irrational side of you chimed in again with, Well, if he did run into an issue, he could need your help, so you should go look for him.

It was a vicious cycle, and your head was pounding with how fast it was running in circles.

You groaned as you dropped your face into your hands, digging the heels of your palms into your eye sockets.

“Fine,” you sighed into the darkness. “I’ll give him until morning.”

If the Mandalorian hadn’t returned by then, you’d start up the ship and fly over the area you’d triangulated for him. If you couldn’t find him from the air… well, you’d cross that bridge when you came to it.

~~~~~

You huffed in irritation as you tossed and turned in Mando’s bunk that night. You turned one way, rolled another, but then you found yourself with your nose buried in his pillow, and you instantly flipped back over, face hot with embarrassment even though it was dark and you were practically alone. You weren’t sure if he slept with his helmet on when he was alone in the closed confines of the bunk, but either way, the small space smelled of him intensely. You tried not to put words to his scent, told yourself it was inappropriate and he was your boss, a Mandalorian to boot, and you had no room or right to think of him in any way other than strictly professional… but that apparently didn’t work because you knew he smelled like the cheap soap from the fresher, and the rest was a blend of smoke, leather, and metal, the degrees of which varied by the day and yet was still always uniquely him.

You knew you were playing a losing game even just having these thoughts, but you somehow couldn’t help yourself, couldn’t stop yourself. Ever since Mando stepped between you and Ran’s crew all those months ago, blocking you with his body, a startling, protective rage in every inch of his armored silhouette, this little voice had come to life in the back of your head and wouldn’t shut the kriff up.

What if? the little voice whispered. What if it’s not just you having these thoughts? What if you could have him in more than just your dreams and fantasies in the darkness of this bunk?

Usually, you shoved the voice into the deep, dark recesses of your thoughts and recited equations until it grew quiet. You knew that was nothing but wishful thinking at best and delusion at worst. The Mandalorian was just that: a warrior closed off from the world by a shell of silver beskar. He cared for the foundling, yes, but that was entirely different and bore no correlation to the bounty hunter’s relationship with you. There was little he could possibly want from a former slave turned mechanic, aside from your skills, of course, so you clenched your eyes closed and tried to take shallow breaths through your mouth, but nothing you did could get his scent out of your nose, your memory.

You sighed for the umpteenth time and rolled to face the wall of the bunk.

When the bounty hunter was on the ship, the two of you usually slept in shifts so you could share the bunk, though sometimes the Mandalorian slept upright in the cockpit. It had been his idea originally. You’d been fine with a thin sleeping mat on the floor of the cargo bay, but he’d insisted in his strange, stoic, nonchalant way. So, you shared, and when it was just you and the kid on the ship, the two of you had the run of the place.

The child was currently in the hammock above your head, but you were pretty sure he wasn’t asleep, either. Every so often, he’d gurgle or make some other noise, and more than once you peeked up to find big brown eyes staring down at you in the dimness. You wondered if he could sense your anxiety, and you shifted so you could glare past your feet, out of the bunk, and at the closed ramp door.

You wanted to be angry with Mando, but by the time the sun set a few hours ago, you’d moved past that anger and straight into worry. The bounty hunter had never been gone this long before without contact, and your gut told you something was wrong and wouldn’t let you sleep. You wished you could blame your insomnia completely on your concern, but sadly, that wasn’t the case.

As if on cue, a sudden, piercing shriek echoed through the ship, and all the muscles in your body locked up on reflex.

The child gasped and made a worried noise as he poked his head over the edge of his hammock and stared down at you, and you tried to plaster on a fake, reassuring smile.

“It’s alright,” you murmured, reaching up to gently rock the foundling. “The ship’s closed and locked up. They can’t get us in here.”

The baby made an unconvinced sound, but he settled back into his bed without any further argument.

You sighed as you continued to rock the child, and you did your best not to flinch when another high-pitched screech sounded outside the ship.

You weren’t entirely sure what “they” were, but you knew they were nocturnal and carnivorous. And hungry. The past two mornings, you’d found bloody animal remains torn to bits and strewn along the edges of the clearing the Razor Crest was parked in like gory, crimson confetti. You’d kept the child practically glued to your side during the days because of this, but nothing ever attacked you during the day. They just circled the ship incessantly at night, howling and screeching and keeping you from finding a moment’s peace or rest. They hadn’t outright attacked the ship yet, but you were ready for it, your borrowed blaster a cold and heavy weight tucked under your pillow.

Reaching for it now, you curled your fingers around the familiar hilt and tried to block out the crescendoing, bloodthirsty shrieks of the mysterious jungle beasts.

You didn’t know how or when, but you must have dozed off at some point because all of the sudden, you jolted awake with a panicked gasp.

The bunk was dark and close around you, but since you’d left the door open at your feet, it wasn’t claustrophobic. Your vision was still blurry with sleep, so you swiped at your eyes with the back of your left wrist as you scrambled into a seated position. In your right hand you grasped the blaster, and you pointed it blindly in front of you, toward the rear of the ship.

You couldn’t remember what had woken you up, but it had been something. Your heart pounded a frantic tattoo into the underside of your ribcage, your arm shaking minutely with adrenaline. The ramp was still closed in front of you, so it hadn’t been Mando opening the door and returning. You squinted in the darkness but couldn’t see anything beyond shadows and vague shapes in pale, muted moonlight. It must have still been night, then.

You strained your ears, listening for the howling, but it was quiet. Suspiciously quiet. The jungle beasts usually didn’t go silent until right before dawn, but it was dark enough in the ship that you estimated it was still the middle of the night.

Where had they gone?

Your heart rose up into your throat, sweat beading at every one of your pores, and your mouth was so dry that your throat clicked when you swallowed.

The child made a noise of inquiry above you, barely louder than a breath, but it still made you jump all the same. Your gaze darted upward to find brown eyes staring down at you, but they were wide in an alarmed sort of way. One three-fingered hand poked over the edge of the hammock, making grabby motions at you, and the noise he made this time was more urgent, louder.

Had he heard something, too?

“What is it, little guy?” you whispered, reaching up with your free hand and awkwardly grappling him from his sling-bed.

He tumbled gently into your lap with a soft “oof,” but almost immediately he was standing up, turning around, and frantically patting at your cheek.

“What?” you asked with a frown.

He babbled and continued to tap the side of your face, and his noises grew increasingly distressed until he was grunting with frustration.

Then his tiny palm actually slapped down right across your ear canal so hard that both of your ears rang, and you hissed as you jerked your head back.

“Kriff, what was that fo—” you started to ask, but another hiss cut you off, and this one wasn’t from you.

Your heart stuttered, eyes skipping over the child’s head and out into the cargo bay, and your right hand tightened around the blaster you’d lowered to your side.

But there was nothing there. Nothing moved in the shadowy ship beyond you, and you frowned, thinking your mind was playing tricks on your startled and sleep-addled mind, but then the hiss came again.

And this time, you recognized it.

“Oh, pfassk!” you cursed as you craned around and shoved your hand under the pillow. Your fingers scrambled wildly across the sheet but encountered nothing, and you growled in aggravation, shifting the child off your lap and coming onto your hands and knees. You tossed the pillow over your shoulder in a fit of frustration, and your right hand slapped at the wall around your head until the bunk light came on.

You squinted in the flood of harsh light, the child gurgling behind you, but when your vision cleared, you spotted the thumb-sized comlink off the edge of the cot, shoved up into the far corner of the bunk. You lunged forward and wrapped your fingers around the small device, and the words were falling out of your mouth before you were even sure you had hit the button.

“Mando?” you called into the comlink, cringing when your loud voice echoed back to you in the close confines of the bunk. “Mando, can you hear me?”

Mild static crackled back for a moment as you huddled around the tiny communicator, but then a louder burst of static—the hiss from earlier—exploded to life.

And you were sure you heard Mando’s voice in there.

“Mando!” you shouted as you heart did its best imitation of a speeder, and you cupped both hands around the comlink like that would help him hear you better. “Mando, it’s me! I’m here. Can you hear me?”

Another burst of static. Then…

Mando yelled your name, clear as day, followed by a scream of what sounded like “help” and a chorus of familiar howling, and your stomach bottomed out inside of you.

“Mando!” You were gripping the communicator so hard you were afraid you were going to break it. “Mando, where are you? What’s wrong?”

He didn’t respond. You sat there frozen for a full minute, ears straining to the point of ringing, but only quiet static crackled back at you.

“Dank farrik!” you cursed, punching the side of your fist into the bunk wall.

The child cooed at you, brown eyes big with concern, and he put his tiny hand on your knee as you raked a shaking hand through your hair.

Your chest heaved up and down as you fought for breath, your mind spinning off into a million directions at once.

Mando was in trouble. Mando needed your help. He was fighting jungle beasts, and he was far enough away that you couldn’t hear the shrieking with your own ears, but close enough that he could partially reach you over the comlink. You had to do something. You had to go help him.

But what about the child? What about the ship? You couldn’t take the Razor Crest. It was pitch black outside, and you wouldn’t be able to see Mando below the thick, dark canopy. You had to go on foot.

And you had to take the kid with you.

“Come on,” you said as you tucked the communicator into your pocket, grabbed the foundling and blaster, and scooted to the edge of the bunk. Your boots were on the ground below you, and you shoved your feet in them blindly, tying the laces in three deft movements.

Then you were on your feet, turning on the cargo lights, and jogging the child over to his floating silver carrier. You grabbed the spare remote on top of it, pressing the button and watching the top slide open with a hiss. Then you set the foundling down inside of it, and in the same motion you were tucking the remote into your pocket, turning on heel, and striding for the armory.

Another button press, followed by the hiss of hydraulics, and you were left staring at several walls of guns and weaponry. Some of them you knew. Mando had even taught you how to shoot a few, but those were typically smaller blasters.

And based on those howling screeches, you needed something with more of a kick.

Your eyes skipped over the blaster pistols since you already had the one on your hip, and after a moment’s indecision, your gaze settled on a midsized rifle you’d shot once before. You hadn’t been very good at it, only hit four of the ten targets Mando set out, and you remember it being very heavy.

But it was better than nothing, and you needed something to fight back against the dark jungle.

So, you took the rifle down and looped it around your shoulder, pursing your lips as the strap dug into your skin. You spent a moment checking the power cell and gas canister, and even though both were full, you still stuck a few spares into a belt that you wrapped around your hips. You also added a few grenades to your arsenal, both explosive and ones set to stun, plus a pair of Mando’s vibroknives, as a last defense measure. If you were being honest, if the rifle and grenades failed you, you probably wouldn’t live long enough to use the knives, but it made you feel better to clip their sheaths unto your belt.

The rifle and belt weighed you down with an extra five to six kilos, but you had lugged far heavier burdens through Tatooine’s desert, so you knew you could handle it.

The last two things you grabbed were the head lamp you typically wore when working under or inside ships and the cuff you’d programmed to work the twin lights—along with a variety of other tasks aboard the Razor Crest—resting at each of your temples. The cuff was a haphazard creation of yours made of old leather, metal, and glass, but it worked and was comfortable, which was all that mattered. It also had a small magnetic slot that was specifically meant for the remote of the foundling’s floating carrier, so you fished that out of your pocket and felt it snap into place with a satisfying click.

You were armed and ready now. All you had to do was move.

“Mando,” you said as you stuck the comlink in your ear and synced it to your cuff, which had a built-in frequency booster. You were already moving toward the ramp, tapping at your wrist and listening to the foundling’s carrier humming after you. The rifle felt heavy as you maneuvered it into your slick palms, and your heart hammered a war song in your ears. “Mando, I’m coming for you. Just hold on, okay?”

Static crackled in your ear, and your chest began to heave up and down as adrenaline flooded through you.

“Okay, little man, you’re going to take a nap, alright?” you said as you looked down at the child in his pod, your voice shaking even though you tried to stop it. “And when you wake up, your dad will be back with us.”

He cooed up at you with a fearful expression on his face, but you only spared a moment to press a kiss to his head before you were tapping at your wrist again. The lid of the pod started to hiss close as the ramp of the ship began to clank open, and you slid your finger onto the rifle’s trigger as the door slowly lowered before you.

The ramp finally thudded to the jungle floor, and you took a moment to stare out into the foreboding darkness. The moon was pale and wan in the purple-tinted sky, and all you could see were shadows along the edges of the clearing. Your eyes darted back and forth, every muscle in your body locked and braced for an attack, but nothing happened. Nothing moved save the indigo clouds over head, and the only sound you heard was the muted chirps and hums of insects.

“Okay, come on, quit stalling,” you muttered to yourself even though your heart felt like it was about to roll off your tongue. “Mando doesn’t have time for this.”

At the sound of his name—or at least, the only name you had ever known the bounty hunter by—some of the fear inside you vanished, and you were suddenly jogging down the ramp without further thought. The child’s carrier trailed after you quietly, and you jabbed at your wrist to close and lock up the Razor Crest.

You spared half a glance over your shoulder to make sure the ramp was secured, and then you looked down at your cuff. Mando’s comlink had a built in GPS transmitter, but its range was limited. However, if he was close enough to briefly contact you…

A dot flickered in and out on the grungy screen on your wrist, and you spun in a circle to figure out which direction had the strongest connection. The dot flared brightly when you angled toward the west, and you started running before you even had a plan.

You crashed through the underbrush with the child’s pod hot on your heels, and the thick, humid air sawed in and out of your heaving lungs as you gasped for breath. The lights at your temples provided enough illumination to see several steps ahead of you but not much else, and you tripped and careened over root and vine as you tried not to lose your grip on the rifle.

The good news was the dot on your read-out was no longer flickering, and it was now a strong red point about a kilometer ahead of you.

The bad news?

The jungle was no longer quiet around you.

As your feet pounded into the red soil and carried you forward, static crackled loudly in your ear, and the howling returned, faint at first but growing closer. Shivers wracked your sweat-slicked spine, and every fiber of your being was screaming to run the other way.

But you couldn’t. Because now you could hear Mando grunting and shouting over the comlink, clearer and clearer with each step, and as you vaulted over a protruding root in your path, you distinctly heard a roar of rage directly ahead of you.

You would have shouted his name if there was any breath left in your lungs, but instead you just lowered your head and sprinted as fast as you could.

The howling was nearly deafening now, echoing all around you, seeming to come from every shadow in the jungle. Your ears rang with the soul-piercing shrieks, and the cacophony was so disorienting, you tripped over your own feet and crashed into the dirt.

“Kriff!” you gasped, your knees and palms stinging as you skidded to a halt. Dots danced in front of your eyes as you panted harshly, and the rifle knocked painfully against your sternum.

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw the child’s pod come to a stop several feet away, the silver orb glinting in the pale moonlight barely filtering through the canopy.

Then you saw something else shift in the shadows behind the floating carrier.

At first, you thought it was your swimming vision, but then the weak lights of your headlamp reflected off several glinting eyes, and the breath stalled in your lungs.

A guttural, wet growl echoed out of the bushes beyond the foundling’s pod, and in the next instant the beast was lunging forward, vaulting over the carrier in one bound.

You yelped as you scrambled backward, fumbling for the rifle’s trigger, and you got the barrel up just in time to block a bifurcated jaw of gnashing fangs. The beast let out a piercing shriek as it snapped at your face, and the familiar sound nearly popped your eardrum at this proximity, but the pain barely even registered as you wedged your legs up under the creature’s chest and heaved it off you.

The beast let out a high-pitched yip as it smacked into a tree trunk, but you didn’t give it the chance to regain its feet. In one swift movement, you brought the rifle up, sighted down the barrel, and pulled the trigger.

The blaster must have been set on full-auto because a continuous stream of energy screamed out of the weapon, and the barrel jerked upward with the recoil. Bolts of energy shredded through the vines and branches overhead, and some kind of bat-bird creature screeched as it dove out of the canopy and swooped over you. It thankfully wasn’t trying to attack, merely flee, and the avian-beast cawed angrily as it disappeared into the jungle.

“P-Pfassk,” you panted, your voice as jittery as your racing pulse. Still, you scrambled to your feet, with the smoking rifle held tight in your shaking grasp, and you stared wide-eyed at the corpse of the beast that had attacked you.

The thing was almost two meters long, and six disjointed looking limbs jutted out from underneath it. Your would-be-killer looked vaguely canine yet also insect-like, with its long snout and what looked like scaled plates along its spine. The combination made your stomach churn. The blaster had carved smoldering holes into most of the creature’s flesh, but the uncharred remains were blackish-purple, mottled with spots of blue and green that matched the jungle’s underbrush. The beast was entirely hairless and slick-looking like an oil spill, and its bifurcated maw hung open to reveal rows of rotted black fangs. Two pairs of pale white eyes stared blindly up at the dark sky, and purplish blood seeped out around the carcass to stain the jungle floor.

Bile rose in your throat, but before you could even process your fear, terror, and revulsion, a very human sounding scream echoed through the dark night, and you whipped your head in the direction it had come from.

“Mando,” you breathed, and you spared the dead beast one last glance before you took off running again, every sense on high alert.

You didn’t dare blink as you crashed through the underbrush, and you pushed your aching limbs as fast as they would go. The din of snarling and howling was so loud now it was rattling your teeth, and all of the sudden you were stumbling out of the thick tree line and into a small clearing.

A clearing riddled with bodies, both living and dead.

Your brain stuttered as it tried to assess the scene before you. The canopy overhead was broken in a perfect circle, so the moonlight here was strong and bright after the deep shadows of the jungle, and it illuminated everything perfectly. The Mandalorian stood in the center of the carnage, half collapsed against a rotten log twice as tall as he was. Carcasses of the canine-like beasts were piled up in mounds around the clearing, some shot but some charred into blackened skeletons, and the stench of burnt flesh invaded your nose and sat heavy on the back of your tongue.

For every dead beast, though, there were two more still snarling, and boy, were they pissed.

The pack of creatures prowled in a semi-circle before the bounty hunter, all their attention centered on him, and they growled and snapped their bifurcated jaws in his direction. They didn’t seem to want to attack him head on, and a moment later you saw why.

One of the beasts must have reached its breaking point, because with the same piercing shriek that had kept you up the past two nights, it lunged for the Mandalorian, the moonlight glinting off the armored plates along its spine.

The poor bastard never made it.

While the creature was still in mid-air, Mando jerked his wrist up, and a blast of flames roared out of his vambrace. The beast screeched as it was swallowed by the inferno, and its charred corpse crashed to the ground at Mando’s feet a moment later. The remainder of the pack snarled in fury as they paced in front of the bounty hunter, but you felt your throat tighten with fear.

The flamethrower was obviously a great weapon at repelling these creatures, but judging by the radius on that last spurt of fire, you estimated Mando had enough fuel for one, maybe two more attacks.

And there were dozens of the beasts left.

What were you going to do?

You heaved for breath as your eyes darted around the clearing, trying to look for a solution, but you knew the answer was obvious: you were going to have to fight.

You blindly tapped at your wrist, and a moment later the child’s carrier rose up above your head and nestled against the lowest branch of the tree you were standing under. You didn’t know if the beasts could climb, but the pod was made of a strong, reinforced metal, so as long as the creatures didn’t notice the kid, he should be fine.

The same couldn’t be said for you.

Maker, you were going to regret this, weren’t you?

You didn’t give yourself the chance to change your mind.

“Hey!” you shouted as you stepped further into the clearing, one of your hands dropping to the belt on your waist.

The chorus of snarls and growls tapered off for a moment as the pack whipped around in unison to face you, and the saliva evaporated in your mouth as you stared at the dozens of glowing white eyes.

At the sound of your voice, you could see Mando jerk upright in your peripherals, but you didn’t dare tear your eyes off the pack as they started to stalk toward you. Sweat dripped down your face and trickled along your spine as you palmed a cold, heavy orb in your right hand, and you watched the distance between you and the creatures shrink bit by bit.

Mando shouted your name, but you ignored him.

“Yeah, that’s right!” you yelled at the beasts instead. “You guys hungry? Why don’t you come and get me?”

“What are you doing?” Mando roared, but you still didn’t pay him any mind as you tracked the pack. There were maybe three dozen left alive, and they bared their black fangs at you as they drew closer and closer.

Twenty meters… fifteen… ten…

Now.

“Take this!” You heaved your arm back, aimed at the beast in the center of the pack’s line, and threw with all your might, and the creature yelped as the stun grenade struck him in the skull.

A moment later, a web of electricity exploded out of the orb and arced through half of the pack, and the poor bastards screeched and screamed as they fell spasming to the jungle floor. The beasts on the edges snarled as they jumped away from their sparking brethren, and you saw some of the canine-monsters retreat into the shadows of the clearing.

This was your chance.

You darted forward the moment you had a clear path to take, and you vaulted over the pack’s twitching bodies in three swift strides. When you landed on the other side of them, you spun around and faced the fallen creatures as they whined and spasmed on the ground. Then you lifted your rifle, aimed haphazardly, and pulled the trigger. You swept the barrel from side to side for a moment, energy bolts tearing and searing through flesh, but then you whirled back around and sprinted toward the Mandalorian’s prone form.

He was propped up against the log with his legs splayed out in front of him, and you inhaled sharply when you saw the dark stain of blood on the ground beneath his right thigh. His Amban rifle lay beside him, but since he wasn’t using it, you assumed he was out of ammo. The bounty hunter listed heavily onto what you first thought was a rock of some kind, but as you skidded to a stop in front of him, you realized the lump was the body of another humanoid, except it didn’t look to be breathing.

“Mando!” you gasped as you crouched down in front of him. “Maker, w-what happened—”

“What are you doing here?” he cut you off with a snarl, and the absolute rage in his voice drew you up short.

You gaped at his visor, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. “W-What… you called—”

“I didn’t call you, he did, right before they tore out his throat,” Mando growled and shoved the prone form beside him.

The body flopped over with a thud, and you stifled a gag when you realized the poor bastard had been eviscerated. He was torn open from gut to gullet, intestines and innards gleaming wetly in the dark, and his bulging black eyes stared up unseeingly at the moon.

“Dank farrik, Mando,” you breathed in horror. “What happened?”

The Mandalorian tilted his helmet up to look at you, but then his gaze seemed to shift over your shoulder, and he was suddenly latching onto your wrist with an iron grip and tugging you forward.

“Watch out!” he shouted as you tripped over his legs and landed on the other side of him, and a moment later you heard and felt the roar of flames at your back as another beast met a smoldering end.

You scrambled up onto your knees and whirled around, rifle held at the ready, but there were only the two new dead creatures sprawled at Mando’s feet. Their corpses smoked as their blackened flesh crackled, and this time you weren’t successful in stifling your gag. You dry-heaved off to the side, tears blurring your vision, but when the chorus of bone-chilling howls started up again, you blinked away the tears and clenched your rifle in a white-knuckled grip.

“We gotta get out of here,” you panted, your eyes darting from place to place as you tried to track the beasts slithering through the shadows.

“Can’t,” Mando grunted, and all of the sudden, you realized his voice sounded off, slurred.

You whipped back around to face the bounty hunter, and your gaze immediately fell to the dark stain under his leg. It had grown since you’d first seen it, and then you realized a haphazard tourniquet was lashed around the top of his leg, right above the metal plate that covered the front of his thigh.

“You’re hurt,” you breathed. It wasn’t a question.

“Yeah.” Mando’s head jerked up and down in an unsteady nod. “Just… happened. One of them got me… when I was trying to save the bounty. Pretty sure they nicked my femoral.”

His words were softer and definitely slurred now, and panic rose up in your throat like a burning coal.

“Then we need to get back to the Razor Crest now,” you said as you reached for his shoulders, but the Mandalorian sluggishly shoved you away.

“I’ll… only slow you down,” he grunted. “The bounty and I… are easy meals. The pack should stay to finish us off while you make a break for the sh—”

“No,” you cut him off, and the snarl in your voice surprised even you. “No, Mando. I’m not leaving you to die. We’re only a kilometer away from the Razor Crest. I have extra power cells and grenades. We can make it.”

Mando’s head thunked back against the log he leaned on as he stared up at you, and even if you couldn’t see the face underneath the visor, you could see the resignation in every inch of him.

And it ignited a fury in you unlike anything you had ever known.

“So, what?” you growled, bending down to bare your teeth in his face. “You’re just gonna sit here and die? What about the kid? You just gonna abandon him?”

You’re just going to abandon me? you didn’t say, but the words rattled against the backs of your clenched teeth.

“He’ll… have you,” Mando said, and suddenly his gloved hand reached up as if to touch your face, but he didn’t seem to have the strength, and the tip of his index finger barely grazed the edge of your jaw. His touch left behind a warm streak on your skin, and you didn’t have to look to know it was blood.

“That’s not good enough,” you snarled before you stooped down and grabbed the ends of his makeshift tourniquet, yanking tightly on both ends until Mando groaned in pain and latched onto your shoulders.

He murmured your name, his modulator crackling in your ear, but you ignored him as you looped his spent Amban rifle over his shoulder and shifted to slide your left arm behind his back, throwing his right arm over your shoulders. You took two deep breaths to brace yourself, and then you dug your fingers into his waist as you tried to leverage the both of you onto your feet.

It was nearly impossible. The Mandalorian had to weigh nearly ninety kilos in his beskar, and with the added weight of the weapons and grenades you carried, you could feel the muscles in your legs, core, and back scream at the strain.

“Dank… farrik,” you hissed out between clenched teeth, but you managed to get the two of you upright, even if Mando was practically limp against you. Still, you had to leverage your back against the log behind you to keep from collapsing.

“We’ll never make it… back to the ship like this,” Mando panted, his cold helmet brushing against the shell of your ear.

“Shut up,” you gritted out, listening to the howling beasts closing in again like they could sense your weakness. “I refuse to leave you behind. So, unless you want to kill us both, you need to get your ass in gear, Mando. I can keep them off our backs as we go, but you need to walk with me. Understand?”

“Cyare,” he slurred, and the unfamiliar word sounded pained as his helmet thunked into your temple. “I… don’t want you to die.”

“Then walk,” you grunted as you tightened your grip on his waist and lurched forward a step.

Mando staggered behind you, half draped over your back, but you widened your stance and refused to go down.

“Please… Mando,” you panted, shoving the barrel of your rifle into the loamy red soil to act as a crutch. “Help me save us. Just… just put one foot in front of the other.”

“Wait,” the Mandalorian said, and he actually lifted his head off your shoulder. “The bounty…”

“The bounty’s dead,” you grunted as your eyes darted to the trees again. You could see the sinuous shapes of the pack weaving between the towering trunks, but they kept their distance for the moment. They’d lost more than half of their numbers by your estimate, and you prayed to the Maker they would just give up, but you knew that would be way too convenient for your life.

“The puck… said dead or alive,” Mando sighed, his arm weighing down on the nape of your neck like a yoke, and it reminded you of the slave’s collar you once wore.

“I can’t carry both of you back, Mando,” you growled in frustration. “I can barely drag you.”

“Don’t need the whole body,” he clarified. “Just… the head. It’s… a big bounty.”

You groaned as you glanced down at the quarry’s corpse, and then you tilted your head back to try and look at Mando.

“Can you stand by yourself for a minute?” you asked.

“Maybe,” Mando grunted, but he shifted his weight off you bit by bit and leaned up against the tall log at your backs. His boots slid a few inches in the blood-soaked dirt as he almost collapsed, but he dug his gloved fingers into the rigid bark and stood there shaking.

“Didn’t know I was paying you for maybes,” you parroted his words from days ago back at him in an attempt to take his mind off the pain, and it seemed to work because he actually huffed out a strained-sounding chuckle.

“Hurry,” he panted, and you nodded as you quickly stepped away from him, stood over the bounty’s corpse, and shoved the barrel of your rifle between his shoulder and neck.

It was so dark, and you were running on so much adrenaline you couldn’t even be sure of what species the man used to be, but you pushed the thought away as you took a deep breath and held down the trigger.

The rifle screeched as it tore through flesh like a hot knife through butter, and you tried to ignore the feeling of lukewarm blood splattering across your lower legs. Moments later, the jittery, rapid-fire motions of the gun ceased, and the bounty’s head rolled away from the smoldering stump of his neck.

Bile rose up in your throat again, but you swallowed it down as you picked up the decapitated head and started punching buttons on your cuff.

Instantly, you heard the familiar hum of the child’s pod drone closer and closer, and behind you Mando inhaled sharply as the jungle dogs yipped in curiosity from the shadows.

“You brought the kid?” he growled.

“Well, it wasn’t like you left me much kriffing choice, but you can fire me later for child endangerment,” you snapped as the carrier floated down to stop in front of you. Then you turned to the Mandalorian and held out your bloodied hand. “I need your fibercord whip. Eject it.”

Mando didn’t even question you, he just did as he was bid. Within moments, you had the thin but strong wire wound up in your palm, and then you started the gory process of wrapping it securely around the bounty’s bloody head. Your stomach churned at the slick warm goo covering your skin, but you swallowed the saliva pooling in your mouth as you tapped at your wrist again.

The child’s pod opened with a hiss, and you made sure to lower the decapitated head so it was below the carrier and out of the foundling’s line of sight.

“Hey there, bud,” you said as you leaned down and tucked the end of the fibercord into the interior of the pod near the hinges. “Look who I found.”

The foundling cooed and gurgled happily when he caught sight of the Mandalorian, and he lifted his arms and made grabby motions at the bounty hunter.

“Not yet,” you said as you stepped forward and blocked Mando from view. “First, we need to get back to the ship, so I need to close you up again. Don’t worry about anything you hear, though, okay? I promise we’ll be fine.”

The child murmured a soft sound as you bent down and kissed his wrinkled brow, but then you tapped at your wrist, and the pod closed with another hiss, locking the wire with the dangling head in place. You keyed in a few more commands, and the carrier rose up high above you, hovering at least six meters off the ground. Blood dripped from the severed stump of the quarry’s neck as it dangled from the pod, and you flinched when a speck of it landed on your cheek. It might be disgusting, but this way, the child and the remainder of the bounty would hopefully be out of reach of any of the beasts, and you could focus all your energy on getting you and Mando back to the Razor Crest.

“Alright.” You tore your gaze away from the silver pod and shifted your grasp on the rifle, wedging the stock against your right shoulder as tight as you could. You knew your aim would be abysmal since you were going have to shoot one handed while dragging Mando, but you hoped the full-auto setting would grant you some leeway. “Let’s go.”

“You really should—” the Mandalorian started, but you clicked your tongue to cut him off.

“That wasn’t a request,” you said as you sidled up against the bounty hunter and double checked that his tourniquet was secure.

“Fine.” He reluctantly draped his right arm over your shoulder, and you wrapped your left one around his waist. Then the two of you pushed off the log at your backs, and you staggered forward several steps, trying not to trip on any dead jungle dogs.

Mando’s cold beskar felt like it was burning you wherever it brushed against your bare, hot flesh, and he groaned in your ear as he practically dragged his injured leg behind him. The agony of his voice made you want to stop and sprint forward all at the same time, but you settled for stumbling several more steps.

“That’s it,” you panted in encouragement. “One step at a time.”

The pack howled and shrieked as you painstakingly shuffled your way across the clearing, but you haphazardly aimed your rifle into the jungle and held down the trigger. Rapid-fire bolts of energy careened into the darkness, illuminating white eyes and flashes of twining vines and snarling beasts, but several yowls echoed through the night, so you knew you’d hit at least some of them.

“Mando,” you gritted out as you neared the tree line. “I need you to hit my cuff. There’s a button on the side that will turn up my headlamp. I want it at maximum. Since these bastards are nocturnal, I’m guessing they don’t like the light.”

The Mandalorian grunted something that sounded like an affirmative, and then his left hand was swatting blindly at your cuff. After fumbling for a moment, his thick, gloved fingers encircled your wrist, his thumb brushing faintly over your thudding pulse point.

Your feet nearly tangled beneath you, but then Mando found the button on your cuff, and he pressed on it until the lights at your temple were bright enough to blind. The beams of white light cut through the oppressive darkness of the jungle, and the canine creatures yelped in pain as they darted back into the shadows. You swung your gaze back and forth, your lamp dragging over the scenery like a burning laser, and the beasts whimpered as their tails disappeared into the bushes.

“Come on,” you groaned as you dragged Mando forward, and the two of you finally stumbled into the thick of the trees.

You didn’t know how much time passed as you and the Mandalorian struggled back to the ship. Seconds seemed like minutes, minutes hours. The moon appeared frozen in the sky above your head, and more than once you had the thought that you were already dead, and this was some messed up version of an afterlife where you were tortured for eternity.

In the end, though, you knew you were alive.

If you weren’t, it wouldn’t hurt so much.

“Left,” Mando slurred in your ear, half draped over your back, and your feet stuttered as you swung both of you around to the left.

The rifle screeched as it fired off into the darkness, followed by the yelps of dying dogs, and you hissed as the stock dug into your already sore shoulder. The pack snarled and gurgled as they encircled you, but they were hesitant now that you’d killed a majority of them. You wondered why they just didn’t give up, but you realized they could most likely sense you weakening, slowing.

Sweat ran in rivers down your face and spine, and every tendon in your body felt like it was on the edge of snapping. You could tell Mando was trying to take some of his weight off you, but he was becoming more and more unsteady with each step, his breath jagged and uneven as it rasped out of his helmet. He probably wouldn’t remain conscious for much longer, and if he passed out before you reached the ship, you were both dead. You couldn’t fully carry him, and you would not even entertain the idea of leaving him, so it was all or nothing.

Either you both reached the ship together, or neither of you did.

But, as you glanced up at the child’s pod hovering high over your head, you knew the second choice wasn’t really an option. The kid needed you. Needed both of you.

So, you were going to kriffing live, even if you had to break your body down to achieve your goal.

“Come on,” you encouraged as you stumbled over a tree root. “Come on, Mando. We’re almost there. Stay with me, okay?”

You had no idea if you were almost there or not. The homing beacon on your cuff was beeping steadily, but with all the howling, and the blood pounding through your ears, you couldn’t approximate how close you were to the Razor Crest.

“I’m… trying,” Mando mumbled, lifting his head just slightly. “B-Behind us.”

You cursed under your breath, letting the rifle dangle against your chest as you fumbled at your waist. Your fingers curled around a cold, metal orb, and you clicked the button in its center before you lobbed the grenade over your shoulder with all the strength you had left, which wasn’t much.

Then you staggered forward a little faster, dragging the bounty hunter behind you, and five seconds later, you heard the stun grenade go off, followed by the crackling of static and the yelping of beasts.

“That’s my last… stun grenade,” you panted, and the hair on your arms stood on end with all the electricity in the moist air. “I have some explosive ones… but…”

“But we’re not fast enough to get out of range in time,” Mando finished for you, his helmet bumping into the crown of your head as he sagged a little more.

“Yeah,” you huffed, but then a crunch to your right had you whirling and firing in one motion.

The canine yipped and screeched as the energy bolts tore through its chest mid-lunge, and it crashed into the ground at your feet as you staggered into a tree. The bark scraped painfully across your bare shoulder blades, and Mando groaned as you almost lost your grip on him.

“No,” you growled, tightening your arm around the bounty hunter and tugging you both upright. “Dank… farrik!”

The muscles in your arm burned hotly from the strain of keeping the Mandalorian on his feet, and you bit through your tongue to keep from crying out, the metallic taste of blood coating your teeth and whetting your parched mouth.

You stumbled forward blindly as you tried to work through the pain, but all the sudden, the claustrophobic darkness caused by the towering trees lessened a few degrees. You thought you were hallucinating it at first, but then you lifted your head a fraction and realized the trees were thinning out ahead of you.

And the beacon in your cuff was beeping like mad.

You were almost there. The Razor Crest was so close.

Of course, that’s when the snarling behind you reached new frantic heights, and you knew the pack was gearing up for one final assault.

“Mando, listen to me,” you gasped as you shifted to shove him against a tree, using your palm to keep him rooted at the sternum and on his feet.

He groaned as he listed there, mumbling something that didn’t sound like it was in Basic, but he remained upright, so you seized the opportunity to jab at the screen on your wrist. A moment later, the child’s pod swooped down from where it had been hovering near the canopy, and the bounty’s head dragged against the jungle floor with a dull crunch. You tweaked the carrier’s settings half blind, one eye on the encroaching darkness and the beasts therein, and then you grabbed the floating orb and shoved it against Mando’s gut.

“Ugh,” the bounty hunter grunted, his feet starting to slide out from under him.

“No, lean forward,” you rushed out, grabbing one of his shoulders and tugging him toward you.

Mando moaned as he collapsed onto the child’s pod, but since you’d cranked up the carrier’s power output to the max, the bounty hunter didn’t crash to the ground. Instead, he hung there half suspended, the pod whirling angrily from his added weight, his feet limp and dragging behind him.

“Mando,” you said as you tapped the side of his helmet, eyes still on the shadowy trees. “Mando, I need you to hold onto that pod as tight as you can, okay? Can you hear me?”

“Hear… you,” the Mandalorian just barely breathed, and you saw his arms wrap around the bottom of the silver carrier.

“Hold on like your life depends on it,” you instructed as you tapped at your wrist again. “Because it does.”

“What—” he started to ask, but he didn’t get to finish the question because the pod was suddenly surging forward, in the direction of the ship. The bounty’s head and Mando’s feet dragged loudly against the ground, but with one last jolt of power, the pod lifted away from the jungle floor and began to float away.

The pod would probably have just enough power to get Mando back to the ship before it died, but that was fine. That was just what you needed.

The jungle dogs howled and shrieked as they watched the Mandalorian drifting away through the trees, but as you listened to them start to skirt around you in his direction, you finally gripped the rifle with two hands and aimed into the dark.

Then you pulled the trigger, full-auto, and the shrieking of the energy bolts collided with the screeching of the canines and crescendoed into a deafening cacophony. You sprayed the jungle in wide sweeps as you slowly started to walk backward toward the Razor Crest, the rifle stock jolting into your shoulder in time with your racing heart. You just needed to give Mando time to reach the ship. You had programmed the pod to open the ramp at a certain distance, so they would just fly on into the cargo bay, and it would close behind them. Once they were safe, you could make a break for it and—

Suddenly, one of the shadows broke away from the trunk directly to your right, and you turned too late to see it was a slavering beast, its bifurcated jaw wide open and aimed for your throat.

“Ahh!” You stumbled back, trying to crane away from those jagged black fangs, but your feet got tangled up beneath you, and you came crashing down. A root slammed into one of your rear ribs so hard you heard and felt the snap as the bone gave, but you didn’t even have time to register that pain before the jungle dog smashed into your chest.

You instinctively shoved your arms outward, wedging the rifle between those deadly, snapping jaws. One of the beast’s jagged fangs scraped down your forearm as you tried to keep the bastard from swallowing you whole, and you screamed in fury and pain as blood spilled from your rending flesh.

Then you brought your knee up and smashed it as hard as you could into the jungle dog’s ribcage, and this time you felt its rib snap, and grim satisfaction burned like a wildfire through your blood. The warmth filled your limbs until you thought you would burst into flame, and you kicked the beast again and again as it yipped.

You were just starting to think you had the upper hand when the creature’s jaw started to close with a creaking sound of bone on metal, and your eyes widened in horror as the canine jerked its head back, taking your rifle with it. Then its bifurcated jaw snapped close with a horrible crunch, and the rifle shattered into shards of metal and sparks.

The beast roared in pain and rage as it tossed the remains of your rifle aside, but now you were acting on pure survival instinct, not thought, not logic, and you were already wrenching two grenades and a vibroknife off your belt when the nightmare dog finally settled its four milky white eyes on your face.

“Eat this, you bastard,” you snarled as its terrible jaws, rowed with serrated teeth, descended on you.

Then with one hand you stabbed the vibroknife into its neck just above the shoulder, and with the other you activated the grenades and shoved both of them down the jungle dog’s throat.

Warm blood sprayed down on you like humid rainfall, and you twisted the blade in to the hilt, feeling as it tore through flesh in a jittery fashion. The creature gagged and gurgled as its throat muscles convulsed around your other wrist for just an instant, but then you yanked your arms back with all your might, teeth catching on your elbow again, before you crashed into the dirt.

You were scrambling up in the next instant, barely listening to the creature heaving and choking behind you as you staggered forward into a clumsy sprint.

The rest of the pack howled at your back, but you were flat out running now, and you could see the Razor Crest through the trees. The pounding of paws on dirt sounded at your heels, and you couldn’t tell if you were gasping for breath or sobbing as you tore the final grenades off your belt, activated them, and let them fall through your numb fingers.

In the next instant, you broke through the tree line, and you could see the ramp of the Razor Crest, closing. You slapped at your wrist blindly as you sprinted as fast as you could, lungs heaving to the point of seizures, legs at the point of collapse. You didn’t know if the dogs were still right behind you, but the grenades…

You must have finally hit the right command because the ramp suddenly shuddered before it started to lower again, and you were ten meters away when the grenades went off like dominoes falling.

The first two explosions—of the grenades you shoved into the jungle dog—only shook the ground hard enough to make you stumble forward, but then the rest of them detonated much closer, and the combined shockwave hit you moments later and catapulted you into the air.

Thankfully, the ramp was just low enough that you scraped over it and crashed into the ship, smashing into a bulkhead with a dull crunch. The howling shrieks of dying dogs reached you through the ringing in your ears, and you felt a wave of heat hit you as the grenades engulfed the jungle trees. You curled into a ball on the cargo bay floor, your back to the ramp, and you just barely had the presence of mind to tap at your wrist one last time. A moment later, you heard the whirling of the ramp closing, and when it clanked shut a moment later, you rolled over onto your back and stared blindly above you.

You could just barely hear the roar of the building wildfire outside the ship, and the screeching of the jungle dogs died down within seconds. Your entire body—your lungs, your heart—heaved up and down as adrenaline pulsed through you like a bad hit of spice, and your ears ached in the relative silence.

Then the child cooed, and Mando groaned weakly, and you jolted upright like you had just been struck by lightning.

“Mando,” you rasped, flipping over onto your raw hands and bruised knees.

The bounty hunter half-sat, half-sprawled on the floor at the foot of his bunk. The foundling’s pod lay askew on the ground in front of the fresher like it had crash landed there when it finally died, but the child stood unharmed beside the Mandalorian.

Who was currently bleeding out on the floor of the cargo bay.

“Kriff!” You scrambled forward when you saw the spreading stain of blood below his leg, and as you drew closer, you realized his tourniquet must have been loosened when he collapsed.        

The Mandalorian barely even seemed conscious at this point. His chest stirred only slightly beneath his beskar chest plate, and if it weren’t for the soft groans he was exhaling, you would have thought him dead.

“Mando!” you shouted as you shakily rose onto your feet and staggered the rest of the way to the fresher. Your hands were shaking as you tore one of the storage compartments open in search of a med kit, and your voice cracked when you said his name again. “Mando! Stay with me. We made it back. We’re on the ship. Just stay with me for a few more moments. Please.”

You crashed down onto your knees beside the bounty hunter, tearing the med kit open with bloody hands and broken nails. His helmeted head lolled onto the edge of the bunk behind him, and you could barely hear his raspy breaths through the modulator.

The child stood between Mando’s splayed boots, eyes large and frightened, but you couldn’t pay him any mind right now. Your frantic gaze darted between the bacta gel patch in your hand and Mando’s bleeding leg, and even though it felt crazy, you set the patch down for a moment and reached for the last vibroknife on your belt.

Suddenly, Mando jerked awake with a gasp, and you reached out without thinking, pressing your left palm over his heart and feeling his faint, fluttering pulse.

“Mando, I’m right here,” you murmured soothingly. “Keep breathing for me.”

The Mandalorian muttered your name as his head lolled toward you.

“Yes, that’s me, I’m here,” you said, rising up on your knees and leaning over him. The vibroknife glimmered in your hand, looking like a real-life glitch, but you shook off the unsettling feeling and fixed your eyes on Mando’s visor.

“Mesh’la,” the Mandalorian slurred. The word was soft and elongated to the point of sounding like gibberish, but his hand settled firmly on the wrist you still had pressed to his heart, like he was talking directly to you.

In any other situation, your own heart would be fluttering with a feeling you didn’t want to name, but as the bounty hunter’s blood started to soak into the knees of your pants, all you could feel was dread.

“I need you to stay still, okay?” you said as you dropped your hand from his chest to grip the top of his injured thigh. “I need to cut your pants away from the wound.”

“O… kay,” he muttered, and his hand fell to settle over yours again on his leg like he was grounding himself by touching you.

“Nice and easy,” you cooed, trying to blink the tears out of your eyes so you could see to cut through his pants and not his flesh. “I’ll have that bacta patch on in just a moment. Why don’t you talk to me, huh? Mando, talk to me. Tell me something. J-Just stay awake.”

“Aw…ake,” he whispered, but it sounded like he was just repeating you now, barely clinging to consciousness.

Your hand shook as you slowly sawed through the blood-soaked fabric, and an aborted sob rose in your throat. But you shoved your hysteria down, down, down, you had no time for it, you had to stay level-headed, steady-handed, Mando was counting on you, Mando was dying.

“Mando,” you choked as you finally pulled the cloth away from his wound. Three parallel gashes, each nearly five centimeters deep, ran from his hip crease and nearly all the way to his knee, and blood pulsed sluggishly from the wounds in crimson gobs. “Oh, Maker, Mando.”

You dropped the vibroknife with a loud clang as you lunged for the bacta patch, and out of your peripherals you could see the child waddling closer, standing in between the Mandalorian’s knees, the hem of his little robe slowly staining scarlet. You didn’t have the heart or the strength to shove the child away now, so instead you focused on settling the bacta patch over the bounty hunter’s grisly injuries.

Mando twitched and inhaled sharply as the bacta adhered to his skin, and you sent up a million prayers to the Maker that you had administered aid in time.

“There y-you go,” you sniffled, unable to stop the tears from coursing down your cheeks now. “I got the patch on, Mando. You’re going t-to be okay. You… you have to be okay. Do you hear me, Mando?”

You felt like a glitching holotape repeating his name over and over, but you couldn’t stop yourself. You wanted, no needed, him to stay awake, and every time you said his name, he seemed to jerk a little, like he’d been recalled from a long distance at the sound of your voice.

For a moment, there was only the faint, raspy wheeze of the Mandalorian’s breath through his helmet, but then he suddenly mumbled something.

“What?” You shuffled closer, slipping in blood. You practically had your ear pressed against his visor. “What was that, Mando? Say it again. Come on, talk to me, Mando.”

“Not… Mando.”

The words were stilted, sluggish, and you frowned in confusion. “Huh? I-I don’t understand.”

“My… name isn’t… Mando,” the bounty hunter struggled out, and his helmet tilted forward a fraction like he had lifted his head and was looking right at you. “It’s… Din. Din Djarin.”

The shock you felt was muted, distant and removed, like a crack that formed deep in the heart of a glacier, buried beneath the adrenaline, horror, and helplessness warring within you.

“Din,” you breathed, and the word somehow tasted like the exact moment Peli dug out your transmitter chip. It tasted like freedom, like infinite possibility, and you didn’t understand why.

Mando—no, Din, Din Djarin—exhaled heavily as his head thunked back against the bunk, and even if you couldn’t see it, you could tell his eyes were slipping closed. “I… wanted at least someone to know before I—”

“No,” you cut him off vehemently, reaching out to cradle the sides of his helmet like you were cupping his face. “No, you’re not going to die. Not now. Not when… no, do you hear me, Din Djarin? I will not allow you to die. Not when I worked my ass off to fix this ship and drag you back onto it by the skin of my kriffing teeth.”

“Mmmm.” Din’s head lolled in your grasp, the weight of him growing heavier and heavier. “I knew I would like the way… you say my name.”

Oh, Maker. He was nonsensical now, and terror gripped you by the throat and squeezed.

“Then stay awake, Din,” you begged, and your heart felt like it was on the edge of a great precipice. “Stay awake for me.”

“’m so… tired,” he sighed.

“I know,” you breathed as you guided his head back to rest against the bunk, and you couldn’t speak above a whisper because your voice was thick with tears. “I know, but just listen to my voice, Din. Just—”

You trailed off as the child suddenly waddled into your line of sight, and you dropped your gaze slightly to find him standing between the Mandalorian’s thighs, right next to the bacta covered wounds. The foundling stared up at the bounty hunter with a furrowed, seemingly determined expression, and then he closed his big brown eyes as he reached for Din’s leg.

“Oh, buddy, don’t,” you started, reaching out to stop him, but Din—Maker, his name felt delicious and forbidden even in your mind—weakly placed his hand on your wrist to stop you.

“It’s… okay,” he panted. “He can help.”

“Help?” You frowned down at the child. How could he help? Was this one of the “powers” the bounty hunter had vaguely mentioned before? You thought the foundling’s ability dealt with physically moving things, not healing, but honestly you could do for a miracle right about now.

The child gurgled a small noise as his three fingers settled over Din’s wound, and the Mandalorian inhaled sharply at the same time that you felt… something. You weren’t sure what it was, but it was like the very air shifted, became magnetic, charged somehow. The air stilled in your lungs as you feared even the barest breath would fracture this fragile spell you were bearing witness to, and you watched with wide eyes as the gashes on the bounty hunter’s legs began to close right in front of you.

Bacta worked fast… but not that fast.

Several still, endless seconds passed as the foundling healed the Mandalorian, but then just as soon as it began, the moment ended. The atmosphere snapped almost tangibly, time jolted back into motion, and the child suddenly started to pitch backward.

“Oh!” you gasped as you lunged forward, your hands cupping the baby and bringing him close to your body. The foundling’s eyes were closed, his face slack, but his little chest still moved up and down with breath.

“He’s okay.”

You snapped your head up, more tears spilling down your cheeks with the motion.

Din was sitting up a little straighter, and his helmet looked squarely at you. His voice sounded stronger, too, and you gaped at him in bewilderment.

“He’s okay,” the Mandalorian repeated when you continued to blink at him. “He usually… tires himself out when he uses his powers.”

“I d-didn’t know he could do that,” you breathed, and your tongue felt like a disembodied lump of flesh in your mouth. “I… wait, how do you feel? A-Are you okay?”

You suddenly realized how close you still were to the bounty hunter, practically kneeling in his lap, but you ignored this as your eyes darted back to his leg. It was a little hard to tell through the dried blood and blue bacta, but it looked like the three gashes had closed altogether, leaving behind faint pink lines.

“I’ll survive,” the bounty hunter sighed, thunking his head back against the bunk again, but he tilted it to the side to regard you still. “Thanks to you.”

“I-I’m not the one who just healed you with magic,” you stuttered incredulously as your cheeks flared hot, and you cuddled the child against your chest even though you realized you knew almost nothing about the apparently powerful foundling.

“No,” Mando said evenly, “but you did charge out into a dark, unknown, dangerous jungle, fight off a pack of wild dogs, and drag both me and the bounty back safely.”

“Well,” you snorted with an edge of hysteria in your voice, and you gestured to the discarded head that lay sprawled against the corner of the fresher. “I don’t know if I’d say he got here safely.”

Maker, you felt a little crazy, hollowed out and wrung dry by the sheer amount of emotions you’d just experienced in a span of a few minutes.

“I’m serious,” the Mandalorian replied. “You… saved my life. I am in your debt.”

“I-I’m not one for debts.” You shook your head to try and clear it, dropping your gaze to the foundling’s face, nuzzled against your sternum. “I don’t like to owe anyone or be owed. You’ve stuck your neck out for me before, so let’s just call it even… Din.”

You saw the bounty hunter freeze out of the corner of your eye, and you bit your cheek until you tasted blood.

You should have known that was too much to ask for.

“Sorry,” you muttered, peeking up at the Mandalorian through your lashes. “You… mentioned your name when you were—”

“I remember,” Mando said, cutting you off, but you couldn’t tell what he was thinking, his expression hidden as always and his voice pitched in a way you didn’t recognize, couldn’t identify.

“Right.” You cleared your throat, feeling the adrenaline starting to drain out of you and be replaced by every ache and pain you had ignored in lieu of survival. “Of course, I can just forget about it. You weren’t exactly in your right mind, after all. I’ll just… using ‘Mando’ is fine for me.”

The Mandalorian’s visor stared you down unflinchingly for what felt like an eternity. Then…

“You can… use my name, if you like,” he said haltingly, then quickly amended himself. “But only when we’re alone, on the ship. I… my name could be a dangerous thing in the hands of my enemies.”

You blinked in shock at the bounty hunter.

“A-Are you sure?” you asked, and you tried to keep the hope out of your voice, but you knew you failed miserably. “O-Only if you’re sure. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

You’d thought giving up his name had just been a delusional, dying declaration, and you didn’t want him to regret it. What you said had been true enough. You were fine using “Mando,” even if the traitorous feelings buried deep in your chest said otherwise.

“I’m sure.” The bounty hunter nodded minutely. “I… trust you.”

The admission flooded your whole body with warmth, and goosebumps broke out across your skin. You’d known the Mandalorian trusted you, he wouldn’t have left his ship or his foundling in your care otherwise, but hearing him say the words felt like something out of a dream.

“Okay, then.” You smiled, heart thudding against where the child was pressed into your chest. “Din.”

At the sound of his name, the tension in the Mandalorian’s worn body seemed to bleed out of him entirely, and he sighed as his helmet fell back again.

“Let’s get off this Maker-forsaken planet,” he grumbled.

“I second that,” you chuckled dryly before you slowly clambered to your feet, careful not to slip in Din’s tacky blood or jostle the sleeping baby in your arms. You very gingerly leaned over the prone Mandalorian to set the foundling in his hammock, but you hissed when the movement jarred the bruised or fractured rib in your back.

“What’s wrong?” Din asked below you, and he was so close you could feel the rumble of his modulated voice against the bare skin of your stomach, your tank top having lifted up a fraction.

“Nothing.” You took a quick step backward, trying to put distance between you and the bounty hunter, but now that he was no longer actively dying, you were starting to realize you were a little more beat up then you’d previously thought.

The moment you stepped back on your right leg, your hamstring seized up, and when you went to grab at it, you realized your fingers were a little numb. You glanced down and saw fresh blood dripping down your forearm—your blood, not Mando’s—and the sight of the wound seemed to flip a switch in your brain because a moment later, pain crashed over you like a wave.

“Dank farrik,” Mando cursed lowly as he tried to shove himself up.

“No, no, no, no,” you babbled, holding out your less injured left hand in a gesture to stop him. “Don’t get up so fast.”

“You’re hurt,” he grunted, and you could practically hear the scowl in his voice as he tilted his helmet back to stare at you. “You’re bleeding.”

“I’m fine,” you stressed, even though you could still taste blood on the back of your tongue. “Also, you seriously have no room to talk. You were literally just bleeding out less than five minutes ago.”

“How much bacta do we have left?” he asked, completely ignoring your statement. “We should take care of your injuries before they get any worse.”

“Maker, you’re not even listening to me, are you?” You rolled your eyes as you leaned your shoulder against the bulkhead, but when the Mandalorian started to get up again, you held your hand out once more. “Alright! Alright. Let me at least set the coordinates to meet up with the client and get the ship in the air. I’m pretty sure the jungle is burning down around us as we speak anyway, so the sooner we lift off, the better.”

Din stared up at you silently for a moment like he wanted to argue.

“It will take me two minutes, max,” you reasoned with him. “I won’t pass out or die in that time frame, okay?”

“Fine,” he finally sighed and dropped his chin to his chest. “Just… be careful climbing up there.”

“I’ll try my best,” you snorted, wincing when pain flared through your body, but you still slowly made your way to the ladder.

It took you way longer to climb five rungs than it should have, but you thought not falling back into the cargo bay was a feat in itself, given how every muscle in your arms and legs twitched in pain. The blood pouring down your arm also did nothing to help your grip, nor did your scraped up palms, but you still made it into the cockpit relatively unscathed.

Dawn was just breaking beyond the windows, but you could barely see it through the black smoke that hung thick in the air. Guilt sat heavy in your chest as you saw the charred trees and the birds fleeing the flames overhead, but you told yourself you did what you had to in order to survive.

And it wasn’t like you were walking away scot-free, either. Your arm pounded painfully in time with your slowing pulse, and every time you took a deep breath, you became a little surer that the rib in your back was, in fact, broken.

You punched in the client’s rendezvous coordinates without sitting in the pilot’s chair since you knew if you sat down now there was no way you were getting back up. While you waited for the Razor Crest to power up, you cringed at the blood you were dripping all over the floor, but there was nothing for it at this point. The whole ship would need a thorough scrub down the next time you made a pit stop, but that was a future-you problem. Right now, you were mainly focused on getting off this planetoid and out into orbit without crashing and burning.

You held your breath as the pre-Empire ship rose up above the now smoldering jungle, but no warning alarms or messages sounded. The Razor Crest glided steadily upward, and you leaned heavily on the control panel as you breeched first the clouds and then the atmosphere. Entering orbit rattled the ship and you more than you cared for, but nothing broke off or burst into flame, and before you knew it, you were drifting through the familiar black void of space.

“Thank the kriffing Maker,” you sighed as the autopilot took over, and then you turned and shuffled back to the ladder, exhaustion starting to make the edges of your vision go fuzzy.

Or maybe that was blood loss?

You were a little less graceful with the descent than you were with the ascent, but you at least landed on your feet before you nearly collapsed into the fresher.

“Careful,” Mando’s modulated voice murmured, and suddenly his bare hand was on your left, uninjured elbow, skin against warm skin.

“What are… you doing up?” You frowned as you studied the Mandalorian, trying to make sense of what you were seeing as he led you to sit in the open mouth of his bunk.

“I told you,” he said, reaching over and grabbing another med kit from the fresher. “We need to take care of your injuries before they get any worse.”

“You should be resting,” you grumbled, but you were too tired to put any real heat behind your voice.

“I’m fine,” Din parroted your earlier proclamation back at you. “The kid did a thorough job.”

Then the bounty hunter sat on a crate before you, a crate that hadn’t been there before, and you realized he was no longer wearing a majority of his beskar, save the ever-present helmet, of course. Instead, a faded but clean pair of duraweave clothes covered his body, and the bloodied outfit you’d basically sliced off him was piled up between his feet. It also looked like he had haphazardly tried to mop up some of his blood with the dirty clothes, and you wondered if you’d been up in the cockpit longer than you thought.

“Hey,” you chuckled suddenly, and you distantly noted that your voice was a little slurred with exhaustion. “Looks like I’ll have some new rags after all.”

You giggled a little loopily as you gestured to the Mandalorian’s blood-soaked clothes and then to the blood and dirt your outfit was also currently coated in, but Mando didn’t seem as amused as you were.

“Let me see your arm,” he said as his helmet stared at you impassively, but then he paused and added, “Please.”

“It’s really not that bad,” you tried to argue as you held out your injured limb, but since it was still actively dripping blood, your words didn’t carry much weight. Then the bounty hunter gingerly gripped your wrist with tentative fingers, and you hissed through your teeth as pain lanced up your arm.

“Osik,” Din cursed in a language you didn’t recognize, slowly rotating your arm to take in the extent of the damage. “Did one of those dogs get you? The bastard almost flayed you to the bone in some spots.”

“Yeah, well I shoved two grenades down his throat, so I think we’re even,” you gritted out.

Din froze and lifted his head, your blood, sweat, and dirt-streaked face reflecting back at you from his visor. “You what?” 

He must have really been on death’s door if he didn’t notice or remember you literally blowing the jungle dogs to Tatooine and back, but you just shook your head.

“Story time later,” you huffed, narrowing your eyes as you tried to breathe through the pain. “Bacta time now, please.”

“Right.” Mando jerked back into action, and in the next moment he was shifting into medic-droid mode.

Few words were shared between you two as the Mandalorian tended to your bumps and scrapes. Beside the deep lacerations on your forearm, your palms and knees were scraped bloody from tripping your way through a dangerous jungle in the dead of night. Your upper back was in the same condition since you’d been wearing a tank top when you decided to grapple with blood-thirsty hounds, and when Din accidentally brushed against your lower back, a small whimper squeezed out between your clenched teeth.

“This rib is probably broken,” the bounty hunter said, and there was a heavy quality to his quiet voice.

“Thought as much,” you grunted, trying to sit up straight without breathing too deeply. “Too bad we don’t have a full bacta tank to soak in.”

“I could always… drop you back off on Tatooine,” Mando muttered. “With the payment that I owe you, of course. Should be enough to pay for a full treatment and then some.”

You froze sitting there in the doorway of his bunk. The Mandalorian wasn’t looking at you, too busy double checking the bandage he’d wrapped over the bacta on your forearm, but you could see how rigid his body was as he awaited your answer.

“Do you… want to drop me back off on Tatooine?” you asked hesitantly, the breath shallow in your lungs. You could hear the child snoring softly in the hammock directly behind your head, and the thought of leaving him opened a dark pit inside you.

And that was nothing to say of the thought of leaving the Mandalorian. Of leaving… Din.

Now that you knew his name, the feelings you had done your best to ignore came surging up to the surface, that little voice whispering sweet nothings in your ear.

He told you his name. He trusts you. He wants you here. Maybe he wants you for more than just your skills.

You shoved the thoughts away as quickly as they cropped up, but that didn’t stop something small and fragile from unfurling in your chest. You almost wanted to call it hope.

“I—” Mando started, stopped, fidgeted on his crate, and then sighed as he scooted back a little to stretch out his injured leg. “No, I don’t want to do that. You’re a talented mechanic and… good company. I’ve… enjoyed having you on my crew.”

“Oh.” You blushed as the breath whooshed out of your lungs, leaving you feeling lightheaded and buoyant. “T-Thank you. Current circumstances notwithstanding, I’ve enjoyed being on your crew, too. A-And not just for the payment. Seeing new worlds, as dangerous as they are, was something I never thought I’d get to experience. So, even if the price to pay is a few bumps and scrapes, I think that’s a fair deal.”

“You have a skewed idea of ‘fair,’” the Mandalorian chuckled dryly as he reached down beside him, picked up a pair of his gloves, and slipped them back on.

“No kriff,” you snorted, the scar on the nape of your neck tingling. “But it works out in your favor, so I wouldn’t question it too much.”

“Fine.” Din held up his hands, but then he lowered them to his knees and cocked his head at you.

“What?” you asked when he didn’t say anything for a full minute. His gaze made your skin prickle even if you couldn’t see his eyes, and with each passing moment, you grew acutely more and more aware of how dirty and disheveled you looked and felt.

“Nothing,” he said, fingers flexing against his knees. “Just… thank you. Again. For saving me, the kid, the bounty, and the ship.” 

You fidgeted in discomfort. You didn’t know what to do with praise and compliments, having never really received them before, so you shrugged your shoulders as you picked at the bandage on your arm.

“I told you, we’re even,” you muttered.

“It doesn’t feel that way to me,” he argued, and something about his tone told you he wasn’t going to let this go. “So, how about this: after we drop off this bounty with the client, you can pick the next planet we stop on.”

“Really?” Your eyes flicked up to the bounty hunter and widened. He’d never let you pick a destination before. You’d always just been along for the ride.

Mando nodded. “And make a list of parts and stuff you need to keep the ship running. We’ll stock up wherever we stop off next.”

“Okay.” You grinned as your heart did a little jig in your chest, and you stuck out your bacta-wrapped hand to shake on it. “You’ve got yourself a deal, Din Djarin.”

His name rolled off your tongue like a grain of sand spiraling down a dune, picking up momentum as it went, and it sent a shiver of pleasure straight down your spine. You knew you were playing a losing game with your own heart here, but as you stared into Mando’s visor, you also knew there was no stopping yourself now. You would just have to deal with the future heartbreak.  

The Mandalorian tentatively reached out and grasped your fingers in his gloved ones.

“Deal,” he rumbled back.

“Good.” You nodded as a yawn cracked open your jaw, and you reached up to cover your gaping mouth and scratch your nose. “Now, given the client’s rendezvous coordinates, we should have a few days of rest before we reach our destination, and if you don’t mind, I think I’m going to start right now by taking a well-deserved nap.”

You made to stand up, but Din gently placed his hand on your shoulder to keep you seated on the edge of the bunk.

“Take the cot,” he said as he nodded behind you. “I’m going up to the cockpit to send a message to the client anyway.”

“Are you sure?” you murmured around another yawn.

“I’m sure,” he said, but then his gloved fingers were suddenly ghosting over the bridge of your nose. “By the way, you’ve got a little grease right here. Just thought you should know.”

You went cross-eyed as you tried to draw his finger into focus, but when he stepped back, you noticed the fingertips of his glove were shiny, and glancing down at the hand you used to shake his revealed that your palm bore the same black sheen.

“Hey, this is your grease,” you muttered indignantly, but then Din was pressing gently on your shoulder, guiding you to lay back on the cot, and you went willingly.

“Get some rest,” he said, turning off the bunk lights. “We’ll worry about cleaning up later.”

You tried to grumble something, but exhaustion was starting to tug at your limbs and eyelids, and your body unwound bit by bit as you buried your face in the bounty hunter’s pillow with no remorse.

A moment later, Mando’s boots were clomping up the ladder to the cockpit, but he left some of the cargo bay lights on and the door to the bunk open, like he somehow knew you were afraid of the dark.

The beginnings of a smile tugged at your lips, but you spiraled into sleep before you could fully process the thought.

[shelli-gator]

Hi, so I've been reading your many marvelous headcannons lately , and I have a headcannons request. (And yes, as usual with me it is Ted related.) So in my general Ted headcannons ask from awhile ago, you gave a summary of Ted's childhood. I loved your ideas on this, but was wondering if you had extra headcannons specifically about Ted in his childhood and adolescence. I'm not really looking for anything specific, so any ideas you have would be wonderful to hear!

WHDKSHD thank you! I'm really glad you like them! <3 I love sharing headcanons, it's just really fun to build stories around the characters, especially the side ones!

I've been thinking about Ted a fair bit, and I've adjusted some of my prior headcanons so let's start with those!

Edit: rewrote a lot of this to include more specific things Ted did as a teen/kid.

- I mentioned before that Ted's mom is a quiet but caring woman. I want to build on it because I think that her caring for Julien and Maurice as infants and running around after the royal family would have actually left very little time for poor little Ted. She loved him with her whole heart, and doted on him whenever she did get to spend time with him.

- A lot of the time he did get to spend with her was when she got to take him with her to work, and while he liked getting to play with Julien and Maurice, and any of the other little ones that got brought along by their mothers, Ted very early on felt lonely. He felt like he was competing with others for his mother's love and attention, and leads into him wanting to be liked by everyone. He never blamed Julien for it though, he figured that without their parents Julien and Maurice are lonely too.

- His mother working for royalty meant that she made extra sure to teach Ted manners and politeness. But her generally kind and tender nature rubbed off on him for sure, and he takes a lot after her.

- She cooked really well, and would often prepare food for the royals. Ted learnt some of his cooking skills from her as a kid/teen, and learnt more in his free time so he could either cook for her or cook with her to spend more time with her.

- Ted's parents were never affectionate with one another. And in comparison, Ted's marriage to Dorothy has more love in it than what his parents had. His mother was even more timid and soft spoken with his father than with others, harboring a lot of resentment towards him. They strongly disagreed with how Ted should be raised, but she stuck to raising him with kindness and understanding.

- he loves acting, dancing, and performing for a number of reasons. Dancing and acting gives him a chance to express himself and take on different roles outside of what has been assigned to him by himself or others. He gets to be whatever he wants to be, and its fun to be someone else for a change. In a way as well, he loves the spotlight of the stage because it means he gets to be seen and heard.

-He craves the love and approval of others. His fear of being alone forever started at an early age, and resulted in the unhappy marriage he's in today. Julien not listening to him at the prom and taking his prom king crown didn't help that either.

- I originally headcanonned Ted's dad passed away at a young age, but it might have been more in his late teens to enforce the military career.

- Ted's performances extend well beyond the stage. To me, it seems like his whole life is a stage play that he's put himself in. He came up with this story that he tried to make a reality, performing the role of the popular lad who married his long time best friend. Now he cant get out of it, or at least he's stopping himself from doing so, so he takes it out on Dorothy. History repeats itself, especially in our relationships. :( (Ironic then as well that Ted and Dorothy use his parents' wedding rings)

- Ted had lots of toys that his mom would bring for him, often things Julien got bored with. She also made him whatever outfits he wanted, including dresses, but his father almost popped a blood vessel when he saw his son dancing around in a dress. Ted dresses up his toys and uses them as co actors in plays and make believe, and he sometimes teaches them all about being nice to people.

- Ted and Julien both went to music classes together, and while they weren't in the same band, they both play guitar/keytar. His dad taught him a lot of that, and the guitar he has in the show was his.

-Little ted often put on plays for his mom, which he would practice for when he was alone. He sometimes roped the other kids into play acting while their parents worked, and him spending a lot of time with them is how he became as endearingly charismatic as he is, even if awkwardly clumsy. It all made for a very likable lad.

- Before Julien took over and could introduce the kingdom's very own parties, he would often go to parties held outside the kingdom by neighboring kingdom's. (It's a bit confusing because in the first episode its implied they don't really know much about parties, but Julien's flashbacks all point to parties that have happened before). Ted would sneak out to go along with him to these parties, with a few of the other lads in tow. Dorothy wouldn't accompany him, as it was against the rules and she wasn't big into parties.

Ted: *covers bags 'ears'* HORST, not in front of the baby!

- I love to imagine in lemur school they all had to partner up to look after a bag of flour or something as parents. Dorothy wanted to be partnered with Ted, but he ends up with Julien because Julien sees some easy marks. It would be hilarious too as Horst or Pancho.

Horst: I-it's a BAG, Ted! It's LEAKING flour!

Ted: he just needs changing is all! <3

- His grades were really good in school to give his mom one less thing to worry about, and because he was genuinely passionate about the subjects he chose. I used to hc he wasn't super good at biology or maths, but he would at least do well at them, and biology is how he took up interest in other animals like birds.

- As much as he clearly wants it, I don't think he's ever had the opportunity to kiss a boy before.

Anyway, sorry I've been rambling on this for long enough haldhskdh.

These headcanons also feed wonderfully into my Sugarbuns headcanons hehe, y e s.

[septic-skele]

US - Spontaneous

Summary: Papyrus falls asleep during a movie night with Undyne. While not uncommon, it puts her in an awkward position. It feels different this time.

A/N: No hate to the canon ships! I just really like Undyrus in the Swap AU <3

Undyne was used to awkward situations; she seemed to find herself in them more often than anyone else she knew and when she wasn’t stumbling into something, an awkward situation came to her. Regardless, being used to them didn’t make them any easier to address.

How had it happened so fast? She and Papyrus were having a ball, she thought, yelling over the latest episode of their show. More honestly, she was screeching and squealing while he, sipping tea with honey, grunted and hummed in agreement every so often. All was well, all was normal.

As the credits rolled and the next episode set to autoplay, Undyne came down slightly from her adrenaline high. “Ahhh, this is getting so good!” Abruptly she recalled her cup of noodles, getting cold on the side table, but it was as she tried to shift that she noticed the warm, unfamiliar weight on her shoulder. Papyrus had fallen asleep on her.

For a split second the realization came with indignation and dismay. How could he have fallen asleep now?! He was going to miss everything! Then her soul performed a rather impressive triple-backflip, heat flooding her stunned face.

Oh, my stars. A…A guy…just fell asleep on me!

This wasn’t just any “guy”; it was Papyrus, one of her best friends. The fact that she could say that with any kind of certainty made him one of her only real friends. They were such an unlikely pair that half the Underground was unaware they knew each other at all, but for once it hadn’t mattered to Undyne how she was being viewed by others. Papyrus didn’t make a big deal out of it—out of anything—so she didn’t have to either. That was what made it easy to enjoy his company. He made her feel…safe.

Did this mean he felt safe with her too? While seeing him doze wasn’t uncommon, he was a guarded monster by nature. He seemed content to let others think he was just lazy, but as a doctor Undyne knew about the 1 HP, the everyday battle with his own body’s needs. Though they hadn’t spoken of it, she knew about the depression too, even if she didn’t know the cause.

Just another thing they had in common, that. They knew each other well enough to figure out where to step safely; they wouldn’t pry into each other’s wounds.

Getting off track. She knew Papyrus slept more than most but when he was in someone’s company, he would never fully relax. At the slightest rustle he would startle awake. Every so often his eyes would flare amber as he sat up, leaving Undyne to wonder what he thought he might find when he opened them.

He hadn’t stirred when she tried to go for the noodles. How deep was his sleep? How long had he been leaning on her without her notice? More importantly, what was she supposed to do now?

Wake him up, obviously. Right? Then he would push away, probably apologize for losing track of the plot. She could nervously laugh it off, grab her soup and everything would return to standard operating procedure!

“Hey, um…Pap? I-I kind of need you to move,” she whispered, feeling a little pathetic and helpless. “So I can…uh, reach my food.” It was a paltry excuse. He was on her opposite side, hardly in the way; reaching with her free arm to snatch the cup wouldn’t take much effort. Although, if she did lean that way, there was a real chance he could slide down unpropped and end up with his head pressing into her ribs, which would be even less ideal. Her stomach squeezed at the idea: he with an unnecessary crick in his neck and she popping a blood vessel by way of internally screaming.

Nudge him, then…?

Yet, knowing what she did about that 1 HP and chronic fatigue, she couldn’t in good conscience. When was the last time he had slept properly? He really had made himself comfortable, long legs curled up on the couch, arms folded into the safety of his hoodie and the curve of his cheekbone well nestled against her shoulder. Despite his angular features, his resting face was gentle—jaw loose, snoring softly. Even the dark, bruise-like rings under his eye sockets looked kinder under the light from the TV.

Either he produced more body heat than she would have expected or Undyne was coming down with a fever. Fins bristling, she struggled to tear her gaze away from him, focus on something else. The next episode was already a few minutes gone, but her mind was already spiraling. Watching her onscreen OTP dance shyly around each other sent nervous jitters coursing through her arms and legs. She could already imagine how freakin’ adorable it would be to see MC with her love interest dozing against her like this.

How did Undyne look right now? Anxious, uncertain, paralyzed? Definitely not freakin’ adorable.

Papyrus was rather handsome, in his own way…not that Undyne had taken note of it before. Obviously she didn’t pay any special attention to the unique lopsidedness of his grin, or the charming roll in his voice when he genuinely laughed, or how elegant and methodical his hands were, or the way his hoodie hiked up on his hipbones when he stretched—

Wheezing out a tiny, mortified curse, Undyne squeezed her clammy palms firmly between her knees. Shut u-u-u-up, she begged all of the traitorously cute mental images surfacing—things she hadn’t even consciously committed to memory, little quirks he had that she wouldn’t have given a second thought to before. Shut up!

Too late, they singsonged mischievously as she snuck another glance at him. He hadn’t budged an inch. Couldn’t he feel her trembling?

Ugh, stars, I’m getting all sweaty! I haven’t showered! Do I smell…fishy? Like, in the bad way? Would he even notice something like that in his sleep? He’d probably move away on his own if he did…

In such close contact, she was acutely aware of his scent now: mostly just the musk of cigarettes. He smelled like that more often than not—less than attractive, but she had become desensitized to smoke over the course of her more explosive experiments. It didn’t bother her.

Shouldn’t the snoring be an irritant then? Even the smallest noises could prove distracting for her, leading her on a hunt through the lab to figure out whatever was kicking up so she could silence it. But this was…different somehow. His faint, rattling breaths sounded rather like the fans in her computers—a consistent, cat-like purr. It was almost soothing.

So that wasn’t enough to stave it off either? Unbelievable. She was actually trying to rationalize herself out of a crush and failing. Her blush was so fierce now, it felt like her face would burst into flames at any moment.

It definitely would, Undyne decided half a second later, soul in her throat as Papyrus mumbled something unintelligible and instinctively snuggled closer, drawn to the warmth.

That’s it, I’m gonna die. Goodbye, world. Soul leaving body.

Before she departed this mortal coil, however, she would move her free arm slowly, very slowly, wrap her fingers securely around her phone and take a picture. She would bury it in an archive four subfolders deep, where no one else would see, just…to have for herself as reassurance. She needed some viable proof tomorrow that this whole scenario was more than a preposterous, adorable dream.

If only she knew what Papyrus was dreaming of. If she could take a peek, she absolutely would have combusted on the spot.

[need-a-fugue]

We Grow Together (10)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x OFC

Summary: Relationships can be tough, especially when one person is a recovering-from-being-brainwashed-and-tortured former assassin and the other is an overworked mutant scientist. But hey, every couple has their struggles. Right?

Warning(s): angst, emotional and mental turmoil... the good stuff

Chapter Summary: The team deals with the aftermath of a surprise attack, a new friendship blossoms, and Steve is faced with... lady things.

“I’m fine,” she says again, shoving Bruce’s hands away. Her voice is rough and gravelly. She turns to look at Steve. “Where is he?”

“Don’t worry about him,” Bruce grumbles before Steve can respond. “Worry about yourself.” He moves aside the hospital gown that they made her put on – how humiliating – to attach another electrode.

“Stop it,” she protests, making a move to pull the sticky disc off of her chest. He simply slaps her hand away like she’s a small, crabby child. “I don’t need this.”

“Tessa,” Steve argues weakly from the corner of the med room. “Just… let him do what he needs to.”

“He doesn’t need to –”

“Stop being such an idiot!” Bruce shouts at her. His eyes are fiery as he looks down at her, his face scrunched up in anger. Steve moves forward and lays a calming hand on the man’s shoulder, and he takes that as a cue to pull in a deep breath and shake out some of the nerves. “You’re a doctor,” he says after a moment, his voice more relaxed. “Don’t be an idiot.”

“I don’t think she ever lost consciousness,” Steve says as he takes a seat at the foot of her bed.

“I didn’t.”

“That’s good.” He flashes a pen light in her eyes, first the right, then the left, and he actually has to use his hand to hold her head in place, she’s so adamant about turning away. “Petechiae,” he says, dropping the light and taking a step back.

Tessa closes her eyes and leans back into the pillows. She feels Steve shift down by her feet. “What does that mean?” he asks.

“The strangulation caused blood vessels to pop in and around her eyes.”

“Please don’t call it that,” she says in a small voice, still holding her eyes shut.

“I want to get a CT to assess the level of damage.”

“You think it’s bad?” Steve asks, a slight tremble to his voice.

“It’s hard to know how bad an injury like this really is. There could be soft tissue damage, vascular damage. Her airway could swell and completely close up. She could have a stroke, suffer a life-threatening arrhythmia.”

Tessa’s eyes shoot open and she sits up quickly. “Jesus,” she squeaks out. “You’re gonna scare the shit out of him.”

Bruce looks down at her and casually pushes his glasses back up from the bridge of his nose. “Good.” He turns to Steve. “Don’t let her leave. I’m going to go set up the CT,” he says before heading out of the exam room.

Steve drops his face into his hands, slowly shaking his head back and forth. “I knew this would happen,” he mumbles through his open fingers.

“Shut up,” she says, her voice sounding even more hoarse. “You did not.”

He sits up straight and looks her in the eye. “He had a nightmare the other night, a bad one. I couldn’t wake him up. He came at me and I had to tackle him to the ground.”

She stares at him for a long moment, quietly assessing the sad, guilty look on his face. “How…” she starts, shaking her head in bewilderment. “How could you not tell me that?”

“He didn’t want me to. He didn’t want you to know.” He sidles closer to her, and slowly slides his hand over hers. “He talked to his doctor about it. He said he would at least.” He casts his gaze down and wraps his fingers around her hand. “I’m so sorry, Tess. I’m so, so sorry.”

She doesn’t pull away, which he’s actually surprised about. But when he looks up, he can see that she’s silently seething. There are tears pricking at the corners of her eyes, which, now that he sees them in the light, are clearly bright red and bloodshot. He squeezes her hand tighter and she locks eyes with him.

“Where is he?” she asks again.

“Down the hall.”

“Is he okay?” she asks, her voice breaking on the last word.

Steve gives a lazy shrug. “I doubt it.”

Her gaze is fierce as she says again, this time through gritted teeth, “Is he okay?”

Steve rocks back, releasing his hold on her fingers and bringing both of his hands up to scrub at his face. “I was watching this old movie when Friday interrupted and said that I needed to go to your apartment. She said that Bucky was having an episode. I thought I’d find him pacing and yelling in Russian like the other night. Or maybe, I don’t know, tossing and turning and screaming in his sleep like he did when he first got here.” He looks up at her and gives a small, sad smile. “I didn’t think…”

“He was tossing and turning,” she says. “That’s what woke me up. He didn’t make a sound, though.” She tries to clear her throat and immediately winces.

“Do you need some water?” he asks, jumping up. “Can you have water?”

She waves her hand dismissively and swallows hard. “I said his name and touched his shoulder, that’s all. I could feel it, though,” she says quietly. “I could feel the bad energy… it was everywhere. I don’t know…” She shakes her head and tightly closes her eyes. “I should’ve done something then, when I felt it. But he just… sprung up… so fast. And then…” The tears begin to leak out of her still shut eyes and he quickly moves to her side and gathers her in his arms. “I’m sorry,” she cries into his shoulder.

He rubs soft circles into her back as he shushes her. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“No,” she says, barely even a whisper. “I didn’t do anything at all.”

He pulls away and holds her at arm’s length, moves one hand up to tuck some hair behind her ear. “None of this is your fault,” he tells her, his own eyes now red rimmed as well.

“You don’t understand.” She scrubs the tears from her cheeks with a harsh, almost violent motion. “I told him he was safe with me. I told him I’d never let anything like this happen. And instead I… I froze.”

“You were attacked in your own bed, Tess, in the middle of the night, half asleep” he replies incredulously. “Of course you froze.”

She shakes her head. “No. I might not have been totally with it, but I was awake. And I could’ve done… something.”

He gazes at her for a long moment. “We can’t be expected to be superheroes every minute of the day. Sometimes we’re just people. We act and react like people.” She nods and drops her head heavily onto his shoulder. “Just… don’t talk anymore, okay? Don’t take this wrong way, but the sound of your voice right now makes me want to cry.”

“What’s the right way to take that?” she ekes out.

He simply cringes and wraps his arms around her once again.

000

It actually doesn’t take much convincing to get her to stay on the med floor overnight. For one thing, by the time they get the CT results, it’s already almost two in the morning and all she wants to do is sleep, no matter where it may be. For another thing, Steve – who only left her side long enough to check on Bucky and make sure he was doing all right – parked it in a chair conveniently placed between her and the door and gave her a go ahead and try it look.

He wouldn’t tell her what Bucky said or where he was or why he wasn’t there with her. He only said, “He’s upset. He needs a little time.” And then he shushed her once more and ordered her to get some sleep.

Bruce had been coming in to check on her every hour on the hour, but when she’s woken by the steady stream of sunlight beating through the window late the next morning, neither he nor Steve are anywhere to be found. Instead Wanda is seated next to her, silently reading, of all things, The Grapes of Wrath. “What are you doing?” Tessa asks her, her voice grating. She cringes at the sound, as well as the physical pain that comes from croaking the words out.

Wanda startles in her seat and looks up sheepishly. “I thought… I wanted to…”

Tessa shakes her head and leans back into the pillows, shutting her eyes against the harshness of the sunlight. “I meant, why are you reading that?”

“Oh.” She drops her gaze to the book in her hands. “Clint told me I should learn some American history. It’s quite sad.” She looks up and sees that Tessa is now turned toward her, regarding her with a rather severe look on her face. “I was worried when they told me what happened.”

Tessa wrinkles her brow. “You were worried about the Great Depression?”

She laughs. “I was worried about you.”

The doctor doesn’t answer, but her expression does soften as she takes in the timid-looking young woman before her. The two were slowly building a sort of bond. They had met up several times in the past couple of weeks for what they simply called sessions. The meetings – at first awkward and filled with a fundamental distrust from both sides – began at the behest of Steve, who decided that the best way to really get a handle on what Wanda could do would be to have someone with a similar skillset evaluate her.

In the beginning, it was mostly just the two of them sharing small details about their powers – how they manifested and in what ways. But it quickly grew into full-on demonstrations of their abilities. Much to everyone’s surprise, instead of turning into a sort of superhero pissing contest, their sessions turned into workshops where they were able – and willing – to learn from one another.

As one of Strucker’s only successful experiments, Wanda had received a lot of training. But Tessa was able to open her eyes to new and different ways to use her gifts, as well as different ways to think about them. Her powers didn’t have to be weaponry. They didn’t simply supply ammunition for a fight. They could also provide comfort for others and be used to aid people who are in need. She could calm someone’s mind just as easily as she could corrupt it, and that simply wasn’t something that Strucker had ever allowed her to realize.

And there were things that the younger woman was able to show the doctor too. Tessa, for all of her raw power, had never been able to actually delve into someone’s mind. She could sense their energy, but reading thoughts or seeing memories or even just empathizing on a deep level, those were things she’d always left to other mutants and never even thought about trying herself. But with Wanda’s help, she was starting to see that there may actually be some new tricks she could learn as well.

Perhaps the main reason that the two women were able to get past their initial distrust (and, frankly, distaste) for each other was that they realized they shared something utterly unique. It wasn’t just their ability to manipulate energy, but their ability to understand it. In addition to giving her these strange powers, Strucker’s experiments also enabled Wanda to see the world differently. It was almost like going from a black and white realm into a technicolor dream. Actually, no, it was like going from pure darkness into light. It was wonderful and beautiful and overwhelming and terrifying. And no one else could see it. Except, she now knew, Tessa.

“Don’t say you’re fine,” she says now, looking at Tessa’s tired face, her bloodshot eyes. She glances down at the deep purple bruises that encompass almost the entire right side of her neck, four jagged lines, each one caused by a finger on the hand of the man she loves. “I know you’re not,” she lets out slowly.

“Neither are you,” she points out with a raised eyebrow. Each can sense the tense energy in the air. Each can sense that the other is working to hide pain, fear, regret. There’s really no sense in either of them trying to conceal something from the other. “What is it?” Tessa asks, knowing the girl is more than just worried about her.

Wanda shrugs before bringing a finger up to her eye to delicately wipe away a tear. “Steve said that James had been having nightmares since I… messed with his mind.”

Tessa shakes her head adamantly. “He’s always had nightmares. It’s Hydra. Not you.”

“Steve said that too,” she replies with a small smile. “But he said things have been different… since then.” She pauses and looks up and into Tessa’s eyes. “He asked me to… go into his head.”

“No,” she interrupts, her gravelly voice strong and stern.

“I would never do it without James’ permission,” she sputters out quickly. “Or yours.”

“He’s had enough people in his head over the years. He doesn’t need another.”

“I only want to help,” Wanda tries, looking down at her hands.

“I know. But… we’ll work through this. It’ll be fine.”

Wanda smiles and lets out the smallest of laughs. “You know, I don’t actually sense any uncertainty when you say that.”

“That’s because there isn’t any. Not really.”

“There is some fear, though.”

She looks around the room and over to the monitor that she’s hooked up to. Her heart rate is normal, pulse ox at 98. It hurts to speak and swallow, but she isn’t having any trouble breathing. “I need to talk to him.”

“Bruce said you shouldn’t be talking at all. It’ll upset your vocal cords, and they need time to heal.”

“Yeah,” she breathes out, knowing it’s true, but not really caring. “Can you find me some clothes?”

“Um…”

“What time is it?”

Wanda opens her mouth to speak, but is cut off by Steve as he saunters into the room. “It’s after 11. And I have clothes for you.” He drops a folded-up pair of jeans and a sweatshirt onto her bed. “But,” he starts, raising his eyebrows at her, “You’re only allowed to leave if you agree not to speak for the next 24 to 48 hours, not to eat any solid foods, and not to leave Nat’s apartment – where you’ll be staying – other than to come down here for any necessary treatment.”

She looks at him incredulously for a long moment before saying, in a nearly inaudible squeak, “That’s bullshit!”

He throws down a tablet that has a stylus attached and gives her a go on look as he smiles and folds his arms across his chest. She picks it up and sees that it’s open to a translator program. She hurriedly scribbles onto the pad as a light, feminine voice sounds from it in a British accent, “Total fucking bullshit.”

The smile drops from Steve’s face. “Nice,” he tells her.

“It does sound less crass with that accent, though,” Wanda snickers from his left.

Steve ignores her giggles, and Tessa’s triumphant smile, and instead says, as though he’s issuing orders to the troops, “Two days – no talking, nothing but liquids, no work.” She frowns deeply. “Get dressed,” he says as he turns to leave.

“Wait,” she ekes out, causing him to turn on her with an admonishing frown. She rolls her eyes and writes something down quickly, and stares at him as the tablet reads, “Where’s James? I want to see him.”

Steve nods patiently. “I know you do. But he’s still pretty upset.”

“So am I,” she says, earning her another reprimanding glare.

He sighs deeply, picks up the clothes and drops them in her lap. “Get dressed and Wanda will take you up to Natasha’s. Get settled in. Drink some hot tea.” She rolls her eyes so dramatically he has to stifle a laugh. “I’ll get him to come down. Just… be patient.”

“Hey,” she croaks as he moves to leave. He spins on her and points to the pad almost angrily. “Where’s my underwear?” the tablet asks him in its soft voice.

“I couldn’t go through your… things,” he says, taken aback by her question.

She scribbles something down again and holds the tablet up as it says, “You saw me naked last night. You can’t bring me a bra and panties this morning?”

Wanda holds her fist to her mouth to try and stifle her laughter. Steve just turns a bright shade of red as he says, “You had a sheet around you. I didn’t… I didn’t see anything.” Both women nod placatingly at him, and he quickly turns to leave.

[mittensmorgul]

Today on the TNT loop, a wonderful direct callback to 15.09 and 15.10, via 4.15, 4.16 and 4.17...

I need to start out by reminding everyone that the entire purpose of s4 was to manipulate Sam and Dean into “playing their roles,” even before they knew their roles existed as roles. Cosmically fated to act out a specific story for the entertainment of a bored God. Remember, they’re about to learn of the existence of “Chuck the Prophet” who’s been writing their lives down, in explicit detail, and publishing them as a series of pulpy horror novels. Hooray, 4.18, up next for me.

But I really need to pause here, because the sort of manipulations that Sam and Dean suffered through in 15.10, while I’ve already pointed out a lot of other “silly” episodes they referenced:

https://mittensmorgul.tumblr.com/post/190430063655/mittensmorgul-episodes-i-expect-1510-to-remind

I’m gonna now add 4.17 to that list, too, because holy HECK.

Remember the setup to this episode? 4.15 and 4.16 both? Where Dean had been DIRECTLY MANIPULATED into stopping Alistair from breaking another seal-- to “kill death twice” by ritually murdering two reapers-- a hunt that Cas “tricked” Sam and Dean into taking on by literally making them think that Bobby had sent them on that hunt.

Then 4.16 used Uriel to manipulate both Dean AND Cas into believing they needed to torture information out of Alistair. The goal was to break both Dean AND Cas here, because Uriel knew all along that Alistair was literally just a distraction, a diversion from his own actions, recruiting angels for Team Lucifer and murdering those who refused to join him. But also breaking Dean’s will to just... do what he’s told. Because Dean himself was never destined to be anything more than a tool to Heaven, a vessel for Michael to wear to the apocalypse. Of course, Dean didn’t know any of that yet, and neither did Cas. He knew Dean was “important,” but truly didn’t know why. 

At the end of 4.16, lying in a hospital bed, Dean felt hopeless:

Castiel: It's not blame that falls on you, Dean, it's fate. The righteous man who begins it is the only one who can finish it. You have to stop it. Dean: Lucifer? The Apocalypse? What does that mean? Hey! Don't you go disappearing on me, you son of a bitch. What does that mean! Castiel: I don't know. Dean: Bull. Castiel: I don't. Dean, they don't tell me much. I know our fate rests with you. Dean: Well, then you guys are screwed. I can't do it, Cas. It's too big. Alastair was right. I'm not all here. I'm not—I'm not strong enough. Well, I guess I'm not the man either of our dads wanted me to be. Find someone else. It's not me.

Tell me this isn’t super similar to his state earlier in s15. Let’s say... at the beginning of 15.06, holed up in his room in his bathrobe, bingewatching tv shows and eating cereal directly from the box. By the end of the episode, he still wasn’t sure what was real and what was Chuck’s doing in his life, and he’s absolutely right to question that, given his lifetime of experience being manipulated in exactly this way by higher cosmic powers.

In 4.17, that higher cosmic power was Zachariah, literally giving Sam and Dean alternate memories and directly inserting them into entirely different lives to prove a point. In 4.17, the Winchesters had their lifetime of knowledge of the Supernatural excised from them-- and even all the practicalities of hunting like “how to buy guns,” and “how salt can repel ghosts,” and “how to fight.” Throughout the episode they were forced to re-learn all of these skills for themselves, ironically using Ghostfacers videos about ghost hunting that directly referenced information that the Ghostfacers had learned from “The Winchesters.” Very much like how the Winchesters were “depowered” in 15.10, and yet... they were saved because of their prior relationship WITH GARTH, in which they had not only saved Garth’s life a couple of times, but had also learned things and imparted knowledge and information TO GARTH in the past. 

I guess what I’m attempting to point out here is the direct parallel to Chuck’s active manipulation of Sam and Dean in 15.10. They may not have had their memories removed like Zachariah did to them, but they’ve been reset to a similar sort of “baseline” status where NOTHING they do actually works this time. It’s... it’s almost a perfect inverse of 4.17.

Literally the episode leading up to the first appearance of Chuck The Author in canon.

Tell me Dabb isn’t explicitly suggesting an inverse parallel here, framing everything as Dean’s CHOICE, when it’s been one grand manipulation to pressing him into making that choice through any means necessary-- up to and including direct deceit and false narrative:

Zachariah: Believe me, I had no interest in popping down here into one of these smelly things. But after the unfortunate situation with Uriel, I felt it necessary to pay a visit, get all my ducks in a row. Dean: I am not one of your ducks. Zachariah: Starting with your attitude. Dean: So, what? This was all some sort of a lesson? Is that what you're telling me? Wow. Very creative.

and

Zachariah: I know, I know. You're not strong enough. You're scared. You've got daddy issues. You can't do it, right? Dean: Angel or not, I will stab you in your face. Zachariah: All I'm saying is it's how you look at it. Most folks live and die without moving anything more than the dirt it takes to bury them. You get to change things. Save people, maybe even the world. All the while you drive a classic car and fornicate with women. This isn't a curse. It's a gift. So for God's sakes, Dean, quit whining about it. Look around. There are plenty of fates worse than yours. So are you with me? You wanna go steam yourself another latte? Or are you ready to stand up and be who you really are?

Zachariah KNEW the bigger plan all along. Here he showed Dean an “alternate life” that was entirely manufactured to be a “false choice.” Dean, because of who he is as a person, would never have chosen that corporate falsehood. Just like he rejected Zachariah’s intended lesson in 5.04. And Gabriel’s lesson in 5.08.

Dean... doesn’t want to play his role. His role sucks. It’s a river of crap that would send most people howling to the nuthouse, after all... oh... wait, that’s a direct quote from 5.09, aka another episode where Chuck is directly involved, and directly manipulates them into a hunt... Dean... is not a fan...

But... we also learn something that I still think is true, and that I still think is IMPORTANT to s15. And important to Chuck as a character on this show we’re watching. I really don’t think he’s omniscient. I don’t think he can actually see every possible outcome. I don’t think he can control everything. But I think, and will always think, that because of Free Will, his ability to truly influence the outcome of his story is hindered. Unless he can use everything he CAN manipulate to crush Sam and Dean’s free will... to force them into making choices directly against their own interest, because of their perceived situation, or in this new post 14.20 universe, Chuck’s perceived intent for them.

Sam and Dean (and Cas! remember this was also about his discovery of the “rot” in Heaven, and how he himself had been used and manipulated into helping start the apocalypse) spent s4 thinking they were doing the right thing, because they’d been lied to from the start. When they questioned their path, questioned each other, their actions were met with often comically implausible verging on outright ridiculous situations that nudged them back into this cosmically “destined” series of events.

And Chuck’s history of this is directed at Sam and Dean in different ways-- Sam through the psychological manipulation and emotional angst, and Dean through physically hindering him. Chuck needed to break Sam’s trust in Dean, and replace it with the false belief that he was actually doing the right thing back in s4:

SAM: Dean’s not... he's not Dean lately. Ever since he got out of hell. He needs help. CHUCK: So you got to carry the weight? SAM: Well, he's looked out for me my whole life. I can't return the favor? CHUCK: Yeah, sure you can. I mean, if that's what this is. SAM: What else would it be? CHUCK: I don't know. Maybe the demon blood makes you feel stronger? More in control? SAM: No. That's not true. CHUCK: I'm sorry, Sam. I know it's a terrible burden – feeling that it all rests on your shoulders. SAM: Does it? All rest on my shoulders? CHUCK: That seems to be where the story's headed. SAM: Am I strong enough to stop Lilith tonight? CHUCK: I don't know. I haven't seen that far yet.

Chuck needs to break Sam’s will in 15.09, but Dean? Dean he needed to break his car, break him physically, and break his belief in his own choices and actions. Break his belief in his own identity. Because Dean’s will is not so easily shattered. He’s still willing to punch God in the face, for all of this.

And that’s how we end up with 15.10...

bonus destiel content: Dean’s very first prayer to Cas, ever, is asking him for help to stop Chuck’s prophecy from coming true. Dean question’s Cas’s “mission,” i.e. the thing Dean is unaware Cas has been questioning himself all this time, in the face of Dean’s refusal to just sit around and wait for Chuck’s prophecies to happen to them. Cas supplies him with the bit of information Dean needs to interfere and break the prophecy. I’ve written about the importance of that act before:

https://mittensmorgul.tumblr.com/post/187983341865/i-always-thought-anna-said-only-an-angel-can-kill

(and it bothers the everloving fuck out of me that people still don’t see that Chuck is a flim-flam artist of the highest order, and is the most unreliable narrator in the history of unreliable narrators, because not only is he biased to his own view of the story, he has the power to make the story conform to his own views, even if he can’t fully control each of the characters like glorified puppets)

and then Lizbob has also written about this scene and its import:

https://mittensmorgul.tumblr.com/post/169437649690/elizabethrobertajones-dean-cas-are-in-love-a

which is incredible when paired with Dean’s most recent prayer to Cas in 15.09, not about a problem he needs help fixing, but directly about their relationship... to quote Layla from 1.12, speaking on the subject of prayer, there’s a miracle right there.

[starringemiliaclarke]

Press: Emilia Clarke: ‘I didn’t want people to think of me as sick'

THE GUARDIAN – As she stars in this year’s Christmas feelgood movie, Emilia Clarke talks about the intense scrutiny of Game of Thrones, how she coped with the brain haemorrhage that almost killed her – and why we all need to escape reality sometimes

Gallery Links:

PHOTOSHOOTS & OUTTAKES > 2019 > 2019 The Guardian

MAGAZINES > 2019 > 2019 The Observer – Dec 1

  Emilia Clarke had a headache. It was 2011, just before Valentine’s Day and just after she’d wrapped on the first series of Game of Thrones, playing Daenerys Targaryen, Breaker of Chains, Mother of Dragons. She didn’t yet know, as she crawled into the locker room of her local gym in north London and vomited bile into the toilet, that Game of Thrones would run for seven further seasons, break Emmy-award records for most wins for a scripted television series and for a drama, be named one of the greatest TV shows of all time, and quickly come to define her. But there was much she didn’t know.

She didn’t know that at 24 she had suffered a life-threatening stroke, a subarachnoid haemorrhage (SAH) caused by bleeding into the space surrounding the brain. She didn’t know, as she lay on the floor repeating lines from Game of Thrones in order to test her memory, that a third of SAH patients die immediately, or that those who survive require urgent treatment to avoid a second, often fatal bleed. She didn’t know there was another swollen blood vessel in her brain, which had doubled in size by the time she finished filming season three. She didn’t know that one day, eight years later, over biscuits on her pink sofa, she would be smiling with the dark realisation that her stroke was one of the best things that could have happened to her.

Her pink sofa is in her pink house, which is also green and blue and muted shades of rust, and has a secret bar hidden in a courtyard shed, and an outdoor screening room heated by a wood-burning stove. To walk into her living room, where one corner is painted with a symbol relating to her mum, another to her late dad, and a third with a meaningful dragon, is to enter the cosiest corner of Clarke’s mind. By the stairs, horsehair is visible in the plaster; the walls are stripped back to the bone. She shows me round with a raw sort of glee, a sense that her comfort and safety are bound into the details: the friends’ art on the walls, the “single girl’s” bedroom. She moved in after Game of Thrones; in this and many ways, her life can be cleanly dissected into before and after.

Before, Clarke, now 33, who grew up in Oxfordshire, had appeared in a single episode of the daytime soap Doctors. She was ambitious, optimistic and relentlessly cheerful. After, after Game of Thrones, and the death of her father, which shook her family, as did her life-threatening stroke, she is sitting on her pink sofa and contemplating a decade that changed her.

“And yes, I’m at the point where I definitely think of the brain haemorrhage as a good thing,” she nods. She has extremely expressive eyebrows that appear jointed – for every word Clarke says, and she says many, they add 15 more. “Because I was never destined to be the ‘young actor goes off the rails’ type, up and down the gossip columns. And having a brain haemorrhage that coincided precisely with the beginning of my career and the beginning of a show that became something quite meaty, it gave me a perspective that I wouldn’t have had otherwise.” She pauses. “I’m quite a resilient human being, so a parent dying and brain haemorrhages coinciding with success and people following you in the street and getting stalkers – you’re just, like, ‘Well let’s try and make something sensible of it.’”

It was a decade that contained the very best and very worst of a life, and one of the sensible things she tried to make of it was the founding of a charity, SameYou, to provide treatment for people recovering from brain injuries and stroke. It was only in order to promote the charity that, eight years after her stroke, she finally decided to talk about it, in a piece for the New Yorker. “On the set, I didn’t miss a beat, but I struggled,” she wrote, of returning to Game of Thrones after brain surgery. “Season two would be my worst. I didn’t know what Daenerys was doing. If I am truly being honest, every minute of every day I thought I was going to die.”

It’s remarkable, considering her profile and her regular appearances in the Daily Mail in lovely dresses and grand smiles, that she managed to keep it secret for so long. She didn’t want to tell strangers, “Because it was mine.” She feared, too, that people would “sneer at it”.

It so happened that, the week before I went to meet her, I had a similar (though less dramatic) neurological diagnosis – when I tell her about it, for some reason my voice shakes. She is warm and quick with recommendations, and as she continues she says, “Well, you know, then. You know the worries. That people will think your soul, your movement, your voice, who you were,” was damaged. “It was nerve-racking to share it, to be honest. It always is, when you make yourself vulnerable.” She waited so long to talk about it, because, “I didn’t want people to think of me as… sick.”

There are still days on set when she will quietly pull aside the makeup person and say, “‘I think I’m having a brain haemorrhage. I’m not, I promise, but maybe just put me in a cold tent and we’ll sit down for a second, and I apologise in advance if I freak you out.’ Over the summer I was burning the candle at both ends, and I was with my mate on the plane. And I was like, ‘Dude, I feel really weird…’ But I was fine. It’s hard not to think the worst. It’s hard to think you’re overtired, or you’ve been on Instagram too long, and to realise these might have the same side-effects as something deadly. But the charity evolves with me. I use it. Here’s something else that I feel: maybe someone else feels the same way.”

She talks about the summer just gone with a regretful kind of wonder – it was th e summer after the Game of Thrones finale had divided fans, when she was coming to terms with how the “overwhelming” amount of nudity in the first season had affected her. And, after years of “filling every hiatus with a movie, shit, good or otherwise” (she starred opposite Arnold Schwarzenegger in Terminator Genisys, and as Qi’ra in Solo: a Star Wars Story) she had decided to take a break. Or, the decision was made for her.

“After we did the premiere for the last season, it felt suddenly like I lost all of the bones in my body. And I was in this puddle on the floor going, ‘Maybe this isn’t just the show.’ I’d never wanted to look around and see what we had, because I was convinced it was just going to blow up in our faces. And, well, at the end it kind of did. So I kept my head down. Then, after the premiere, I finally was able to stop, and that was difficult.” She travelled and went “raving with my mates, but that was not fulfilling. So, bloated and exhausted I went away for two weeks with my best girlfriend, [The Good Fight star] Rose Leslie, and it was in this retreat in India that I suddenly got it. This is what stopping feels like. And I was able to finally… be kind to myself.”

All this is recent. All this is really recent, with a new understanding of grief. Her beloved father, a theatre sound engineer, died of cancer in 2016. “The world felt like a scarier place once my dad wasn’t in it,” she said at the time. “There was the referendum, too,” she shudders. “It was the year of everything bad.”

But it was after her lost summer that, “I finally got this feeling. As if, on a cellular level, I’d grown up. And it’s so bittersweet, because I was clinging on to that childlike optimism. Then, when I finally let it go, I realised that was actually quite a heavy backpack to be wearing. I felt like that at the Emmys, too, finally popping my head up from the bunker. It’s as if you can see the actual landscape that you’ve been living in this entire time from another perspective.”

Occasionally she looks at me apologetically, her eyebrows like arrows, to check she’s not saying too much, and then she continues. “It can be perceived as such a feminine trait, can’t it – the responsibility to ‘put a smile on it’. And, and you feel like it’s a defeat if you give in and admit, ‘Maybe it’s not going to be OK in the end.’ But then, if you do, then you have an opportunity to go… ‘and what if that’s all right?’ Death is shit,” she says, dramatically. “It’s really hard and grief is horrific, and yet it is completely and utterly guaranteed. No matter how much Silicon Valley boys want to prove to everyone it’s not. But the finality of death, the absolute certainty of it, I’ve realised, is such a tonic.”

Along with a good stroke, I add the loss of a parent to her list of recommendations. “No! I’m not recommending it to anyone, obviously. But it is something real you can actually hold on to. We don’t look at grief properly. I’m not talking about the random moments of completely overwhelming emotion, I’m pretty in control of that… there was only one time on set where I just physically couldn’t stop crying. It’s the other stuff that we don’t discuss – the functional grief; when your worldview and your perspective on life and yourself changes irrevocably, forever.”

How is she dealing with that? “By realising that there is a framework that life lives within, and knowing when you reach the edges of it. There’s that. And I try to use the shit feelings as opposed to just ‘breathing through it’. It’s like putting my plastic in the recycling bin – it might not do anything, but I should at least try. And then being an actor and having a production company, knowing that the greater understanding I have about life, the greater storyteller I can be. As an actor, you’re always observing – no matter what trauma you’re going through, there’s a wee bit of your brain that’s like, ‘Isn’t this fascinating?’”

Every time I interview a famous person I leave feeling slightly high and slightly sad, because to enter their fabulous world also, inevitably, means you see the shadow of their cage. The imposed disconnect, for instance. And the constant smiling and the many locks. Clarke was catapulted to extreme fame during a period when she nearly lost her mind. She started to find gifts outside her door, from one of many stalkers. One, she says, is extremely unwell, another extremely mean. “The stalker stuff is just horrible because, as a single lady walking around town, I already feel like I’m being followed.”

These stalkers believe they’re having a relationship with her, “which is confusing, because having a relationship with people I don’t know is a big part of what I signed up for. I care about what art does to people. But it carries with it a responsibility, and when you leave your front door you take that with you. And it’s a difficult path to navigate. Because sometimes,” and she’s talking about fans now, the line between the two often being blurred, “you get grabbed physically and your instincts kick in. When you see shock being registered on someone else’s face, you’re like, ‘Where’s the danger?’ And then you realise, oh, it’s me – I’m the danger.”

Her fanbase is due to change shortly, as she maps out her career without dragons. Clarke’s new film is Last Christmas and is based on the Wham! song. While it is a box-office hit, reviews have been… mixed. “The kind of bad,” said Rolling Stone, “that falls somewhere between finding a lump of coal in your stocking and discovering one painfully lodged in your rectum.” It threatens to become a cult classic. Reader, I loved it.

Clarke plays a woman whose messy life, it becomes clear, is partly a result of recent illness. “I was able,” she says darkly, “to bring a lot to the role.” There is a romantic twist, a twist so gooey it may cause diabetes in vulnerable audiences, but there is a second twist, in that this film (co-written by Emma Thompson) could prove to be the most effective piece of anti-Brexit propaganda of the festive season. Clarke (with Thompson as her mother) plays the youngest of a family of first-generation immigrants, dealing with the fallout of the referendum.

“We filmed a scene of a hate crime,” Clarke says, a scene on a London bus where a couple are told to go back to where they came from. “And Emma said, ‘Come on, let’s be honest: haven’t we all witnessed something similar?’” She loved working on this film, in part because of the women in charge, “who recognised that we all had a life outside this movie. You don’t have to have a vagina to do that, but the difference lay in that slight… lack of patriarchy?” And in part because of the intersection between entertainment and what she describes as “meaning”. Something she continues to search for, albeit with regular disclaimers of privilege, and embarrassment.

“The world is scary at the moment, both politically and environmentally. You have politicians pushing people to the absolute limits of their left versus right parameters, and the middle ground that we were all living in before is now wasteland, because both sides are life or death. It feels so much more polarised and extreme than ever. You’ve got 33-year-olds like me asking, ‘Should I bring kids into this world? If I do, what will that kid feel like?’ It feels frightening, consistently. And I’m not alone. I’m leaning hard on Bake Off right now.”

But the fear has made her reassess her work, post-Game of Thrones. “Entertainment is about taking you outside of yourself for a second, which is largely what I think the success of Game of Thrones was. People wanted to see something familiar, but also have that level of separation, through dragons and magic. Escapism is what lots of people go to art for. So, if we can cherry-pick stories to tell people in a shitty time, I’d like to give them something really good. It could make them feel better, or less alone, or make them realise there’s something outside of their front door that they should care about.”

She takes a sharp breath. “You know, I spent a lot of time being like, ‘What I do is all bullshit. I’m completely selfish, a total narcissist.’ And then…” And then the world hit her at a great speed, and she emerged into this new adulthood, and 10 years crawled over her like glittering rats. “And then I realised what it was for. I help provide relief. And that’s worth something, especially now. Right?”

It takes a second before I realise she is waiting for an answer. “Right,” I say, reassuringly. “Right.”

Last Christmas is in cinemas nationwide now

Press: Emilia Clarke: ‘I didn’t want people to think of me as sick’ was originally published on Enchanting Emilia Clarke | Est 2012

[tessatechaitea]

Star Trek: The Next Generation, S1, E8: "The Battle"

Depending on who you ask, the United States public school system is a huge waste of time, a factory to teach kids how to live life as factory workers, free daycare, a temple to learning, or a place to socialize future citizens. But I know what it really is and it's less cynical than you might expect from me. Sure, I could have been super jaded about the public school system but I was lucky and went to a Satanic elementary school (if you're curious, just search the blog for "Haman" or "Satanic elementary school" or "AC/DC"), so I had a love of learning about the Devil from an early age. Anyway, I believe the public school system (and while I can only truly speak to the United States' version, I'm going to assume it's very much the same concept across other nations and cultures) was the easiest solution to keeping civilization advancing. That probably sounds obvious and you're already in the comment section typing up responses such as "Like, DOI!" and "What a stunning reveleation /sarcasm" and "ur trash 1v1 me". (Believe me, the only correct way to end that sentence was with the punctuation outside of the quotes.) Listen, I get it! It's a simple concept! But in our modern times when it seems like half of the country thinks education corrupts the youth (which, if you went to Haman Elementary in Santa Clara, California, it certainly fucking did. Long live my Lord and Master!), sometimes simple truths need to be beat like a living horse (that's what the phrase "No use in beating a dead horse" means, right? It means there is use in beating a living horse and we should beat them more. Right?). Or did I mean beat like a drum? You know what? Sometimes I wish I learned more than ritual summonings and secret hand gestures. What I'm trying to say and which I won't make any clearer with this next statement is that the public school system was the best version of throwing shit at the wall to see what sticks. In this analogy, "shit" is "knowledge" and "wall" is "children." Because the only way to advance civilization and continue to make things better for everybody is to make sure young people are caught up on the story. Sure, a lot of them (and I should probably say "a lot of us" because look at me as an adult: writing a blog about comic books and Star Trek) won't take up the torch to help advance civilization. But that's the thing. You don't know which kid is going to make the connections to establish the next thing that helps civilization mature. At the very least, you know that if you don't throw shit at children, they're never going to have the opportunity to understand exactly where they are in civilization's timeline and how they can make it better going forward. Also, can we sometimes just throw real shit at children because now that idea is in my head and it's not going anywhere? If we break this system, we are accepting eventual stagnation and a probable decline in the overall levels of satisfaction with life. And as we can see in our modern times, a growing percentage of unimaginative dullards don't fucking care about progress. Education teaches their kids that their parents were unimaginative dullards and so those unimaginative dullards would rather destroy the educational system than maybe look inward and try not to be an unimaginative dullard. And let's not forget about the people who want to destroy the system simply because it uplifts everybody and not just the people who look like they do. Obviously the public school system doesn't present enough material to create an adult that will truly help drive humanity's balls through civilization's goalposts (help me. I think I have some kind of sickness that makes me speak in analogies, sort of like Lyme Disease but if I were bitten by a conservative talking head). The public school system is just to fire the curiosity of the children so they'll strive to become more educated on their own. And at one time, college was the perfect way to specialize and really get in-depth on the things which really held the child's interest. But, once again, a certain section of the population viewed higher education as a slippery slope to being a decent person and so they've demonized it. One way to make a higher education less possible was to make it less affordable. Although making college less accessible was probably a backlash to college students protesting the government's participation in certain wars which made the government say, "Where are we going to get all the young dead people we'll need for future wars? I mean, they'll only be dead after! We're not into necromancy. Not everybody went to Haman Elementary." Free or affordable college just gives less privileged young people more options than the ones people who don't want things to change want them to have. After all, job providers aren't really as good at providing jobs as they seem to want everybody to think they are. So they need a system which forces people into debt, or convinces them to saddle themselves with a huge mortgage, or hypnotizes them into thinking children are great things to have in their lives so that they'll always need the shitty job they have to pay for their tiny sentient wells where money is thrown. I wish I was more coherent and less digressive than I am so I could get my point across. But this sometimes happens after I've read two or three comic books by Ann Nocenti. Let me just take a moment to cleanse my aura and I'll try to be more succinct. "Master Satan, please direct my aggression and blood lust into a fine focal point as sharp as the tip of the Lance of Longinus so that I may do your bidding to corrupt His lost lambs and bring them to the beastly reality of this cum-stained world. Thank you my Father. I count the days until I will be welcomed into your embrace of unholy fornication." In summation, education can only be attained by stacking one block upon the other. You need a system which both teaches the basics of how we got to where we are and also weeds out those that don't fucking give a shit about climbing the pyramid of blocks that's already there to add more to the top. Some people are meant to simply take care of the foundational blocks. Some people will climb partway up and improve the blocks in the middle. But you need a system to find the people who will craft the blocks for the future top of the pyramid. And as an added benefit, the higher one climbs, the better a person they generally become. Sure, you still have many climbers who only see profit in the journey. But some of them do their part as well (granted, not a lot of them. Most of them just want to find a way to keep all the blocks for themselves and establish a toll gate halfway up the pyramid and then convince everybody that the toll gate has always been there and it was never a free climb at all). And you also have people who consider the education gained as a simple corruption of the soul. But fuck those people. They pretend the pyramid doesn't even exist and only want to tear it down anyway. Now imagine how big this pyramid must be in the 24th Century! It's so big that it allows people to pursue whatever they want to pursue without being shackled to a daily grind just to pay bills. Fucking imagine that, right?! A civilization so prosperous and educated about the nature of reality that nobody in the system feels compelled to force other people to throw their lives away so those people can earn somebody else another buck. What a healthy civilization! Now imagine that civilization butting heads with our 21st Century reality. Imagine how much we'd despise those 24th Century bastards! Don't they care about making another buck?! What are they thinking?! I bet it would end up in a battle just like "The Battle" in this episode! Yes, we are the Ferengi. And, yes, I'm probably not going to say much about this episode. Picard gets mind-controlled by capitalism and almost destroys socialism. But he doesn't and the Ferengi learn a lesson about greed sometimes being bad which is a really hard lesson for them to swallow due to their big ears (because when they swallow I imagine their ears pop a lot?). The main thing I learned from this episode is that every great starship captain in the Federation has a tactical maneuver named after them. If you haven't come up with a new innovation for space battles, you're a piece of shit not worthy to captain a Starfleet vessel. And that's all I have to say about that.

[sohannabarberaesque]

“Underwater America with Peter Potamus” (episode 18: Off the Florida Panhandle in and around Pensacola)

[As this particular episode opens, we can easily imagine plenty of aerial action in and close to Pensacola, Florida and the Miracle Strip region, including the areas around Destin, Ft. Walton Beach and Okaloosa Island, as are the foci therefor]

PETER POTAMUS, narrating with Pensacola Beach in the background: And you thought the Florida Panhandle was hardly worth diving ... at any rate, yours truly and crew have plenty of interesting diving ahead, including (if you can believe it) some interesting spearfishing opportunities made even more so by a rather steep near-shore dropoff in the Gulf of Mexico, whence our diving adventures will be experienced this week.

[Highlights of candid footage taken from the drive out of Grand Lake O’ the Cherokees, site of last week’s dive, towards the Florida Panhandle, fill this space while Peter narrates--]

Somehow, word had gotten out to us after Grand Lake up Oklahoma way that some “especially close acquaintenances” wanted to meet us at some club down Pensacola way ... yep, good old Pensacola, the Cradle of Naval Aviation ... and it almost seemed so cryptic until we reached the night life district of Pensacola Beach [entering this particular bar/restaurant, finding seats and all that], and--wouldn’t you believe it ...no less than the Cattanooga Cats were performing!!

[Here, we can see the feline quartet of Country, Kitty Jo, Groove and Scoots, assisted by Kitty Jo’s pet hound, Teeny Tim, performing on what passed for the stage of this bar--er, more like winding up their set when ...]

KITTY JO, with much enthusiasm: And I understand that we have Peter Potamus and a few of his close friends in the house this evening ... so could we have them come on the stage, please, and give them a great big wonderful Cattanooga Cats welcome?!!

[Which they do, and then some, going into quite the hugging session.]

PETER POTAMUS, picking up the narration: Well, now we knew who was looking for us all along heading over here! And were they surprised to learn where we happened to be doing some underwater filming in these parts ... [switching to backstage “after ths show,” featuring a “make-your-own” grits bar] ... and over plenty of that Southern staple known as hominy grits, you wouldn’t believe the conversation that was flowing! Especially coming from Scoots, the band’s musical jack-of-all-trades, as it were!

SCOOTS, over another spoonful of grits: I have to admit that I’m something of a pretty decent diving cat myself ... even if I learned the art at a “swimmin’ hole” back in the holler where I was growing up, in the midst of a rather warm summer which saw my mother go into nervous breakdown such that Pop asked me out of the house during the day just for her sake ... and I would have to credit one Amy Catline, a regular at the swimmin’ hole, for teaching me some worthwhile things, life in particular, that oh so muggy summer!

[You could just hear the “awwwwwws” throughout.]

COUNTRY, adding his two cents: I do have to acknowledge where we can’t resist the swimmin’ hole experience every now and then between performances ... especially when it’s just an excuse to let things cool off and rest a couple hours while on the road!

GROOVE, ever the poet as much as the band’s drummer: Sometimes, I can’t help but seek,/What lies in the waters underneath! [Chuckles from our crew]

PETER POTAMUS, narrating: And such conversation as that certainly kept as much the Cats as ourselves going until close to sunrise, as if having myself no less than three bowls of the Cattanooga Cats’ own grits with shredded cheese and seasoned salt wasn’t a wonderful occasion enough ... [scene shifting to a dive shop in Pensacola Beach for some ideas] ... by mid-morning of the following day, a local dive shop pointed us in the direction of the scuttled remains of the battleship USS Massachusetts, commissioned in 1899, seeing active duty well until World War I, retired soon after ... and torpedoed in 1921 with an experimental rail-mounted gun while at anchor just offshore of Pensacola, eventually sinking in some 20 feet of water!

[The action shifts underwater close to the USS Massachusetts wreck site, this time with the entire crew diving in, captured as per usual by Squiddly Diddly in his underwater cameraman role ... and not long after, we find many of our crew diving in and around the Massachusetts’ scuttled remnants. We’ll let Peter continue the narration as we find many of the crew close to the hull....]

What’s particularly amazing is that this was one of the first steel-hull vessels in naval service, as opposed to the iron such which dominated from the Civil War on. For its time, something of an achievement, even if it were but one of three Oregon-class battleships from around the Spanish-American War.

BREEZLY BRUIN, narrating over the dive scene: It must have seemed interesting to get in through where the vessel was torpedoed  when she was scuttled ... yet entering, you seem to feel a little weird to find this battleship was actually decommissioned beforehand....

MAGILLA GORILLA, also narrating over where he dives through the interior with flashlight in hand:  Can you imagine this was actually a working naval battleship in its time, only now to become an interesting dive destination? Yet still, you can’t help but picture the feeling in the pit of your stomach when you get into a sunken vessel such as this ...

[The scene shifts to the outside of a divers’ camp close to Destin, where a modest little campfire can be discerned going against the twilight]

PETER POTAMUS: What further amazed us as a diving party was when no less than Squiddly Diddly brought our attention over supper to another offshore wreck in the area, this time more mysterious: As in that of the San Pablo, a fruit steamer which ran between Central America and the United States for the United Fruit Company’s “Great White Fleet” in the 1930′s until being sunk under mysterious circumstances around 1943. And there were rumours that the vessel was actually Soviet-flagged, but remember that it wasn’t called the “Great White Fleet” for nothing!

WALLY GATOR, lovingly trying for the answer: Was it because white looked rather cooll, don’t you know?

MILDEW WOLF, with added snark: Mary had a tramp steamer, its hull was white as snow--

HOKEY WOLF, perhaps close to the truth: The better to keep the produce cool in the Caribbean heat, I assume?

LIPPY THE LION: Reflecting the tropical sun’s heat, I understand.

PETER POTAMUS: I admit all were pretty close, but Lippy got it correct: United Fruit’s fleet of steamers hauling tropical fruits and vegetables were painted white to better reflect the sunlight of the Caribbean and the Central American regions where these vessels saw service, and keep the produce at ideal temperatures until being offloaded at port--New Orleans more often than not.

[Scene fades into the waters where the wreck of the San Pablo is discerned, as evident by its white hull; as per usual, Peter Potamus leads the intrepid divers over, across, and into parts of the wreck. In one scene, we can see Lippy the Lion “kicking it up” close to the railing near the hull, and in another, we can discern Breezly Bruin and Loopy DeLoop diving through the crows’ nest of the ship, close to the radio room. Loopy’s flashlight can be seen cutting through the murk to find the radio apparatus still intact, even allowing for some 25 years’ accumulation of sea grasses and coral.]

PETER POTAMUS, on a pontoon near the docks on Okaloosa Island: But those wrecks were just the beginning, a taster, if you will, for what lay ahead: Destin, which is but a few miles out on the mainland, takes pride in calling themselves “the World’s Luckiest Fishing Village.” And you can credit its closeness to the 100-Fathom Curve offshore, which, along with its being an interesting dive spot, also welcomes plenty of fish native to the Gulf of Mexico: Not just tuna, amberjack, yellowtail and marlin, but also the likes of vermilion, black, white and red snapper, spanish and king mackrel, grouper, wahoos (whatever they are) and triggerfish. Which can be pretty easy to catch, even with a harpoon gun!

[The scene fades to a near-shore scenario, pointing out safety procedures for harpoon guns, proper use being explained--and reminding all that such need to be pointed away from the body, and when so fishing, must remain underwater. A “pop quiz” on harpoon gun safety can also be discerned, as well as the inevitable pre-dive safety briefing.]

... and so our party sets out on some serious spearfishing adventures in such well-stocked waters as these such as attract the sportfishing crowd galore....

[The inevitable mass dive-in, taking care to ensure that the harpoon guns are sheathed, close to the body and at once ready ... followed by Peter Potamus “himself,” guided by Squiddly Diddly, guding all to some pretty interesting spearfishing waters. We can also discern some spearing action from some randomly-selected diver as he positions his harpoon gun into firing position, being steady about it all the while ... and fires the harpoon gun into some red snapper, taking pains to avoid excess blood loss which could attract sharks. Maybe another member of the troupe could also be seen in harpoon-gun action as well....

[Fade to ...] 

PETER POTAMUS, over the grill at a “gulf-to-table” restaurant, with several others joining in: Particularly interesting is that several restaurants out this way allow fishermen, even those fond of spearing, to actually have their catch prepared and served. Myself, I was able to have some grilled grouper and flounder, though I admit the taste takes a little getting used to. Snapper, especially red snapper, can also get to be popular in these parts ... and can you imagine the Three Wolves spearing bluefin tuna, and actually having grilled tuna steaks as well?

At any rate ... we certainly hope your diving experiences are as interesting and as memorable as ours are. And in our next episode, which is somewhere among the springs of Florida ... we’ve got a surprise you won’t want to miss for the likes of yourselves ...

@joey-gatorman​ @warnerarchive​

[seraph-novak]

Minor AM Spoilers

Okay, so... Cyrus was too adorable in this episode. I just had to write a short fic about it. And, of course, I added TJ. 

Also available on AO3 ♥

P.S. As a Brit, I couldn’t help but cringe at Cyrus’ accent. But it was too cute to be offensive.

“I swear to god, Cyrus, if you don’t quit it with the accent, I’m gonna dump this milkshake over your head.”

Cyrus looked affronted. He fixed his ascot and sat up straight, wiggling his eyebrows in a gracefully offended fashion. “Easy there, darlin’. I’m only speakin’ the ways of my people.”

“You’re American! A few weeks in London doesn’t change that.”

“But I’ve developed a likenin’ for the Old English dialect, I ‘ave.”

“That isn’t Old English.”

“But it sure is English, matey.”

Buffy rolled her eyes so hard Cyrus was worried she might pop a blood vessel. “Now you just sound like a pirate.”

“I resent that, lil’ lady!”

“Call me that again, and I guarantee you’ll regret it.”

Cyrus opened his mouth to speak, completely undeterred by his best friend’s unconvincing threat, but someone else beat him to it.

“Hey, Underdog!”

Cyrus released a theatrical yelp and turned in his seat, grinning immediately at the sight of TJ standing beside their booth in one of his signature hoodies.

“Blimey, mate! You gave me a good scare, you did.”

TJ lifted an eyebrow. “Um… I feel like I’ve missed something.”

“Cyrus went on holiday to London,” Buffy explained in a tired tone of voice, “and now he thinks he’s developed an English accent. It’s excruciating.”

To Cyrus’ surprise – and Buffy’s, judging by the frown creasing her brow – TJ simply chuckled and ruffled Cyrus’ hair. His large hands ruined his perfectly-gelled ‘do’ within seconds, but Cyrus couldn’t find it in himself to care.

“You’re such a dork,” TJ said sweetly.

Buffy scoffed. “Are you seriously encouraging this?”

“Ah, leave the guy alone. He’s having a good time.”

“But my ears are close to bleeding.”

“I think it’s kinda cute,” TJ admitted with a shrug, his hand dropping from Cyrus’ hair to his face. He gave his left cheek a playful pinch and smiled, his eyes twinkling. “I dig a man with an accent.”

Cyrus blushed. “Well, maybe I’ll treat you to the Spanish accent next year.”

TJ bit his lip in a way that could only be interpreted as flirtatious. “I can’t wait.”

While TJ was busy placing his own order – plus an extra basket of baby taters for Cyrus – Buffy managed to close her gaping mouth and grabbed Cyrus by the arm, dragging him forward across the table until their faces were practically touching.

“What the hell was that?” she hissed.

Cyrus swallowed the urge to speak in an English accent again. “What was what?”

“Don’t play dumb with me, Cyrus! Why was TJ just flirting with you?”

“Was he? I didn’t notice…”

“Do you want to spend the rest of the day washing strawberry milkshake from your hair? Because I won’t hesitate –”

“Okay, okay!” Cyrus lifted his hands in surrender. He spared a glance at TJ, who was thankfully too far away to hear what they were saying, then turned back to Buffy with a drawn-out sigh. “There’s been some new developments.”

Buffy squeezed his arm tighter. “Developments? What developments?”

“Well… Let’s just say you’re not the only one who’s been texting a special someone over the summer…”

“Are you kidding me?”

“Nope.”

“You and TJ?”

“Nothing’s been confirmed yet, but… yeah. Hopefully.”

Buffy blinked at him in silence for a moment. If he strained his ears, he could almost hear the gears turning slowly in her head. After a full minute had passed, he was pretty sure he’d broken his best friend, but then she suddenly sat upright and shook herself out of her daze.

“Wow. Okay. Just had to let that sink in.”

“I know it’s probably weird for you, but I really like him.”

“And what about TJ? How does he feel about you?”

Cyrus grinned down at the table. “I think he likes me too. At least, that’s what he’s said.”

“He said that?”

“Yeah. Over text, but still.”

“Have you had a chance to talk in person since you got back?”

“Not yet.”

“Then why am I still sitting here?”

“You don’t have to go!”

Buffy grabbed her purse and slipped out of her seat, giving Cyrus a friendly clap on the back as she headed for the door. “You guys need to talk,” she gently instructed. “Call me once you’ve figured things out.”

Cyrus watched her leave with a grateful smile and a pounding heart. He almost jumped out of his skin when TJ sat in the now-empty seat across from him.

“Oh, sorry. Did I give you another ‘good scare’?” he asked, imitating his English accent with a teasing smirk. “Where did Buffy go?”

“She… had to run an errand.”

“Cool.”

“You don’t mind it just being the two of us?”

TJ huffed a laugh. “Are you serious? You know I’ve been wanting to get you alone ever since you came back from London.”

“Why?”

“You know why.”

“Oh. Yeah.” Cyrus twisted his hands together, his lips twitching with a bashful smile. “I… I’d like that. To talk, I mean. About everything.”

TJ separated his restless hands with one of his own, effortlessly threading their fingers together. When their palms connected, Cyrus felt a thrill running down his spine, like a spark of electricity lighting his body on fire.

“I’ve got one condition.”

“What is it?”

“I wanna hear the English accent again.”

Cyrus grinned. “You got it, mate.”

[recentanimenews]

Satoshi Kon Will Always Be in Our Memories

Today, director and visionary Satoshi Kon would have been 55 years-old. Born October 12th 1963 in Hokkaido, Kon studied at Musashino Art University, and later became one of the most respected Japanese film directors of all time. While Kon is most well-known for his film Paprika (inspired by Yasutaka Tsutsui’s novel) Kon’s early career is just as rich and worthy of reflecting on as his break-out hits. Kon was, without a doubt, a master of depicting the messy inside-outs of psychological trauma and the anxieties of Japanese society. His chosen form, animation, only heightened this sense of unease in an often brutal and unforgiving world. Reflecting on the early works in Kon’s animation career, it only becomes more apparent that, regardless of how you might know his work, Kon has proven himself to constantly redefine our notion of the surreal, ourselves, and what anime can be.

  A First Taste of Blood

  The early career of Satoshi Kon is, in part, owed to the success of Akira author Katsuhiro Otomo. Otomo began his career in anime in 1987, working on the science-fiction anthology film Neo-Tokyo just before the debut of the 1988 adaptation of Akira. In his book, Satoshi Kon: The Illusionist, critic Andrew Osmand writes that Kon was working under Otomo as an assistant on the Akira manga sometime after the movie. This close association with Otomo’s style and stories would later culminate in Kon working as a key animator and art director for the 1991 film Roujin Z, also written by Otomo. 

  Roujin Z is, on the surface, a film about technology for Japan’s growing eldery population superseding its creators. It is tinged with the visual tension, claustrophobia, and strangeness that Kon would capitalize on in his iconic 1997 thriller Perfect Blue. One shot, in particular reminds me of Perfect Blue’s pop idol Mima: the student nurse character, Haruko, cleaning floors with a stained glass backdrop. Both young women are intensely dedicated to their careers until some catastrophic and deeply unworldly event strips them of normalcy. However, it isn’t Haruko’s pysche that acts as the film’s catalyst, but rather that of the old man Kijuro, who is bound to a nuclear-powered smart hospital bed. Haunted by the memory of his late wife, Kijuro is somehow able to transform the bed into a walking mecha that adopts her personality and voice. It’s already surreal and unnerving, but Kon’s unique art direction depicting the urban, yet isolating world Kijuro and Haruko inhabit only enriches the power of Otomo's work.

    While just a stepping stone into the anime industry, Kon was already proving to have a solid grasp of how art can convey a rich, troubled inner-life. Later seen in Perfect Blue and his television series Paranoia Agent, Kon has always employed a powerful pairing of place and psyche—always emphasizing that our awareness of our surroundings are always at the whim of our minds. This thematic hallmark has always been planted deep at the heart of Kon's most powerful work.

  Magnetic Rose and a Promising Future

  Back in the '80s and '90s, anime film anthologies were a hotbed of emerging talent. Maybe unsurprisingly, Satoshi Kon’s first big break as a writer was in the 1995 anthology Memories, where he produced both scripts, backgrounds, and layouts for the short Magnetic Rose—another science-fiction story based off Katsuhiro Otomo’s work. With music by Yoko Kanno, Magnetic Rose is almost like an early Kon-directed episode of Cowboy Bebop (a dream!), accompanied yet again by an unnerving cautionary tale of technology and the human mind. 

    Aboard the space vessel Corona, a crew receives an SOS signal from an unknown source. Two engineers, Heintz and Miguel, discover an abandoned space station on October 12th—Satoshi Kon’s birthday. Kon’s screenplay is powerful, striking the perfect balance of the fantastic and gruesome reality. Heintz and Miguel are entrapped into a shuttle overrun by a wayward AI, the last guardian of an opera singer named Eva who passed away alone and isolated after her lover’s mysterious death. At AI Eva’s whim, Heintz and Miguel both fall victim to their own memories and desires, all for the sake of their own grasp of reality before succumbing to the unforgiving void of space. It is far less sympathetic than Perfect Blue or Paprika for its protagonist's emotional shortcomings—in a way, this is Kon at his unpolished best. Magnetic Rose is one of Kon’s strongest works, and with its unflinching depiction of the human psyche, it no doubt proves that Kon was pioneering long before his directorial debut.

  The House Mima Built

  After the success of Memories, Kon launched his directorial career with Perfect Blue, an adaptation of the novel by author Yoshikazu Takeuchi. For the first time, Kon had near total creative control of his films; unlike his previous projects, Perfect Blue’s art direction needed to be built from the ground-up. Without the blueprint of a preceding manga or character designs, the story of Mima Kirigoe, a pop idol with a split personality and a near-supernatural stalker, was entirely in his capable hands.

  The role of memories in Perfect Blue isn’t unlike that of Magnetic Rose or Roujin Z—Mima in her pursuit to seek a new career as an actress, cannot escape her complicated past. Mima's troubled history joins Kon's dark gallery of thematic conflict: man and machine, man and evil opera singing AI, man and weird internet stalker. Kon’s characters are always moving forward, either it be Mima running away from her phantom pop idol other, or Paprika herself being chased down a dream hallway. Kon’s characters are consistently running away from, if not literally themselves, a surreal entity that is everything they hate or scared of becoming. Kon’s second film, Millennium Actress, solidified his talent as a filmmaker and of course, the rest is well-documented history.

    In the year between Magnetic Rose and Perfect Blue's release, Kon wrote the manga Opus, his final work before fully transitioning to animation. While never completed, Opus tells the story of a manga artist who cannot finish his long-running series after his main characters mysteriously becomes sentient and prolongs the final chapter's release. In a way, Opus is an appropriate predecessor to everything Kon’s directorial career is: art that reflects the artist himself, the audience second. Life imitates art, in that after passing on August 24th 2010 of pancreatic cancer, Kon never finished his final projects. A month after his death, Kon was honored in TIME, where late film critic Richard Corliss wrote: "In his art, in his life and in his grace in leaving it, Satoshi Kon was a hero, first class."

Today, I hope both old and new fans of Kon’s films are able to reflect on his earlier works and appreciate the sensitivity and passion in which he pursued his craft. He was, beyond a talented animator and artist, a man deeply devoted to his colleagues and those who supported his ambitious endeavors. Satoshi Kon will always be in our memories, not only as a director, but as someone who completely transformed our relation to art for the better.

How has Satoshi Kon's work changed your life? Let us know in the comments!

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Blake Planty is a writer who loves his cat. He likes old mecha anime, computer games, books, and black coffee. His twitter is @_dispossessed. His bylines include Fanbyte, Unwinnable, and more. His newsletter is Boy Toy Box.

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[missjackil]

My 14x17 Opinion

Game Night

This was the first new episode since “The Announcement” and I have to say I was putting off writing it. I usually post these the day after, but I procrastinated so it’s a bit late. So forgive my butt-hurt tardiness and let's have at it.

I enjoyed this episode, though it wasn't without some issues. I must say that I was pleased that it wasn't as Sam-lite as I thought it would be from the promo pics, trailer, and knowing Jared didn't work a lot that week, I will always want for more Sam in an episode, but all his parts were necessary and high quality in this one, so I'm not angry at all. 

We start the episode with Donatello making cookies, singing Raindrops are Fallin’ on my Head, which made me smile. It made me think of Butch Cassiday and The Sundance Kid and I love that movie, and if J2 ever want to play the leads in a remake, I would be willing to pay for it myself! 

Donny gets interrupted by the door, and we know this is a problem because its the first 5 minutes of SPN, let's be honest. As soon as I see the bad guy’s wedding ring, I think “Shit... here comes Nick”. I thought he was gonna kill him and I'm glad he didn't. I like Donny, he looks like my dad. 😊

Back at the Bunker, the fam is getting ready for “Winchester Game Night” and Dean is playing Mouse Trap, and having no luck getting it to work. I had that game as a kid too and was never able to get it to work either, but it was fun putting it together! I did think it was a little sad but fitting, that Dean would have played that game as a 4 yr old, but leave it to John and Mary to give Dean a game made for older kids, that never worked out the way it was supposed to and had too many small parts he could choke on. (the irony is not lost on me)

Mary and Jack are in the kitchen. I could literally almost smell the Jiffy Pop popcorn. A Saturday night staple at my house growing up (any of you out there ever taste that greasy salt left on the sides of the foil pan? Good stuff!) and Mary starts in with the questions for Jack. I got a kick out of him telling her its annoying, and her face after. It’s ok Mary, he’s fine, he’s just a teenager now. Something I guess she never got to experience from the adult side. 

Sam is out getting pizza, and all the times they’ve had pizza, I never really saw what Sam likes on his. Apparently both he and Dean like lots of pepperoni. Good choice boys! The joy is short-lived (of course) by Donatello’s call, and Dean and Mary go off to help. I loved Sam sitting there researching. I have always loved his look of interest and concentration during these times. Smart!Sam moment #1 he figures out the language is ancient Hebrew, #2 he has the moment of realization that he knows it’s from the Bible, and knows what chapter and verse. (demerits for the writers though for not knowing Peter is in the New Testament and is in Ancient Greek, not Hebrew, but kudos for Sam/Jared for at least knowing the book is located near the back of The Bible)

Mom and Dean in the car. Now we have the talk about how wrong she knows she’s been but how appreciative she is to have this time with him and Sam. Uhoh... sounds like lines typically given to a character who is soon to be killed off? Hmmm we’ll see. Soon they arrive at Donny’s to find Nick. He says he's poisoned Donny and to save him, they have to help him. He wants to talk. 

Back at the bunker, violent rage!Sam awaits!! GOD that gave me tingles in the best way! I loved Dean leading Nick down the hall in cuffs, in slow motion as if leading him to his execution, and Sam standing there with his chest puffed out like a friggin’ bulldozer, and the snarl and slam attack against the wall!! (hand me that towel, please??) Dean backs Sam off, lots of brother touching going on, but we need intel, we can't kill him yet. 

Now Sam is in self-loathing mode.... he thinks everything is his fault. So many people dying because of him. This is gonna be a big issue soon, I promise. Mom talks Sam off the self-deprecating ledge and tells him he gave Nick another chance because he’s a good man and that's why she’s so proud of him. Sam softens up into the sweetest “aww shucks ma” smile and I want to hug him💕 also, still lines are being spoken by mom that are synonymous with being killed off.

Now, I procrastinated talking about Cas and Anael because the whole thing was boring. I'm not a wife hater but at least make her necessary if you’re going to cast her. I was ok about her role as Sister Jo for Devil’s Bargain but she hasn't been necessary since. Cas wasn't even necessary in this episode. We knew he was hiding the fact that Jack killed the snake, and there are probably 1000 other ways they could have reminded us that the Samulet is still around and maybe they can use it, than for him to find a similar one in the thrift shop or whatever that place was. I dug Methuzula though, he was the oldest dude in the Bible. He wasn’t an angel, for any of you worried about him liking lasagna or why he couldn't just smite Cas... its because he's HUMAN just extremely old. 

On to more interesting things. 

Nick wants to talk to Jack. I was not pleased with Nick referring to Jack as his son. Im not 100% convinced that the writer (and all involved really) remembered that Jack isnt Nick’s son, but added that as a note of empathy Nick has for Lucifer, you’d THINK someone, particularly Jack would say “Im not your son” ?? but anyway, he gives intel to Jack and also gets his blood (dun dun dunnnn) 

Sam is again a smarty pants and knows the antidote for Thalium is Prussian Blue (makes note) and figures he can hack the live feed (brains are so sexy) I also love that Sam’s word is the go word. So many more decisions are made because Sam thinks its the best option than he's ever given for in the fandom. So Sam and Dean take Nick with them to find Donny. 

I really love the broments in this part. Dean tells Nick if he tries anything funny, Sam will shoot him. “And if anything happens to me....” “Sam will shoot me”  “To start!” says Sam... because if he hurts Dean, Sam isnt letting him off that easy. But in true SPN form, as soon as Sam and Dean are separated, shit goes south.

Mom calls Sam and lets him know Donny was shot up with Angel grace, as Jack figured out, Nick was playing them. Now the fight between Sam and Nick ensues! Nick tells Sam why he used Donatello, which was to bring Lucifer back, “You can't, he’s dead he’s in the Empty” Sam says but this show’s self-awareness gets me sometimes lol Nick’s like “Cmon Sam you know no one stays dead anymore” and Sam starts kicking his ass. 

Now, I have already seen a million of you whine and complain that Sam didn’t kill Nick. It’s almost as though some of you have never met Sam Winchester. Of course Sam could have killed Nick, and most of us wish he did, but Sam has stopped himself from killing humans before. He stopped himself with Jake in AHBL and also with Toni in 12x01. Unfortunately it always bites him in the ass. Could it be that Sam thinks if he can kill a human with his bare hands that he’s a monster? This isn’t bad writing folks, this is Sam’s character. 

Nick takes advantage of Sam’s hesitation and starts nailing him with a rock. Spewing crap about Sam being Lucifer’s Perfect vessel and such.... this can only mean that issue will be coming up soon! Sam gets in the car and starts laying on the horn for Dean, calling out to him... Dean hears Sam is in trouble, enough playing around here time to kill some demons. 

When he gets to Sam. he sees he’s badly injured. Sam can hardly hold on to consciousness, protective!dean kicks in! Apply preasure to the blled, call 911, call mom. Now check for brain damage and play a counting game with Sam This hurt my feels so much, it made it feel so much more serious than all the other head injuries he’s sustained. Dean and his caring big brother smile and light hearted speech so Sam doesnt panic just kills me in the best way!! Sam tries to count with him a little and breaks into “You always put me first... your whole life” and manages to muster a little smile. Dean knows Sam believes he’s checking out, and you see the fear all over Dean’s face as Sam fades away. (OMG these 2!! Every freakin time!!)

Meanwhile, Mary and Jack found Nick and he has summoned Lucifer and just about to take him in again (Lucifer looked pretty cool,,, gotta say) and Jack zaps Lucifer back into the rift (no not forever guys... cmon) and starts torturing Nick. Mary kinda flips out telling Jack to stop. He’s contorting his hand, burning him from the inside out... not simply killijng him. Mary is full on worried now. Jack stops and Nick is laying on the floor. Mary is in shock and tells Jack to go help Sam, He heals him and Dean cant even hide his relief as he turns away to catch his breath. 

Now Jack returns to Mary who is more than worried about how Jack was torturing Nick. We know the Winchesters dont mind killing, but draw the line at torture. However, Mary stupidly poked the bear. She could have just kept herself and Jack calm and talked to the boys later, but she poked and poked till Jack freaked out. Though I am wondering if Jack was also hearing Lucifer when he was shouting “Leave me alone!!” But in any regard, he looked at Mary and something happened. Fade to black. 

Aside from the Cas/Anael part, I really enjoyed this episode. A few issues yes, but it hit most of the marks needed for me to enjoy an episode. Ive already rewatched it twice and will again and again. 

On a scale of Bloodlines to Lebanon, I give this a strong 7.5 without the Cas/Anael bit it would have been an easy 8.

[sacredfire44]

Watch Yugioh GX part 5

Up next, episode 11! I can’t believe I’ve managed to go so long without quitting? How wild.

Manjoume, you look a little stressed out over there. Don't pop a blood vessel or something.

"Manjoume, sir..." is officially the weirdest translation of "Manjoume-san" I will probably ever hear.

That principal is way too calm, and also way too supportive of Juudai. I almost get the feeling he knows more about Juudai than he lets on.

Dang, even Chronos thinks this punishment is too harsh.

Oh, thank god. Juudai's not laughing, so I don't have to start crying.

Literally no one stops to question Juudai talking to thin air anymore, do they? They just think he’s a little messed up in the head and just accept it as him.

Aww, look at Juudai being a good friend and aniki, reassuring Shou that everything is okay.

"Why did you want me as a partner?"

Well, a)He didn't actually have a choice, b)If he didn't tell you he chose you, you would have attempted to ride a weak wooden raft across the ocean, and c)He's??? A good big brother??? And friend???

OH MY GOD THEY HAVE CAT TUNNELS BUILT INTO THE SLIFER DORMS FOR PHAROAH!!! I WOULD BE A SLIFER SLACKER LITERALLY JUST FOR THAT!!!!

Juudai said they had a card they could use. You know what that means?

IT'S POWER BOND!

THE CARD IS POWER BOND!

Wait, use with Sparkman? You mean it's NOT Power Bond? No, I deny this. I reject canon and replace it with my own reality. What was all that hype for Power Bond for, then?!?!

I... I don't like the music that plays when Daitokuji comes on the screen. It gives me the creeps. Is he hiding something?

Aww, Juudai actually sounded really cool there. I wonder how he sounded in English. Actually, no, I change my mind. I don't really want to know.

I just noticed HERO is in all caps. Does it stand for something?

I have to admit, Tempest actually looks pretty lit.

"He's trying to tell me something" rEaLlY? I cOuLdN't TeLl!

Okay, okay, this time it's Power Bond. It's gotta be, right?

Wait. Tempest is a Machine-type? I thought it was a Hero type! See, this is why I don't try to play this confusing game. All I know is Pot of Greed and Bubbleman’s effect, and that’s all I need.

I'm crying all the fusion did was give the UFO a handle bar for Tempest to ride on what an icon.

Aww, Misawa's actually kind of a sweetheart.

I get the distinct impression that Daitokuji is mocking him.

I can't believe Juudai forgot his catchphrase so he turned around and gave it late.

I haven't mentioned enough this episode how much I love Juudai and how cute he is, so here's your usual dose of cuteness because JESUS CHRIST I'M GONNA GET DIABETES FROM THIS CHILD!!!!

The all-nighter joke got a laugh out of me, but is, more importantly, very cute. And also a very. very. VERY big mood.

OwO Is that foreshadowing I see?

Aww, Juudai forgot the word for outrage. That's so cute! Also, wtf is with that animation when Hayato and Shou are hugging Juudai? It just looks awkward and stiff.

That’s all for episode 11! I really enjoyed the last two episodes. It was a nice duel, and I enjoyed the reference to Duel Monsters, and the reminder that Juudai is only maybe a decade younger than Yugi, if even that.

Just an fyi, you might notice me posting stuff in reference to later episodes! I watch episodes in spurts and write these reviews as I go, and then post them periodically, so I’m quite a bit further ahead by the time a post this.

Edit: I’m on episode 44, this was a mistake, please send help I can’t stop I’ve already written thirteen more of these things