#i see you person asking for sarge and simmons fluff

[trashinyourpockets]

I love how you draw church sm I love that stupid robot

Thank you, very much. i love the stupid ass robot man-child too 💕

[drkrainbow]

no one asked but here’s what your fav character says about you

Sarge: you like to casually insult your friends and you have the stupidest ideas

Simmons: you have two moods: “ ;; im soo terrible i wanna die :((((” or “everybody around me are idiots and I’m a god” sometimes simultaneously

Grif: you’re that person who thinks about meaning of life and sends memes at 3 am and then wonders why they always feel so tired??

Donut: you like reading fluff and you probably used to photoshop flower crowns to your favorite characters

Lopez: you’re just tired of everyone’s bullshit

Doc: you just hope that people won’t beat the shit out of you when they see you (or you just like evil/good duos)

Tex: you're a masochist

Church: you consider yourself agressive but your friends think that you’re cute for some reason

Tucker: you always have the urge to make a sarcastic comeback

Caboose: all you want in this life is to buy a giant plush

Kai: you have good taste

[lexi-the-twilight-dragon]

Sooooo I said I'd write a fic regarding my dream ending to S17, so of course I had to finish it before S17 came out. Holy shit this fic turned out much longer than I expected, but I'm not sure an increase in length = a increase in quality? I did it tho, so here it is.

BROTHER TO BROTHER

That's when Grif notices something he never has before.

FANDOM: Red vs Blue. S16 spoilers. RATING: Angst/Fluff. WORDS: 1736 CHARACTERS: Grif, Doc (He got smashed into a wall and walked away from an explosion completely unharmed in S8, I think he can survive falling off an at most 442m building), O'Malley (mentioned?), Huggins (please tell me she's not permanently dead, RT), Deke Dufresne, OCs

~

To say the whole time-travel-fix-the-past-nearly-fuck-up-the-universe adventure was insane is a serious understatement. They were only trying to get some pizza for fuck's sake!

And honestly, when it's all over, Grif doesn't know what to do. How do you avoid getting dragged into other people's bullshit? He used to think he was good at that, but not so much anymore. (Pretty much since Wash showed up, huh.)

But it's over, it's finally fucking over, and for at least the next hour, they're safe. And yes, that's a "they". His friends are assholes, but that doesn't mean he wants to lose any of them. Not anymore.

That's when Grif notices something he never has before, and he knows full well what trouble his and the others' lack of notice caused.

He notices a distinct lack of a certain color that was here a few minutes ago.

Purple.

~

He catches the medic disappearing through the hills a little ways away.

"Hey Doc!"

Doc hesitates for a split-second, but doesn't stop walking.

"Doc, wait up!"

Doc starts walking faster. Grif nearly loses him again in the twists and turns of the landscape.

He wonders if this is what it looked like when he quit.

"Frank, stop!"

It's a name no one's used in fuck knows how long. Grif isn't sure he's ever used it. The medic has been 'Doc' to everyone for so long that Grif hasn't the faintest idea why he even remembers his real name at all. But he says it.

And Frank stops.

"Where the hell are you going?" He doesn't say it like an accusation, because it isn't one.

"What does it matter where I'm going?" Frank replies, barely even turning his head, "All that matters is that I'm away from you."

"... You don't mean that."

"Yes, I do. As long as I'm far enough away from anyone I could endanger, I don't care what happens to me. Maybe I'll even find my own little dimension again. Anything to keep everyone safe."

"Doc- Frank, you can't blame yourse-"

"Yes I can!" Purple armor breaks the stillness to whirl around and face orange. "I can because it is my fault! I can't..."

His voice cracks, and the anger seeps out of him as he takes a breath.

"I can't control him anymore, Grif. Who knows how long it will be before he takes me over again. Before he uses me to hurt more people. To hurt, to kill, to destroy..."

His hand flies for his Magnum, and Grif grabs his rifle just as fast. He doesn't actually want to hurt Doc, but if O'Malley were to take control of him again...

The pistol skitters across the ground some feet away.

Frank's arm doesn't move from where he tossed it, his visor and likely gaze lowered to the ground, and when he speaks again the tears are audible.

"You can't... trust me anymore. I don't trust me anymore. I'm more monster than medic, now."

He raises his head, and sees the rifle still in Grif's hands. Grif instantly regrets his actions.

"Actually," Frank says, "yeah, that's a better idea."

He raises his hands a little over his head and faces Grif squarely.

"Can't hurt anyone if I'm dead."

Grif hates the tone in his voice. It's the tone of someone who has accepted, and embraced, the fact that he's going to die. He's heard it in Simmons' voice, in front of the firing squad. He's heard it in Sarge's, on the Staff of Charon. He's heard it in Bitters' more times than he'll ever be comfortable with.

He'll never forget hearing it in Private Mayhew's as she bled out in his arms after the colony massacre.

But acceptance and a request are very different things. Frank is asking for it, and he's asking Grif to be behind the trigger. His hands are shaking already.

In theory, it's to protect other, protect the others. And from how the purple-clad medic sounds, it's be a mercy kill, too. In reality...

"No," Grif says, reholstering his rifle, "I can't do that, Frank."

Grif doesn't need to see his face to see the crestfalled expression on it. "But... but Grif, I'm a danger to everyone, you have to-"

"I can't do it, man. I'm sorry."

"Please!"

Purple shin-plates hit the ground as their owner falls to his knees.

"Please.. I can't... take this anymore. Just... end it, please."

If there's a tone that Grif hates more that that of someone who's accepted death, it's that of someone begging for it.

He kneels in front of the medic and clasps onto his shoulders.

"Look, I don't know exactly what you've gone through. I haven't grappled an evil AI for nearly as long as you. I haven't been stuck in an alternate dimension. But I do know what it feels like when your worst enemy is in your own head. And you know that I know, because that's something else O'Malley did to you, isn't it? Forced memories of all the people it jumped through into your head? It's the only way you could have known what my childhood was like.

"You're not a monster, Frank. You're you. You're Doc. You're our dorky, health-obsessed, pacifistic medic. I can't kill a guy like you, split personality or not."

Frank's visor is locked with his for a grand total of two seconds after that before he wraps his arms around Grif's own shoulders and breaks down into sobs.

Grif doesn't know what'll happen from here. He doesn't know how or even if Doc can be helped at this point. But, also at this point, he can't bring himself to abandon the poor guy.

And maybe, it occurs to him as Huggins flies around the corner looking for them, maybe the past can be fixed after all.

~

Doc didn't know what to expect when the orange-clad soldier got up from their semi-hug to go whisper conspiratorially with the cosmic light-ball.

He knows even less what to expect when Grif goes and grabs the frickin' time gun O'Malley had betrayed him with earlier. Are they going to exile him after all, only in a different time period?

Grif wordlessly pulls the trigger, and gestures at Doc to follow him through.

Doc follows him through.

The first thing he notices is an astonishing amount of green. His entire view consists of trees, ferns and undergrowth that greatly mottles but doesn't completely obscure the sunshine. There's the constant chortle of birdsong and other animal noises that instantly tells him that this is Earth. And if he listens hard enough over it. he can hear the trickling sound of a river.

His blood runs cold when he recognizes exactly where and when Grif has brought him.

"Th-this is..."

His spluttering is cut off by a distant cry of "Deke!" and the sound of splashing.

Through the undergrowth, down on the river's edge, he can see them, see himself. Two coffee-skinned boys, brown hair plastered to their faces as the panicked elder drags the limp younger onto the bank.

"Deke! Deke, can you hear me? Please wake up!" Young Frank DuFresne is shouting, though his brother is held close to him. The boy didn't know what else to do.

He didn't know how to save him.

"What are you waiting for?" Grif's voice tears his gaze away.

"W-what?"

The orange soldier turns his head to look directly at him. "He needs a medic. Go."

Purple helmet looks to the riverbank, back to the orange, then is shoved into the other man's hands.

"Thank you."

He tears into a run, tossing aside all vegetation between him and the bank. Between him, himself, and his little brother.

"Hey!" He drops to his knees as the younger him looks up. He knows merely from memory that the river water dripping down his face is mixed with sting tears.

"I'm a medic. I can help. His name's Deke, right?"

Young Frank nods vigorously. "He's not breathing, what do I do?!"

Hearing himself the panicked, even in clearly justified circumstances, makes it hard to keep his own voice level.

"We need to get him up onto more solid ground, I can treat him there."

A further few feet gets them some firmer ground. Not by much, but Doc doesn't want to waste any precious time.

"Lay him down here."

His movements are calm and practiced as he placed one palm over Deke's chest. Call him an unqualified medic all you want, but he has never forgotten how to do CPR properly. And this right here is the exact reason why. Even if he's internally dealing with the whirlwind of emotions of reliving the worst day of his life. But he can change that.

He will change that.

Deke remains unresponsive after one, two, three, four rounds of compressions as Young Frank watches in wide-eyed concern. But after the fifth, Deke's eyes fly open, and Doc rolls him on his side so he can cough up the water dislodged from his lungs.

"Deke!" Young Frank looks ready to pounce atop his brother in delight, but the older one stops him.

"He needs an ambulance."

Young Frank nods, before scrambling off through the trees to what Doc knows is his childhood home, where his parents are probably sitting on the porch drinking tea and waiting for their boys to come back from playing in the forest. Funny how things seem from a different perspective.

~

It's decided that Meredith DuFresne should ride to the hospital with her son in the ambulance. Frederick and Frank will travel behind in the car. It may take some recovery, but the paramedics say he's likely to survive thanks to the timely response.

Deke will survive. It's a dream come true in so many ways.

"Hey, mister!"

Young Frank catches the man in purple as he walks away.

"What's your name?"

The man looks at oddly for a second, then smiles.

"My friends call me Doc. I'm... a travelling medic."

The boy smiles back, then wraps his arms around the man's purple armor.

"Thank you, Doc."

Doc ruffles his hair, "Just some simple CPR. Might be a good thing for you to learn, huh?"

Frank looks up at him. Funny, Doc looks a lot like his father. Maybe he's a cousin or something?

"I will. I promise."

He lets go, and the man in purple disappears back into the forest.

~

A/N: Guess who jumped head first onto the Doc-Love Train with the recent season? Not that I ever disliked Doc, but being brutally honest, he was never really around long enough for me to get as attached to him as I was to the other Blood Gulch Crew. Season 16 tho... my jaw nearly hit the floor with his backstory monologue. It puts everything about his character in a whole new light. Why is there hardly anything about it on the interned? There needs to be more about it on the internet. So here's my piece. Even if I'm not completely happy with it.

[bizarrebird]

leave room for space jesus

Prompt from @orangeycookiekay -  helloooooo how about a tuckington fluff prompt-- slow dancing (or very noble attempts)??

This was a super cute prompt and I really hope I did it justice!

Also on AO3 here

Warnings: N/A

Rating: T

Pairings: Tuckington, implied Grimmons

“Wash, c’mon, it’s not that hard.”

His eyes are still doubtful, but he takes Tucker’s hand anyway and lets him pull him to his feet again. “I still don’t see what the point of this is. I doubt Grif and Simmons are going to want to dance much.”

“So? Other people will.”

“What do you mean, so? It’s their wedding, Tucker.”

Tucker snorts and rolls his eyes. “Yeah, but if it was up to them, they’d just hop a ship to the Vegas quadrant to get married and never tell anyone. The reception is for Donut, and he wants people dancing, so c’mon.”

Wash still thinks it’s pointless, and that it’s weird for someone’s wedding reception to not actually be for them, but he lets Tucker drag him to the middle of their room. They’ve shoved all the furniture aside for these little ‘dance lessons’. Which Wash is still pretty sure he doesn’t need, although Tucker hadn’t backed down once he’d made his off hand comment about never dancing much.

That had been his first mistake.

So now they’re in their shared room, Tucker’s ‘slow lovin’ jams’ playlist on in the background. The fact that Wash knows it’s called that is such a problem itself, but that’s neither here nor there. He’s known he’s in too deep for a while now. Ever since the end of the war when he and Tucker ended up tipsy and touchy in a closet, they’ve been in weird sort of relationship limbo.

He’s not sure quite what they are and he’s pretty sure Tucker doesn’t either, but they’re both waaaay too emotionally stunted to ask. Or Wash is anyway. Tucker usually seems a little less emotionally constipated, but that might not be saying a whole lot. Sensitivity training was one of that things that every level of Freelancer seemed to miss out on.

But he knows Tucker’s dealing with enough right now and the last thing he needs is to try to deal with Wash’s issues on top of his own. So whatever they are now, Wash is good with it. Mostly.

That still doesn’t mean that spending time alone with just the two of them in close proximity with lots of touching is a good idea. Because there’s touching. Lots. Definitely more than necessary as Tucker pulls him close and nudges him into the position, one hand holding Wash’s, the other at his hip.

Tucker grins and looks a little too pleased with himself. “Alright, now just watch my feet and follow my lead. Once you’ve kinda got it, we can switch off and I’ll be the girl.”

“Right.” He bites back a comment about how he’s pretty sure Tucker’s hand doesn’t need to be quite as low as it is, but he’s pretty sure drawing attention to it isn’t going to help. Tucker waits for a moment, head nodding with the music for a beat or two before he starts moving in time with it.

Wash’s eyes are on his face and not his feet and he’s not expecting it and Tucker just walks into him. His face scrunches up, one eyebrow rising. “Dude? C’mon, we haven’t even started.”

“Sorry, I was distracted. Let’s try again.” He gives himself a little shake, forcing his eyes to Tucker’s feet as he feels his face heat up. There’s a soft chuckle that he knows is at his expense, but he’s just going to ignore it.

This time, he sees Tucker’s feet moving and follows him. It’s a little awkward, but they haven’t stepped on each other yet. After a few moments though, Tucker tugs him to a stop. “Okay, yeah, this shit isn’t working.”

Wash blinks at him, finally looking up. “What? I thought I was doing alright. Was I going too slow?”

“No, it’s--you’re way too tense for this, dude. You need to loosen up a little. Here, let me go a sec.” Tucker pulls away, flexing the hand that had been holding Wash’s hand, and it suddenly occurs to him that his grip might have been a little tight. Shit.

As his hands fall back to his sides, he realizes just how clammy they both are. Damn it. This shouldn’t be so difficult. Wash knows his footwork is good in a fight. Hell, he’s been the one giving Tucker tips about that. Dancing shouldn’t be any harder than that. Then again, in a knife fight, he’s usually not overly concerned with stepping on his partner’s feet.

Still, it stands to reason that some of the same techniques should apply. Maybe if he had a knife…

The music changes and pulls Wash out of his thoughts. This one’s familiar too, a little softer and gentler than the one before. He blinks at Tucker, one eyebrow rising as he draws closer. “I’m not sure going even slower will make things better.”

Tucker shakes his head. “You’re too busy thinking about shit. When you’re not leading you’re supposed to just like… let the other person kinda pull you around a little more, trust your partner, y’know?”

Wash blanches, guilt gnawing at him. “I do trust you.”

That makes a strangely soft smile spread over Tucker’s face as he steps closer and reaches for Wash’s hands, pulling at him. “I know, Wash. Now c’mere.”

He moves with the tug and lets Tucker guide his hands to his shoulders before Tucker’s hands go to his waist. The position reminds him of the awkward middle school slow dances he’s tried very hard to block out (there’s a few memories he would be okay with not getting back after the Epsilon incident).

“Alright, now what?” Wash asks, cocking an eyebrow.

“Now you fucking relax and just sway a little.” Tucker huffs when he keeps staring. Reaching up, his hand moves to the back of Wash’s neck, carefully curling around the old scars there. It’s the kind of touch that would make Wash body slam anyone else into the floor. Even now, it still makes him go still, but Tucker’s hand is gentle as he slowly guides Wash’s head forward to rest on his shoulder.

“Just like this. Actually, put your hands on my waist instead.” Wash does and a little sigh goes out of him as Tucker’s other arm loops around him, palm pressing flat just between his shoulder blades. “There, okay, now just let me do all the work.”

Wash snorts. “That would be a first.”

“Hey, fuck you, dude, I do plenty of work.” But there’s a laugh in Tucker’s voice as he starts them swaying, walking Wash backwards in a slow little circle. The music keeps going, another song coming on, just as slow, and with��� pretty sappy lyrics if he’s hearing them right.

But it isn’t too bad, really.

Wash is fairly sure that actual dancing requires a little more focus and grace than this, but it’s… kind of nice just leaning against Tucker, letting him steer them around. They’re close enough that he can feel Tucker’s chest brush against his. His hands slowly creep around to the small of Tucker’s back. They move in smaller and smaller circles until they’re just turning and swaying on the spot.

Eyes falling shut, he lets out a breath as Tucker’s fingers move gently over the back of his neck. This definitely isn’t the kind of dancing they’re supposed to be doing at the wedding, but he can’t bring himself to say something to make it stop. Tucker’s warm and he can feel the firm lines of his muscles through the slightly too tight shirt he’s wearing.

There’s a million different things he shouldn’t be noticing. Like how Tucker smells like that nice fruity shampoo Donut found, or how his hair tickles a little where it brushes Wash’s cheek, or how he’s faintly humming along to the song and drumming his fingers gently to the beat against Wash’s back.

A knock at the door makes Wash realize two things. First, that they left the door to the room open in the first place, meaning dozens of people could have seen them. And second, that they’ve basically stopped moving at this point without him noticing.

He looks over as he freezes in Tucker’s arms. Sarge and Donut are both there, because of course they are. Donut’s got his hands pressed to his mouth like he’s about to start cooing at them. There’s a very loud throat clearing from Sarge. “Well someone ain’t leaving much room for space Jesus.”

It sounds like a joke, but it makes Wash abruptly spring back from Tucker, nearly stumbling over himself. Glancing back, he finds Tucker making a face at the intrusion, not at him, strangely enough. His face burns as he turns back toward Sarge and Donut, who’s definitely laughing behind his hands now.

Wash takes a breath, trying to collect himself. “Did you two need something?”

“I just wanted to stop by to see how the dance lesson was going.” Donut’s innocent smile doesn’t fool Wash for a second. Someone is getting a talking to at their next wine and cheese hour.

Crossing his arms over his chest, Wash cocks an eyebrow at the pair of them. “It’s going just fine. I’m… getting there.”

“I’d offer to help show you a two step, but I ain’t sure if that’d work if your fixing to feel up--” Sarge cuts himself off with a loud fake cough as Donut drives an elbow into his side. “I mean, good work, soldiers, keep at it. But remember, space Jesus.”

“We’ll just leave you to it. C’mon Sarge, we’ve got things to do, you’re in charge of confetti.” Wash feels a tiny surge of gratitude as Donut grabs the old soldier by the arm and drags him off down the hallway.

There’s a muttered curse from Tucker as he stomps over and shuts the door with probably a little more force than necessary. He turns and presses his back to it, crossing his arms over his chest as he lets out a huff. “Someday they’re gonna learn to mind their own fucking business.”

Frowning, Wash tips his head a little to one side, eyes flicking to the door. “We did leave it open, they could have just been passing by.”

Tucker scoffs and cocks an eyebrow at him. “Seriously? Dude, they were checking up on us. Everyone’s been doing it all fucking week, it’s pissing me off.”

He pushes himself off the door and walks across the room to flop down face first on his bed. Wash hesitates for a moment before approaching, tentatively sitting next to him as he reaches out to lightly grab Tucker’s shoulder. “I don’t think they mean anything by it… or nothing bad anyway.”

Because that’s the only part he’s sure of here. Wash isn’t quite going soft just yet, and he’s noticed more than a few lingering stares from the other Reds and Blues whenever he and Tucker sit together in the mess hall, or head off for a workout. It hasn’t really been something he’s thought about much, everyone likes gossip now and then. (He would be lying if he said he hadn’t had a few too many talks with Donut about when Grif and Simmons would finally tie the knot.)

But maybe that’s been a mistake on his part. Tucker hasn’t knocked his hand away yet, so he gently rubs his back. “I can… try to talk to them if you want, and explain that there’s… nothing going on that they need to be concerned about.”

Tucker pushes himself up and fixes Wash with a strangely intense look, a few of his dreads falling into his face. “So there’s nothing going on here?”

That is definitely a trick question. So Wash just stares at him for a moment, a deer watching an eighteen-wheeler barreling down on him. He’s tempted to say no, but… he’s not sure that’s true, and he’s even less sure that yes is the right answer. “Uh.”

Glancing away, he rubs at the back of his neck. “I’m not sure,” he says slowly, trying to pick his words carefully. “But… whatever’s going on, it’s nothing that the rest of them need to worry about. It’s between us.”

He risks a look down at Tucker. There’s not a smile there, but his frown is a bit less intense now. His teeth are doing a number on his lower lip and there’s this little wrinkle between his eyebrows that Wash wants to kiss away. And that’s a thought that sort of throws him for a loop for a minute.

He’s in way too deep.

And yet, he doesn’t stop himself from reaching out to gently brush Tucker’s hair back from his forehead, tucking it behind his ear. His knuckles lightly skim over Tucker’s cheek and there’s a sharp inhale.

The music changes, another slow song. Tucker must have put on another playlist. This one’s very familiar, though he’s not quite sure why. It’s nice though, his foot tapping along to it. “I like this song,” he says, almost absently.

Rising from the bed, he offers his hand to Tucker and manages a half smile. “Let’s try again. I think I almost got those steps you were showing me before.”

Tucker eyes his hand before he takes it and Wash pulls him to his feet. He doesn’t let go as he tugs Tucker toward the center of the room again. This time, he puts his hand on Tucker’s waist, which gets him a raised eyebrow. Smile growing, Wash shrugs. “I think I’ll try leading this time.”

“I like it when you take charge,” Tucker says, with a teasing wiggle of his eyebrows.

Wash snorts. “No you don’t.”

“Okay, yeah, most of the time. Dude, just let me hit on you in peace.”

“Oh, is that what you’re doing? I wasn’t sure.” Wash smirks as he repeats the steps from earlier, steering Tucker along as he tries to keep time with the song. 

“Don’t be a dick.” But Tucker’s smiling as he shakes his head, letting Wash lead him along.

It seems so easy for him, to just go where Wash moves him, his eyes never straying to their feet. Tucker moves naturally, even when the song changes and Wash almost trips over his own feet trying to adjust to the slightly different tempo. His hand moves from Wash’s shoulder to the back of his neck again, fingertips lightly running over his hairline.

Wash steps on Tucker’s feet twice and nearly steers him into a wall once, but there’s no major disasters by the time the songs start repeating, so he’s going to call that a win for now.

“I think you’re getting it, Wash,” Tucker says, the corners of his eyes crinkling a little. Pulling away, he plops down on his bed again, rubbing at one of his feet. “Think I’m done for the day though. If I sway anymore, I’m gonna get sea sick all over your shoes.”

“Please don’t.” Wash laughs a little as he moves to turn off the music. “I might need a few more lessons though. I’d rather not step on anyone at the reception.”

“Eh, I don’t really give a shit if you step on me a few times,” Tucker says, shrugging. “Better you than Caboose. I tried teaching him ages ago and he almost broke three of my toes.”

“Fair enough, but if I end up dancing with anyone else, they might not feel the same.”

Tucker scoffs and Wash looks over as he flops back on the bed. “We both know I’ve called dibs for the whole reception, dude. Just accept it.”

That catches Wash a little by surprise, but… maybe it shouldn’t. He glances back at the stereo and flicks through Tucker’s music, pulling up the ‘slow lovin’ jams’ playlist. Tucker’s looking at him, confusion on his face when Wash turns around and moves to sit next to him.

“You have decent taste in music,” is all Wash says as he flops back against the bed and drapes an arm over his eyes.

“Decent?” There’s a little snort next to him and then he feels Tucker’s weight settle against his side. “Fine, you pick the music for next time.”

“Maybe I will.” And suddenly, he’s really, really looking forward to that next lesson.

[meteoratdusk-blog]

RvB Bingo Wars: Fluff entry

Title: Many Happy Returns

Summary: Carolina thinks she’s going to a meeting, but the Reds and Blues have a surprise for her instead.

Word Count: 1.4k

Notes: this is a happy one, I promise.  Warnings for mentions of past child neglect. Someone has probably done something like this before, but if they have I can’t for the life of me remember it, so here we are.  Also, I hope this makes up a little for the terrible angst in my last entry.

Many Happy Returns 

Carolina walked through the headquarters of the United Armies of Chorus and wondered at the quiet.  The armies were still on rocky territory, having been united for barely two weeks and only making the move to joint headquarters in the past few days.  It wasn’t at all uncommon to find soldiers skirmishing in the hallways, or arguing loudly down the corridors, but she didn’t hear anything as she made her way towards her afternoon strategy meeting, and she wondered if everyone was still in shock from the pirates’ last attack.

Or maybe the quiet was just in her own head. Early that morning Caboose had come by and “kidnapped” Epsilon.  She hadn’t been able to make any sense of what he wanted Church for, just something about Blue Team’s best tradition. Strangely, after he said it Epsilon had gone with him with surprisingly few complaints. Maybe he still felt a little bad about ditching his friends at the crash site, or maybe he had just wanted to get away for a while.  Either way, the world was a much quieter place without his constant sarcastic commentary.

Carolina suppressed a small smile as she finally made it to the meeting room and opened the door.

The room was empty.  Carolina frowned.

“Wash,” she called out on their shared channel, a relic from Freelancer but still useful for private communications as long as they didn’t think too hard about the ghosts on the line.  “Did this afternoon’s strategy meeting get moved?”

“Uh… yes,” Wash replied after an oddly long pause. “Auditorium Two.  Sorry, we forgot to tell you—how did we forget to tell you—”

“Auditorium Two?” she asked, changing direction.  “Any particular reason?”

“We needed the space,” Wash answered.  “There’s… well, a few more people got invited.”

“To the strategy meeting?”

“Yeah, um, it’s—Caboose!  Not yet, if you set it on fire—”

Wash cut out.

Carolina picked up her pace.

The door to Auditorium Two wasn’t burning when she got there, so that was one for Wash’s newfound talent as a babysitter, she guessed.  There was an awful lot of whispering going on inside, though, not quite audible and abruptly stopping as soon as she opened the door.

Carolina stared.

“HAPPY BIRTHDAY AGENT CAROLINA!” Caboose shouted, and threw a handful of confetti into the air.  She watched it flutter to the ground, and half the occupants of the room appeared to be holding their breath.

“Birthday,” she said.  “It’s not my birthday.”

They breathed out.

“Yeah, we know,” Tucker said, and she could hear him rolling his eyes.

If they knew it wasn’t her birthday they didn’t seem to care.  The large room was bedecked with handmade streamers, paper chains made with red and blue links.  Someone had scrounged up actual party hats and done an impressive job of tying one to Caboose’s helmet and, yes, she noticed, to Freckles as well, the paper cone resting at a jaunty angle on the gun’s barrel. The table at the front of the room had been draped with a festive tablecloth. On top of it was a white upside down bucket with what looked like signal flares taped to the top, their fuses still unlit.  The Reds had congregated nearby, Donut busy making another paper chain.  Above the whole arrangement was a banner that read “Happy Birthday!” written meticulously in what looked like pink glitter pen.

Tucker, Caboose, and the generals Kimball and Doyle were standing directly in front of the door.  On the other side of the room stood Dr. Grey and Wash, the former Freelancer leaning against the wall, his shoulders shaking.

Carolina read the banner again, just to make sure she wasn’t seeing things.

“Would someone care to explain?” she said flatly.

“Ah.  Yes, you see,” Doyle cleared his throat, and then launched into what sounded like a speech. “In light of the way you have helped shaped the course of history on our beleaguered planet, we agreed,” he glanced at Kimball as though the very idea was unprecedented, “to hold, in your honor, a small service, which has… err, that is, what we had intended—”

“We were planning to hold a ceremony to formally thank you—all of you,” Kimball interrupted, her tone frustrated and puzzled but the faintest bit fond, “for what you’ve done for Chorus.  Then the word ‘party’ started getting thrown around and… I’m honestly not quite sure what happened after that.”

“Caboose happened,” Tucker snorted.

“And Church helped!” Caboose said happily.

Epsilon flickered into view by Caboose’s shoulder.

“I don’t know if helped is really the right word,” he murmured, not quite looking at Carolina.

“Yeah, it really isn’t,” Tucker complained.  “See, when people started talking about parties Caboose remembered that we haven’t thrown you a birthday party yet, even though we’ve known you for like, two years.  We tried to tell him that it wasn’t your birthday, but then this asshole wouldn’t tell us when your birthday actually was, so it’s not like we could prove Caboose wrong.”

Church still wouldn’t look at her, and Carolina wondered if he was thinking about birthdays and silence, if he remembered late nights at an empty table, a slice of half frozen store-bought cake without a single candle, and the sound of typing filtering in from the hallway.

“Dirty Blues, keepin’ secrets,” Sarge muttered loudly, and Carolina turned to him, glad for the distraction.

“And the Reds are here because…?”

“Can’t go letting the Blues have secret meetings without us, missy!” Sarge said as though it were obvious.  “They’re already withholding information, who knows what dastardly plans they’re cooking up!”

“Speak for yourself, old man,” Grif said.  “I was told there would be cake, and I want to lodge a complaint with the caterers.”

“Cake?” Simmons scoffed.  “Seriously? We don’t have the rations for cake, you know that.”

“Yeah but there isn’t even a crappy substitute for cake,” Grif whined.  “All we have is a decorated bucket. There aren’t even any cookies!”

“That’s because you ate all the cookies two weeks ago!”

“I don’t know, I could probably scrounge up something for a cake,” Donut mused. “Does anyone know where they keep the baby oil?”

“Jesus,” Simmons groaned.

The Reds devolved into bickering and speculation on baking materials, and Carolina glanced at the next person in the room.  Dr. Grey cocked her head to one side.

“I’m just here in case of party casualties!” she said cheerfully, and Carolina decided maybe it was better not to ask.

She turned to look at Wash.

He shrugged.

“This is… a thing they do,” he said, his voice rueful and tinged with an exasperated affection that seemed to be reserved for the soldiers in red and blue.  “Probably better just to go with it.”

“Yeah, you don’t really get much choice,” Tucker chimed in, “not unless you want to give us the real date, which I’m guessing you don’t because of dramatic Freelancer secrecy bullshit.  So I hope you like your new birthday, because this is going to be it from now on.”

“And it is going to be the best birthday ever!” Caboose cheered.

“Caboose, you say that every time we throw a party.”

“Well, it’s always true!”

“Dude, the very first birthday party we gave you ended with a metal table on fire,” Tucker said, and then the Blues were off bickering as well.

Except for one.

Epsilon looked at Carolina for a moment and then his projection blinked out again, jumping from Caboose’s armor to—not to her armor storage but to her implants, something he rarely did without good reason.

>Happy birthday, C, he said, and she could feel him there, at the back of her neck, a warmth that flickered like candlelight.

Carolina hadn’t had much reason to celebrate her birthday for a very long time. Still, she looked at the gathered Reds and Blues, all arguing over the smallest things, at the confused generals, the cheerful doctor, and at the relaxed line of Wash’s shoulders.  The old day didn’t mean much to her anymore, she thought.

Maybe she could do with a new one.

Carolina smiled.

“Thanks,” she said, and it was almost drowned out by the sound of her new family arguing over whether or not they had to sing.