#i shoulda gone to therapy yesterday

[augustjustice]

Sharing Smokes Outside the Snow Ball

AO3 Link

It's the Winter of 1999, and Steve Harrington and Eddie Munson are standing outside the Hawkins Middle School Snow Ball, sharing a smoke.

Eddie can't believe he's back here, the whole thing feeling nearly as surreal as that nightmare, wayward Spring Break over ten years ago. He'd barely made it out of that hell hole alive, Steve himself practically having to hold Eddie together as they made their way from Forest Hill to Hawkins Memorial Hospital.

Spring had turned into summer, sweltering and oppressive as Eddie slowly, painfully healed.

There had been bright spots, though. Watching Lucas and Erica squabble during the one-shot campaign he had cooked up just for the party that June. Evenings out beside the Harrington's temperature controlled pool, beer bottle sweating in his hand as he traded a joint back and forth between Argyle and Jonathan, the sound of Robin's cackle loud and bright as she managed to hipcheck Steve into the pool. Steve's own blinding smile--a longtime feature of Eddie's secret high school fantasies--being turned on him the first time he made it from the front doors of the physical therapy clinic to the passenger side of his BMW, without needing any help at all.

But then summer had ended, and Eddie, finally back together again like a character out of a children's nursery rhyme, had packed up his van and headed straight to Chicago, not looking back.

Sure, there'd been post cards sent, phone calls to Dustin and the other Hellfire brats, promises to see everyone soon. Promises that Eddie couldn't keep, even if he wanted to.

Not when he didn't dare set foot in Hawkins, not ever again.

Then, over a decade into his second life as a struggling guitarist by night, record shop employee by day, his cousin Brooke had landed on his doorstep, looking too tired and too young all at once, a bruise around her eye. Behind her, her eleven year old son was studying the apartment hall's tiling.

"I left him." Eddie didn't need an explanation for that one. Her good-for-nothing husband, Nash. "Jake won't be any trouble, he just...needs a place to stay, while I get back on my feet. Somewhere his daddy can't find him. Just for a little while."

Eddie thought of his Mama. And then he called Wayne.

"Shit, Uncle Wayne, I--don't know what to do."

"Come on home now, boy," Wayne said, easy as anything, like Eddie had left only yesterday. "Come on back home."

So Eddie had.

That had been six months ago. And now he was standing in the aforementioned middle school parking lot with Steve 'the Hair' Harrington, while their kids--and wasn't that just a fucking head trip and a half--danced the night away.

"I keep half expecting Click to round the corner screaming my name," Eddie admits as he gives Steve a light. "Remember junior year, I sold to you in the alley behind the gym? Old bat nearly got me that time."

"Remember? I literally had to shove that joint down the front of my shorts, dude," Steve admits, which draws a snort out of Eddie to match his own chuckle. "Most of the guys on the basketball team couldn't move half as fast as you did that day. You practically vanished into the woods before she even made it to the stadium. Totally shoulda gone out for the track team, Eds."

Eddie clutches his chest, as though he's been shot. "Don't speak such blasphemy to me, Harrington."

"Yeah, well, you can quit worrying. Pretty sure she finally retired," Steve tells him, taking a long drag before he's passing the cigarette back to Eddie, even that brief touch enough to send sparks of electricity up Eddie's arm. Then he shoots Eddie that charming, infamous Harrington smile, boyish and cocky, the one that says he's used to getting exactly what he wants. "Even if she's not, I'm head of the PTA. If Higgins tries anything, I'll just threaten not to bring cupcakes to the next bake sale."

"Harrington, my hero," Eddie fakes a swoon, collapsing for a brief second against Steve's shoulder, an excuse to get close.

The theatrics get no rise out of Steve beyond an amused smirk. Even after all these years, he's still used to Eddie's antics, it seems.

"You know, it was total déjà vu," he nods to the middle school gymnasium, all decked out in blue and white, "dropping Sam off here."

Though he's actually gotten to know the Harrington offspring in person since he's been back, Eddie had received the rundown from Dustin and the others on Steve's journey to dadhood in their scattered calls over the years.

The December after Eddie had left, Steve had met a girl, taken her out on a few dates, and accidentally gotten her pregnant.

With Samantha, a name Dustin had proudly persuaded Steve into as the little girl's godfather. Every bit as adorable, now that Eddie had seen her, as the gushing picture the party had painted for him, all big blue eyes and wavy chestnut hair just like her father's.

Steve had gotten down on one knee long before she was born, determined to tie the knot and do right by her mother nearly as soon as he'd heard the news.

The pair had been divorced not even two years later.

"I don't think they were ever really in love," Dustin had informed Eddie one sunny afternoon impromptu of nothing, as always blunt in his honesty. "But you know what Steve is like. He's a hopeless romantic."

Eddie didn't, not exactly. But he's gotten enough glimpses, both back in '86 and much more recently, that he's starting to put the picture together.

Steve draws Eddie out of that particular reverie with another bright laugh. And then he's recounting the memory of Dustin's hair, done up in the infamous Harrington 'do, as Steve pulled up in front of the '84 Snow Ball playing chaperone in his trusty Beemer, long since traded in for the much more affordable sedan he's driving now.

"I demand photographic evidence, Harrington," Eddie insists, smile crooked, that distracting dimple appearing in his right cheek, "you can't conjure up an image like that and then not fork over the goods."

"Hey, man, talk to Dustin. Mrs. Henderson took like...a million pictures that night," Steve laughs.

But he's already mentally going through the album tucked away on a bookcase back at home, positive he's got his own photo to show for it. It'll make for a nice excuse to invite Eddie over for dinner one night.

The subject turns then to their own checkered experiences with school dances.

"Class of '85, baby! That's when they made your 'King Steve' title official," Eddie crows, teasing as he taps Steve once on the nose.

Steve goes a bit cross-eyed, following the movement of his finger.

"Yeah, well, talk about a total let-down of a night. I didn't even bring a date," Steve admits, tone blasé. The truth is, his entire senior year had been something of a disappointed trudge towards graduation, a walk he had taken mostly alone. There had been bright spots--the little band of miscreants he'd fallen into babysitting, for one--but they had all been far outside the walls of Hawkins High. "I'm guessing you weren't around for that? Not really your scene, especially with the Munson Doctrine's strict rules about 'forced conforming.'"

He puts Eddie's words in deliberate air quotes, his turn to give him a teasing smile.

"You're wrong about that one, big boy. I saw them, adorning your glorious locks with the crown." That mischievous smile is back. "We're not that old, dude, don't tell me you already forgot the whole 'prom streaking' incident?"

Eddie shoots him a loaded, deliberate look.

"Wait a minute, wait a minute." Shaking his head with a laugh, Steve waves his arms in front of him, like he's calling a time out. "You've gotta be fucking kidding me. That was you?"

"The one and only. What can I say, Jeff and Gareth dared me. Besides, by that point," Eddie shrugs casually, "I already knew I didn't have a shot at graduating anyway, so. Thought I'd close out the year with a bang."

"You've seriously never considered doing anything halfway in your life, have you, Munson?" Steve asks, giving Eddie's shoulder an almost exasperated nudge, smile fond in spite of himself.

"Absolutely not, Stevie boy. Life's too short. Where's the fun in playing it safe?"

Eddie swings into Steve's space, then, dark eyes sparkling. Goading and flirtatious. Just like when they were teenagers, thrown together in the worst of circumstances but making the best of it, before time and pain and trauma put all that distance between them.

And if Steve's eyes drop down to Eddie's lips as they share air, slow enough it can't be anything but deliberate, and their fingers brush just a tad too intimately the next time they trade the cigarette back and forth...well. They've got a lot of lost time--and shared smokes in school parking lots--to make up for.

[bloodyknucklesforme]

Don't Blame Me | John 'Soap' Mactavish x F!OC

Chapter 18: The Lakes

Ao3 | Masterpost

Nina and John are reunited

General Tags: Fake Marriage, Eventual Romance, Fluff, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Slow Build, Canon-Typical Violence

Words:

“I know I stabbed you but was breaking my ribs really necessary?” Nina asked as Ghost helped her hobble back from the bathroom. He chuckled under his breath. 

“I won’t try as hard to save your life next time.” He said, wrapping an arm around her legs to lift her back into bed. She winced and whimpered in pain. Her nails dug into his hoodie. He let her lean against him as she started deep breathing. She was given pain medication but her whole torso ached. 

“Please actually just let me die next time.” She said, blinking tears away. 

“I don’t think Johnny would have liked that.” He said. 

“Have you seen him?” She asked as he lifted her to sit on the bed and helped move her legs so she could lay back. 

“Yesterday before you woke up. He ripped his stitches crawling down the hall.” 

“Why was he crawling in the hallway?” 

“To see you. Would have made it if he didn’t leave a blood trail. Gaz and I had to carry him back. The nurse chewed him out harder than Price ever could.” He laughed as took his regular seat in the chair by her bed. 

She turned away trying to hide the flush on her face. He was beautifully stupid sometimes. She would have laughed if it didn’t make her cry. 

She’d spent a lot of time crying over the past 24 hours. She’d tried to remain stoic for all of 10 seconds before memories flooded the dams behind her eyes. Price’s hands on her shoulders as she sobbed out begs for knowledge about John. 

He was okay. Needed stitches and will have to do a couple of weeks of physical therapy but he’d be okay. 

He was being sent home at the end of the week. Price had declared no arguments would be had about it. She would stay here with him while Gaz, Ghost, and John returned to the UK. Agent Laswell was going to arrive later that day to settle all the paperwork. Price said to give it four to six weeks and she’d be in England too. 

“I don’t have an extra room but we can set you up in my office for a bit and depending on how long you need, get you a real bed.” He assured. He’d been ‘fathering’ a lot the past 24 hours. He’d gotten her new earrings (‘these won’t turn your ears green’). He held her hand through the copious amounts of catch-up vaccines she’d gotten (‘Had to do the same thing during basic’). He kicked Ghost out of the room yesterday evening after she ate her first real meal in 3 days. 

“I never stopped looking for you. Shoulda never left ya after seeing your dad yell like that. Shoulda taken you in myself.” He thought she was asleep. His voice kept cracking. “I wouldn’t have been the best dad but you woulda been safe. Coulda gone to school and done your A levels. Woulda taught you how to drive. I was young and a coward. Wish I broke that cunt’s jaw that day. You were a baby, Nina.”

She clenched her good hand. He wanted privacy. He was talking like no one could hear. Maybe he did want her to hear on some subconscious level. He thought she was asleep so she kept the act up. 

“A baby to me at least. Every country I went to, I asked if they’d seen you or your father. I had ears in Russia, Mexico, Urzikstan. Fucking Kyrat…” he chuckled. “Whole unit thought your dad killed ya. Couldn’t stomach the thought. When Laswell called to ask about my former Captain and his daughter, almost went mad. She wasn’t sure but there was some English girl in the mountains of a failed state. I wanted to get you that day, bring ya home. That agent that had contact you, he was lucky he was dead on arrival. Using you as bait? Wanted to cave his head in for that.”  

He stood up, the metal scrapped against the linoleum. 

“If I ever get my hands on your dad… God’s mercy on him 'cause it won’t be mine.” He pushed her hair back and kissed her forehead, his beard hair tickled her face. “John’ll be good to ya. You deserve it.”

Ghost came back after he left and found her crying. He grabbed her a tissue box and took up his silent watch. 

She liked that he was quiet. It made her calm. He would sit with his back towards her, legs stretched out with his heels resting on the floor. The chair in the room was the most comfortable and every half hour or so he’d get up and stretch before sitting back down. 

He’d talk if she did but there wasn’t a lot to say. She didn’t know anything about him. She just stared at his back and made up stories in her head.

“It’s rude to stare, love.” He spoke, shattering her mental picture of him watering an impressive rose garden. 

“Why the skull?” She blurted out. 

“Hmm?”

“Why the skull mask if ghosts don’t have bones?” 

“A skull’s more intimidating than a white sheet.”

“You do it to scare people?” He shrugged. It worked, scared the shit out of her. Scared the nurses too. He’d taken it off and switched to a medical mask, baseball cap, sunglasses, and pulled-up hoodie (all black); at Price’s request. Too many rumors had been swirling about the hospital apparently. “I mean it works. It was pretty fucking scary.”

“Scary enough to stab me?” He looked over his shoulder at her.

“In my defense, the rest of them were wearing balaclavas… how badly did I get you?”

“Not bad. Little more than a nick honestly. One of few to get me and survive to talk about it.” 

“Scary and dangerous.”

“Your boyfriend isn’t a pacifist either.”

“He doesn’t wear a skull mask.”

“He has before.”

She almost didn’t catch it - boyfriend. Was he her boyfriend? She played around with the word silently in her mouth. Boyfriend. It was a downgrade after spending the previous week referring to him as her husband.

They’d left the ring on her hand. It was disgustingly dirty now. The stone was cloudy and the band was tarnished. Dark brown blood filled any scratches. She hoped she’d be allowed to keep it. 

There was a knock on the door. Ghost got up and pulled the curtain around her; a standard procedure now. 

“You hear with permission or do I have to carry you back to your room?” Ghost said.

“He’s here with me.” Price said. “Is she up?”

John…

“I’m up.” She said before Ghost could get a syllable out. There was the squeak of rubber against linoleum. John hobbled around the corner. 

“Hey, Neen.” He was grinning. His face was bruised from where the butt of the gun hit him. 

“Hi, John.” She pushed herself up straighter. It fucking hurt. 

“Hey, careful. I’ll come to you.” He came around the side of the bed and dragged a chair over with his crutch. He took her hand in his, smile fading as he saw the bandage. It looked like he was choking on his words. “I’m so fucking sorry, Neen. I’m so fucking sorry.”

He looked at his feet and held her knuckles against his forehead. He was trying not to cry, she could see it in how his shoulders were hunched over. 

“Why are you apologizing?” She said, cupping his cheek. “You didn’t do anything.”

“I didn’t protect you, Neen. You almost died and I...I didn’t do anything,” His voice cracked. 

“Come here,” She tugged on his wrist. He looked up at her. “I almost got you killed.” 

She grazed her fingers over the bruise around his throat. 

“I didn’t want to watch you die,” she hiccuped. “ I was gonna come back for you. I wasn’t going to leave you. I was gonna kill him and I was going to come back. We were in it together. I failed just as much as you.”

John pressed his lips to her knuckles before speaking against them.

“I thought I was going to lose you. I don’t want to leave you here.” His eyes were red

“I’ll be okay… could you call me when you get back? So I know you’re okay? So I can hear your voice?” His eyes lit up and he smiled at that.

“Every night, Neen. I call ya every night. No matter what, you call I’ll pick up, aye? Till you touch ground in England. I told you you wouldn’t be able to get rid of me.” He pushed himself up on one crutch and leaned in to peck her cheek. He checked to make sure Ghost and Price weren’t looking before coming back with a sloppy kiss on her lips. 

“I might not be able to keep my hands off you next time,” he whispered. “If Price doesn’t kill me first.”

“I won’t let him.” She whispered back. 

“I get checked out tomorrow but Gaz and I will bring you lunch before we leave.” He gave her another quick kiss. He kept turning to leave but would stop to give her another kiss. 

“Come on, Soap. She still needs rest.” Price said, coming around the curtain to end their privacy. “You’ll see her tomorrow. “

“Call me,” he mouthed, holding up a hand to mimic a phone. She grinned and nodded. 

“So who’s paying for all these international calls you two are planning?” Price asked as they left. Ghost came around when the door shut. 

“Johnny’s a good man. Take care of him.”

“I will.” 

He nodded and went back to his post. She found herself smiling when she woke up the next morning. 

It was an early lunch. She, Price, and Ghost could hear Gaz yelling at John to slow down from the elevator to the room. 

Price was helping her sit up to eat when John came in, moving as fast as he could on crutches. 

“You’re supposed to knock, Johnny,” said Ghost. 

“Like you didn’t know it was me, L.t.” 

Gaz followed him with two large brown paper bags filled with food.

“Finest Mexican in Northwestern Canada for you, darling,” Gaz said as he started taking takeout containers and setting them on the fold-out tray beside her. 

“Thank you,” she smiled. Gaz and Price pulled up their own chairs and the four of them dove in. John used his limited vocal capacity to explain what everything was. 

“This is good but you have to try real Mexican one day.”

“Is this not real Mexican?”

“No way. Rudy showed Ghost and me the best street tacos I’ve ever had.”

“When have you ever had street tacos before?” Gaz asked, incredulously. 

“Never. That’s why they were the best.” The two started laughing. 

“Ghost? Come join us.” Nina said. He looked back over his shoulder at her and gave a soft shake of his head. “You need to eat” She turned to the others “I’ve never seen him eat.”

“I eat when you sleep, love.” 

“Price is cutting my food for me so I’m unarmed.”

“She does have a fork though,” Gaz laughed until Ghost gave him a look. He still pulled up a chair.

“What’s your opinion on the food?” She asked, offering him a chip. He took it but didn’t eat.

“Alejandro’s was better. Can tell by the smell.” 

“Didn’t think the two of you would be itching to go back to Mexico so quickly.”

“Just for the food, Sir,” John said. “Wouldn’t mind seeing the Vaqueros again someday.”

“Vaqueros?” Nina asked.

“Mexican special forces unit we worked with. Means cowboy.” Ghost said, he’d eaten the chip when no one was looking. 

“I’ll take you one day,” John said as he took another bite of fajitas. 

“You’re gonna take me to Mexico?” She asked. When he told her about Las Almas he didn’t speak of anything happy. 

“You’re taking her to Mexico?” Price asked, arms crossed. John shrugged.

“Outside of work, of course. Las Almas is beautiful when the sun’s out. There are other parts of the country I’d like to see too. Gulf Coast, the old temples.” He’d taken her hand and was rubbing his thumb over the back of it. “Don’t want to lose any of my Spanish skills either.”

He kept his hand on hers for the rest of lunch but eventually he had to leave. Gaz was kind enough to pack up any leftovers for Price to take back to his hotel. Laswell had secured them temporary housing once she checked out in a couple of days. They’d stay there till her paperwork was ready and she could fly. 

John lingered as he always did. He was careful of PDA in front of Price but would steal kisses to her cheek whenever he wasn’t looking. He wrote his number down on a napkin for her. When they were afforded a small moment of privacy, he pulled something from his pocket.

“I need you to take care of this for me, okay?” He handed her a silver necklace with his ring around it. “I have to see my maw when I get back and I think she’d lose her mind if she thought I eloped. Can you keep it safe for me till I see you again?”

She looked at him, tears springing up in the corners of her eyes as her bottom lip trembled. He kissed her. It was tender with his hand cupping the back of her head. 

“Six weeks and I’ll take you on a proper date, aye?” 

“Yeah.” He helped her put the necklace on. 

“Whatever you want to do, we’ll do it. Just you and me.” He kissed her cheek. 

She knew he would see him again. Laswell was going to drop off a phone for her tomorrow so they could talk. Six weeks wasn’t long compared to twelve years. She would sleep through most of it. His reassurances and sweet words didn’t help much when he gave her one last kiss goodbye. He was trying not to cry too. 

“Call me whenever, Nina. I mean it.” He would have stood in that doorway forever if Gaz hadn’t tugged him away. “Six weeks, it’s a date.”

“A date.” She smiled. 

And he was gone. 

“Six weeks,” she told herself. “Just six weeks.”

Tag List: @yeyinde @queen-ilmaree @yearningforsappho @mykneeshurt @gogh-with-the-flow

LMK if you want to be added for this or any other fic 💗

[kappakaijutv]

i’ve been having a lot of intrusive thoughts abt my boyfriend this past week from being off my meds and it’s super not cool cus i love him and i hate having these thoughts sometimes they really make me ready to die lmao

[thotlord69]

Bad Moon Rising Ch. 3

Smarter than Jason?

Leaning against the outside wall of the Blüdhaven warehouse, Jason flips a page in ‘Sense and Sensibility’ and resists the urge to scoff. Smarter than fucking Jason?

It’s so cliché, he could die again.

Like any good flavor connoisseur, Jason pairs his eye roll with a chew Hubba Bubba, now growing tough and bland between his back molars. He blows a resigned bubble, letting it balloon halfway up his vision before collapsing it with silence and little fanfare. He flips another page, tapping along the cover.

It’s unsatisfying, and his fingers almost twitch for a lighter.

Almost.

Narrowly, he stops them. Because-

“You can’t sneak up on someone if you smell like a cigarette from a mile away.”

“Fuck you, B.”

Jason’s vision falls out of focus.

Deep breath.

Anyway.

Because the craving itself is gone.

A cackle over his earpiece brings Jason back to the present, reminds him that he is here to listen, not to dwell, and that Botulism Wonder and Sorry, Who? unfortunately still exist.

He tunes in just in time to catch the end of Dick telling the new kid to stay put, and Jason almost laughs, because really? Stop trying to make ‘Stay put’ happen, Dick. It’s not going to happen. But the garage door to the warehouse grumbles open, and Jason is resigned to readying himself for the ~encounter~.

Showtime.

Jason slips a bookmark between the pages of the novel and nestles it in his sweatshirt pocket.

Deep breath.

“Nervous?”

Jason peers over the edge of the building, grappling hook at the ready in a definitely-not-trembling hand.

“No.”

Jason grits his teeth. No. He shoves away the memory and the nerves and-

Nightwing laughs, squeezes his shoulder. Leaps off the edge-

Fuck. Jason thought he was past this.

Remember how it ends.

Deep breath.

Remember why you’re here.

Jason holds his course and keeps his head down, right up to moment he rams his shoulder into Dick’s. The wingnut and his big ears (ugh he grew into them) stumble, affronted, to the side, and Dick’s arm wraps around his ribcage in a wince. Souvenirs from the night before, Jason assumes. Shouldn’t he be proud?

Dick looks up, and their eyes meet and he sucks in a breath so sharp Jason wouldn’t be surprised if Bitchass Wonder’s throat is bleeding. Dick says nothing. Just stares. Face to impossible face, and for a second (not even) Jason hesitates. For a second (not even) he-

Stop. Remember how it ends.

Jason squares up his shoulders, filling in the whole goddamn 6’3” frame he woke up in a year ago. Make your size useful.

“Watch it, Dickwad,” Jason spits all his anger into it and saunters backwards a step, soaking it in for one last microsecond. Dick Grayson, wide-eyed and ashen and speechless.

But, because greed is the death of every good plan, Jason cuts it off with a wink and leaves Dick behind.

 */~*~\*

 Dick feels like it’s different this time, like he’s not seeing things- when he blinks, this Jason is still there. God, he’s so tall, how did he get so-

No, focus. This isn’t Jason. This can’t be Jason. Oh, my God, this can’t be Jason.

Chest tight. Air. Breathe, Dick. Get a grip.

Dick breathes. Jason – no, not-Jason, imposter, assassin… Jason? says something. Dick can’t hear him. He leaves. Dick can’t follow him, feet glued, heavy. Jason is leaving. He’s losing- he’s losing him again?

That’s not Jason.

“Dick?”

Tim. Yesterday, this guy wanted to kill Tim. Get a hold of yourself.

A hand on his shoulder. Directly ahead, the assassin ducks into an alley. Dick straightens.

“Dick, what’s-”

And takes off running.

Vaguely, he hears Tim behind him, calling his name again. Dick doesn’t respond. No time.

Alley. Turn. Red sweatshirt, lighting a cigarette, it’s Jason, it’s not Jason, this person is dangerous, he-

Red sweatshirt, bunched in Dick’s hand. Against the wall. Dick is holding him against the wall. Seething.

More footsteps.

“Dick, what are you doing?” Tim again, panicked, “Who is that?”

“It’s-” Dick stutters. It should be obvious. Why isn’t it-?

The face. The guy’s face.

He isn’t Jason, he- he isn’t Jason. Features twisted in fear, sputtering, hands up and shaking and he isn’t Jason.

Dick relaxes his grip, lets the sweatshirt slip out of his fist and the guy falls.

The world comes back to him, suddenly and overwhelmingly, tunnel vision giving way to a damp and rancid alley with a stranger scrambling away at his feet. The stranger runs the other way, deeper into the alley, before Dick can say he’s sorry.

“I… thought he was someone else,” Dick offers lamely when he remembers that Tim is there, standing wide-eyed and rooted to the sidewalk. Holding a helmet.

“I just wanted to, um. You…” Tim shifts the helmet off between his palms, back and forth, in sync to his hand-offs between quiet sentences, “You forgot your helmet.”

Dick stares, looking between Tim and the helmet.

“And I thought you might want backup. With- whoever.” Tim clears his throat. “Whoever that was.”

Dick says nothing. Doesn’t know what to say. At least Tim is trying. And Dick is just standing there like a kitchen appliance. A refrigerator.

“Sorry, I wasn’t trying to- you know, tail you, or-” Tim exhales, looks to the ground. He stops jostling the helmet. “Or anything.”

“I know,” Dick gets his voice back. Tim doesn’t look up, and Dick can’t tell if that’s a relief.

Silence. Tim nods. Kind of.

Dick closes the distance between them. His had hovers, for a second or so, above Tim’s shoulder, unsure what to do. Your social skills are rubbing off on me, pal. Finally, Dick drops his hand, squeezes Tim’s shoulder and doesn’t let go when he probably should.

“Thanks, Tim.”

Tim raises his eyes and sets his jaw, keeping his two-handed hold on the helmet.

“He’s gonna find out, you know.”

Dick almost tries to smile, and gives Tim’s shoulder a final squeeze before taking the helmet from Tim’s part-unwilling grip. Slowly, Dick turns it over in his hands, considering all the ways he could respond.

In the end, he chooses none of them.

 */~*~\*

 Keith Thomas, 43, of Crown Point, Gotham City, New Jersey, is dressed in a red hoodie and black jeans because some punk said he’d pay him fifty bucks to wear ~matching clothes~ and stand in an alley for a half hour. Thinking it through now, Keith acknowledges that he should have recognized the inherent seediness of anyone requesting a body-double in Blüdhaven, and he’s lucky to not be behind bars.

But Jesus he did not sign up to risk his life at the hands of some coked-out pretty boy before seven in the morning. So he ran away, fifty dollars be damned, and fully expected the kid to be gone when Keith finally came sulking back an hour later.

He’s not gone.

The kid – nineteen? Maybe twenty? – is still sitting behind the dumpster in that shithole of a sidestreet, leaned up against the wall where Keith had run past him earlier – just after the narrow escape with his life, for reference. And he’s just…

Staring.

Keith waves his hand in front of the blank green eyes. They blink. Otherwise, nothing.

“Hey,” Keith tries, “Hey, you. Kid.”

Nada.

Maybe if Keith nudges him with his shoe.

Keith tries it.

Keith fails.

“Listen, buddy,” Keith sighs, “I dunno what kinda stuff you’re on, and I’m not mad,” He puts his hands up, “You know? I get it, it’s tough, but listen, kid, I need that fifty bucks.”

Silence.

“I mean, geeze, it’s not even gonna begin to cover the therapy I’m aboutta need to get over my encounter with your pal back there,” Keith thumbs back toward the entrance of the alley with a chuckle.

He’s pretty sure hoodie is too out of it to snap to life at the first sign of a joke, but hey. Worth a shot, because he really does need that fifty bucks. Rent is up, his kid needs a jacket, and Keith is looking to avoid Blüdhaven less savory cash schemes if he can.

Shouldn’a run away. Shoulda stayed, before goonie here could-

Keith sighs. Whining ain’t gonna get me my fifty bucks.

“Look,” Holds up his hands, “I’m not gonna, you know, go rifling through your pockets’r anything. But, come on, guy. I’ve got a kid at home.”

And he stirs. Ho-ly shit.

The kid’s eyes come into focus, the pupils get bigger. His shoulders perk up a little, and Keith offers a little smile as the kid frowns up at him, hoping he looks non-threatening.

But the kid tenses suddenly, and leans forward to peak around the dumpster.

“Relax, kid,” Keith considers kneeling to his eye-level, but rejects the notion in favor of his personal safety, “He’s gone.”

Red-hoodie nods, several times, and seems to consider what that means for him.

“He on what you on?” Keith asks.

“What?”

“Your friend,” Keith gestures to where the assailant had pinned him earlier, “The dazed and violently confused one?” He hovers an open palm in circles by his face.

“Dazed and violent…?”

Keith stares.

“…ly confused, yes,” He nods emphatically, “And you- same stuff?” Keith mimes putting a needle in his arm, pushing his thumb against his forefinger. The kid flinches. His eyes glaze over again.

“Aw, shit-” Keith mutters, now resigned to kneeling down, “Hey- I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to… freak you out, or anything,” He asserts, “I’m just- trying to figure out what I’m dealing with here, is all.”

The kid keeps staring just past Keith’s shoulder.

“Hey. Come back.”

Keith snaps.

The kid comes back. Looks at Keith again.

“There we go,” Keith starts to clap his hands together once, as the kid runs a hand across his face, “Anyway, kid, you got a name?”

The kid seems to hesitate, looks Keith up and down before answering. But he does answer.

“Jason.”

“Well, Jason,” Keith holds out his hand to shake, “It’s nice to meet you. My name is Keith, and you owe me fifty dollars.”

 */~*~\*

 When the earpiece in Dick’s helmet alerts him to an incoming call, after two hours on dirt road in Venezula with hardly another car to keep him company, Dick almost drives into a ditch. Because this helmet doesn’t have communication tech, and that was an intentional choice, and-

Someone switched the helmets. Tim switched the helmets.

“Absolutely exceptional…” Dick mutters, “Reject call.”

The phrase “CALL ACCEPTED” flashes in green across his visor.

“What? No! That’s not what I-”

“Dick.”

It’s Bruce. Because of course it’s Bruce.

“Uh, hey, B,” Dick tries to keep the edge out of his voice, “Now’s not-”

“Explain.”

Oh, boy.

“Explain?”

“Don’t play dumb with me.”

“Uh..?”

Okay. Okay. So, Bruce knows. But how much does Bruce know? Like, on a scale that starts with “lost in hand-to-hand combat” and ends with “solo-storming the secluded island home of one of the most dangerous men on the planet on the grounds that he doesn’t always kill intruders on-sight” (woof, mouthful)… well, there’s a lot of gray space. Ergo: there’s still a chance Dick can get out of this one.

But how to-

“I’m waiting.”

-do this tactfully. Ugh, goddammit Tim.

“Look, I’m not sure what Tim told you-”

“Tim? You told Tim about this?”

Bruce’s voice escalates to a higher pitch, and it clicks: Dick isn’t talking to Batman.

So, okay.

Things just got significantly less lethal; but also, more confusing.

Dick presses forward, a now-authentic bewilderment behind his words.

“Bruce, what are you talking about?”

“I just want to know why you told Barbara that you saw something we both know you didn’t see.”

Ahhhhhhhhhhh. Ah hah. Yeah.

“Well, for one,” Dick offers after a pause, “I didn’t think she’d tell you.”

Bruce scoffs from the other end.

“That’s your reason?”

“I just needed something to change the subject, and it’s not like it never happened-”

“It didn’t.”

“Yes, it did, Bruce, two years ago-”

“Ah, yes, when I was on Rimbor, how could I forget-”

“Before Rimbor.”

Several seconds pass in silence.

“Huh.”

“Yeah.”

“Well,” Bruce clears his throat, “Anyway, that’s not the same as happening yesterday,”

“You’ll have to forgive a little embellishment there, B, I was busy when it actually happened,” Dick passes a sign marking his exit, coming up in two kilometers, “I still can’t believe… I mean, you and Babs talked about this?”

“No,” A weary sigh, “She mentioned something to Alfred who, besides being a gossip, claimed to be concerned.”

“For you or for me?”

Dick should end the conversation. He should end it soon. If Bruce may isn’t suspicious yet (and you can never really tell), he will be any minute.

But, they never just… talk, anymore. It’s empty, and nice. And it’s possible that Dick actually, really, needs this. A little bit.

“It’s unclear,” Some papers shuffle in the background, and Dick pictures Bruce at the big mahogany desk in his office at the manor. Coffee, bathrobe. “Speaking of Alfred, he’s wondering when you’re coming by.”

“For what?” Dick scrunches his eyebrows and narrowly dodges a pothole.

“Gardening, apparently.”

Thank you, Barbara. So much.

“You’re already quite late, Master Dick,” Alfred pipes in, somewhat muffled, “And I’m afraid my azaleas are being choked to death as we speak.”

That’s Alfred for, ‘I see you and I’m allowing this to continue, but you are on the thinnest ice in the world.’

Dick winces, “Sorry about that, Alf, I-”

“I didn’t know you grew azaleas, Alfred.”

“It seems, Master Bruce, there is much you don’t know.”

“What do you-”

“Anyway!” Dick forces his way to the forefront of the conversation, highly fearful of the chaos he can practically see dancing across Alfred’s face, “Something came up today, but how about tomorrow, Alfred? After lunch?”

You know, assuming Dick lives that long.

“Humph,” More papers, some porcelain clanking.

“Alf?”

“He left.”

“Ouch.”

A pause. They’re out of things to distract themselves with. Dick’s smile slips away, as he racks his brain for things to fill the silence, to get there before Bruce does, but-

“Dick, are you… alright?”

He’s too slow.

Briefly, Dick considers all the things he could say. The things he probably should say, and that Bruce should probably know.

But he shakes it off.

He’s fine.

And Bruce would have an aneurism.

So, Dick settles on, “Fine, why?”

“I heard you had a rough night.”

“Babs again?” The bite in his voice was, maybe, a little too honest. Now Dick can probably add ‘relationship issues’ to the things Bruce will worry about.

“Multiple sources.”

“Oh,” Ugh, “It’s no big deal, B. I’m fine.”

“I heard something about broken ribs.”

“Bruised,” Dick amends, “You heard something about bruised ribs.”

Another sigh.

“Whatever you say.”

Dick slows down as he passes a farmer and his herd of cattle, crossing the road like mooing molasses. Places to be, people.

“Is that mooing?”

“Uh,” Shoot, think of something, “Yeah, I, uh-”

The farmer gestures angrily between Dick and the cattle.

“¡Tu moto está asustando a mis vacas!”

“Where are you?”

Dick smiles sheepishly at the farmer and waves, pretending not to understand.

“Just getting some fresh air,” He tells Bruce, then back to the farmer: “No hablo Español!” Dick gives the man an exaggerated shrug, and the farmer groans. The man continues his gesturing, growing more and more irate. The mooing intensifies.

“What do you mean ‘no hablo Español’? You absolutely-”

Dick closes his eyes and tunes out both Bruce and the farmer, silently counting to five.

“Bruce. Relax,” Dick revs up the motorcycle again, navigating carefully around the back of the herd, “I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”

“Dick-”

Dick taps the button on beneath the side of the helmet, and the words “CALL ENDED” flash on the screen before settling somewhere heavy in his chest.

 */~*~\*

 Bruce sighs, staring at the phone in his hand and wondering, not for the first time, where he went wrong.

“So that he would end up like you?”

“So that he wouldn’t.”

He places the phone face-down on his desk and leans back, pensive. Calmly, Bruce assures himself of the following:

-Dick has friends.

-Dick, when necessary, has been known to ask for help.

-Dick knows his limits.

-Dick is logical.

Therefore, Dick is fine.

And yet… well. And yet.

Bruce stands, gathering his coffee mug, and heads swiftly toward the grandfather clock in the hall.

It never hurts to be cautious.

 */~*~\*

 “I thought you had plans today.”

Tim shrugs and sips on his tea as Bruce approaches from behind, both staring up at the Batcave computer.

“Fell through.”

“Common theme today,” Bruce takes a seat without explaining further and nods to the mouse, “May I?”

“Sure. I was just reading through some old cases,” Tim lies, hoping he’d closed his real tabs quickly enough when Bruce had first walked in. No need to discuss his sudden interest in Lazarus pits and Blüdhaven security footage.

“Thanks,” Bruce navigates to the familiar location icon and pulls up his tracking program, “It’ll only take a minute.”

Dots light up all across a map of the world, each the location of someone, knowingly or otherwise, carrying a piece of Bat tech around with them. Oracle’s tower, the Blüdhaven warehouse, and the Batcave shine like beacons.

“What’re you looking for?” Tim asks as Bruce pulls up a call-log and types in the code of the most recent caller. Tim takes another sip of his tea-

“Well, I just got off the phone with Dick, and-”

-and chokes on it. Dick is gonna kill him.

“Sorry,” Tim coughs out, “Wrong- wrong pipe. I’m fine. Sorry.”

Bruce raises an eyebrow, first at Tim and then at the splotches of Earl Grey now decorating the desk and keyboard.

“Anyway,” Bruce looks back to the monitor while Tim tries not to die, “His behavior gave me reason for concern. I’m just checking in.”

“Oh,” Tim purses his lips, nodding with his whole upper torso, “Okay.”

Dick is gonna kill him so much.

“Huh…” Bruce frowns as the computer hones in on a singular red dot, “What is he doing in Venezuela?”

“Helping Alfred with the gardening?” Tim offers weakly, unprepared for the way Bruce whips around to stare at him in response.

“Alfred doesn’t grow azaleas,” Bruce declares, like it’s both some kind of grand reveal and a fierce accusation. He keeps Tim under his iron gaze.

But. What?

“Uh…”

The computer beeps, and both bats turn to see “SIGNAL LOST” blinking over the map in red. Tim’s stomach drops. That wasn’t supposed to happen.

“Oh man,” Tim breathes, “He must’ve smashed the helmet.”

Bruce stops typing.

“What?” He growls.

“I mean…” Tim fumbles for a recovery, “That’s what you’re tracking him with, right?”

“How did you know that I’m tracking him with a helmet?”

“Uh…” Fair point, Bruce, “I… memorized the ID prefixes?”

Bruce holds his gaze for another five seconds, as if waiting for Tim to give in under the pressure. He doesn’t.

Bruce looks back to the computer. Tim tries very hard not to audibly sigh.

“Why would he smash his helmet?”

Tim leans back, adopting his most perplexed expression.

“Who knows?” He shrugs his shoulders all the way to his chin, cupping his tea and taking a far-too-noisy sip.

“I know you’re a better liar than this, Tim,” Bruce mutters without looking away, “So what are you doing?”

Half a beat.

Tim stares furiously at his tea.

“Well?” Bruce cocks an eyebrow.

And that’s all, folks. The total extent of Tim Drake’s ability to cover for Dick Grayson’s dumb and death-defying newfound martyr complex in the name of brotherly companionship. At least I tried.

“Dick’s going to Infinity Island confront Ra’s al-Ghul one-on-one about someone under Ra’s’ command- the one who attacked last night,” Tim explains, “I had a plan to short out his bike with an EMP I rigged in his helmet, but he beat me to it.”

Signal lost.

Tim adds, “Hopefully. But we still might be able to…”

Bruce is gone, his chair still rolling at eighty miles an hour across the Batcave floor. Look up ‘dramatic’ in the dictionary, and you’ll see Bruce Wayne in half a cowl.

“Bruce, wait!” Tim jumps up from his chair, following close on Bruce’s heels as the latter makes haste for the armory.

“Tim, I need you to stay here and work with Oracle to help-”

“Oracle doesn’t need my help,” Tim interrupts, standing now between Bruce and his suit, “You need-”

“I need you safe,” Bruce counters, stepping past Tim with little hesitation, “I don’t know what Ra’s has done to draw Dick to the island, but it can’t be-”

“I do.”

Bruce stops, halfway through punching in a code, moving only his head to look thunderously down at Tim.

“Excuse me?”

Tim straightens, swallowing every basic fear instinct he has ever had, and soldiers on.

“I was at the fight last night, and confronted Dick this morning,” Tim holds his voice steady, makes it strong like he’s talking to his squad and not to Bruce, “I know why Dick is going to Ra’s, I know why he’s doing it alone, and I know why he didn’t tell you.”

For ten whole seconds, Bruce doesn’t even blink. It’s possible he doesn’t breathe, either, but from Tim’s position it’s hard to tell. The guy just… stares at his computer, unmoving, fingers frozen over the keyboard. Looking closely, Tim can see Bruce’s jaw twitching and his eyes narrowing at a nearly imperceptible pace.

“I have information you need,” Tim continues, moving toward his Robin costume without waiting for affirmation, “And I’m coming with you.”

Tim just lost, he’s pretty sure, at least ten years off his life; and once this is over he will likely need several months of intense emotional rest (ha) before he can muster up enough confrontational energy to ask a waiter for ketchup. Meaning, he might never again be able to ask for ketchup.

But Bruce makes no moves to stop him as Tim collects his gear.

And so, whatever the cost, Tim and Bruce are going to Infinity Island. Ch. 1: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17959733/chapters/42417314

Ch. 2: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17959733/chapters/44542795

[thelastspeecher]

Stan Pines, Farmhand - Chapter 14: A Lovely Day for a Funeral

Chapter 1   Chapter 2   Chapter 3   Chapter 4   Chapter 5   Chapter 6 Chapter 7   Chapter 8   Chapter 9   Chapter 10   Chapter 11   Chapter 12 Chapter 13   Chapter 14   Chapter 15   Chapter 16   AO3

As the title suggests, this is a pretty heavy chapter.  There’s some lighthearted things to try to cut the sadness, but it’s still overall intense and angsty.  Sorry not sorry.  But anyways, in this chapter, Stan recovers from the crushing loneliness of the previous one, starts up a business, and attends a funeral.  Enjoy.

January 17, 1982

               “You girls havin’ a good time with Gran and Gramps?” Stan asked, trying to inject some false happiness into his tone.

              “It’s okay,” Danny said quietly.  

              “Can we come home?” Daisy asked. Stan bit his lip and tried to force back tears.

              “Not yet, junebug.”

              “I wanna see Ma,” Danny said.  

              “I know, sweetheart.  I know.  But she’s still sleepin’.  I’ll let you guys know when she wakes up, okay?”

              “Okay,” Danny said.  

              “Don’t worry.  Your ma and I will come to pick you up sometime soon, hopefully. But right now, ya need to go to bed.”

              “G’night, Dad.”

              “Night, Dad.”

              “Goodnight, sweetheart.”  Stan hung up the phone and stared at it blankly for a few moments, before returning to Angie’s hospital room.  He sat in the chair next to her bed and put his head in his hands.  His shoulder was in agonizing pain from the burn he’d gotten only hours before.

              But I can’t leave her alone.  What if she wakes up and I’m not here?  Maybe- maybe it would be better if I wasn’t.  All I’ve done is fuck up everything.

              “I can’t do anything,” he whispered, tears beginning to fall.  “I can’t take care of my kids, I can’t protect my fam’ly or my wife, I can’t even scrape together enough money to get a good doctor.  I- I don’t know how I’m gonna feed myself or pay these hospital bills. I could barely afford to call my daughters.  

              “I shoulda never gone to Arkansas. If- if I hadn’t, then Fidds wouldn’t be missin’, Ford wouldn’t be god-knows-where, and you wouldn’t be in the hospital.  I’m sorry, Angie.  I ruined your fam’ly.”  

              “Stan?”  Stan’s head jerked up.  His breath caught.  Angie had turned her head to face him.  Her eyes were open.  

              “Angie!  Oh, thank god, you’re finally awake!”  He grabbed her hand.  

              “What was all that ‘bout?” she whispered, as though it required a lot of effort to speak.  “Fidds and Ford are gone?”  Stan could hear something wrong with her voice then.  Some of the words were slurring together, and she stumbled over the beginning of a few of them.

              The doctor said the head trauma might cause some trouble with talking.

              “Yes.  But don’t worry, we’ll find ‘em.  After you’re outta here.”  

              “What happened?”  Stan looked around nervously.

              “Babe, I don’t wanna talk about that here.  And ya need to save your strength.  We can talk about all of this when you’re home.”  

              “Stan, yer worryin’ me.”

              “I know.  But Fidds wouldn’t want ya to work yourself up over him.”  Angie nodded slowly.

              “Ya have a point.”  She squeezed his hand.  “Where are the girls and Tate?”

              “Gumption.”

              “Ma ‘n Pa are watchin’ ‘em?”

              “Yeah.”

              “That’s good.”  She closed her eyes.  “I don’t know if I can stay awake much longer, Stan.  I’m awful tired.”

              “Get your sleep,” Stan said.  He kissed her.  “Just promise me you’ll wake up.”

----- 

October 12, 1985

               Stan walked into the gift shop, turning the sign to read “CLOSED” as he did so. Angie was sitting at the register poring over bills.

               “Any luck?” she asked without looking up.

               “Nope.  No one wants to work at the Murder Hut.”

               “About that… a name change might help.”

               “Why do ya want to hire someone so bad?” Stan asked, taking a seat next to her. One of Angie’s hands strayed to her stomach.

               “Just thinkin’ ‘bout the future is all,” she said softly.  “Gettin’ some help would make things easier in a few months.”  Stan sighed.

               “I know.  And I’m tryin’.”

               “If only Fidds were here…”

               “Angie, it’s been three years since we’ve seen him.  I don’t think he’s comin’ back.”  There was a loud crash from the kitchen.  Stan and Angie leapt up.  

               “What was that?” Angie asked.  Stan put a hand on her shoulder.

               “Stay here.  I’ll go check it out.”

               “Ma!  Dad!”

               “The kids!” Angie gasped.  She took off, Stan close behind.  Stan beat her to the kitchen and tackled the intruder to the ground.  “Kids, get over here,” Angie said briskly.  Danny and Daisy did as they were told.  Tate didn’t move, instead staring at the intruder with wide eyes.

               “Tate!” Danny whimpered.  

               “Who do ya think you are?” Stan shouted at the strange man.

               “…Pa?” Tate said hesitantly.

               “What?”  Stan looked at the man he had attacked.  “Holy shi- shoot.  Fiddleford?”

               “Yes- yessir,” Fiddleford stammered.  “Could ya get off me?”

               “Oh.  Right.” Stan got up and helped Fiddleford to his feet.

               “Fidds?” Angie said.  Fiddleford nodded, not making eye contact with anyone.  “Fidds, where have ya been fer the last three years?”  

               “I- I can’t say,” Fiddleford said woodenly.  Angie and Stan exchanged a worried look.

               “Kids, go brush yer teeth and go to bed,” Angie said gently.

               “Will ya tuck us in?” Danny asked.

               “Of course, sweetheart.  Once we’re done talkin’ with yer Uncle Fiddleford.  Now, go on upstairs, all three of ya.  That’s right, you too, Tate.”  The three children left the room, looking back at the adults on their way out. Stan pulled up a chair at the table.

               “All right, Fidds, take a seat.  I think we need to have a conversation.”

               “Agreed,” Angie said, sitting down next to Stan.  Fiddleford eyed the nearest chair suspiciously, as though it might attack him.  “Fidds, come on.  Sit down.” He did as he was told, continuing to refuse to make eye contact.  

               “The kids look good,” he said in a jittery voice.  “Tate seems like he’s doin’ well, and the girls are awful cute. Have ya thought ‘bout havin’ more kids?”

               “Yes, actually,” Angie said.  “But that’s not what we need to talk about.”

               “Where were ya?” Stan asked.  “We looked everywhere.”

               “I- I can’t recall,” Fiddleford said weakly.  “I woke up this mornin’ and couldn’t even ‘member my own name.” Angie made a small, distressed sound. “It came back pretty quick,” Fiddleford said, “but I’m still missin’ some things.  I know Tate is my son, but who’s his other parent?”  Stan got the odd feeling that something inside of him had just dropped.

               “Ya- ya really don’t know?” Stan asked.  Fiddleford shook his head.  

               “Maybe it’s fer the best,” Angie said quietly, rubbing one of Fiddleford’s hands.  “This way, ya can avoid some heartbreak.”  Fiddleford smiled weakly at her.

               “When did my baby sister get so dang mature?”

               “Around the time I had to raise my nephew and two daughters, help my husband run a business, continue to do my own research, and go to speech therapy,” Angie said.  Fiddleford’s face broke.  “Things have been rough ‘round here, Fidds.  Ya can’t show up and expect us to sweep everythin’ under the rug just ‘cause we missed ya.  Ya were gone durin’ the most difficult part of all of it.”

               “I’m sorry,” Fiddleford said softly.

               “I know ya are.”  

               “Ma?  Are you gonna tuck us in?” Daisy called from upstairs.  Angie stood.

               “Comin’, junebug!”  She gave Stan a gentle kiss and left the room.  Fiddleford’s eyes widened at the sight of her profile.

               “Ya weren’t jokin’ ‘bout havin’ another kid, huh?”

               “It’s more than one.  Again.”

               “When are they due?”

               “March.  But that’s not what’s important,” Stan said.  “Angie was right.  You up and left at the worst moment.”

               “I know.  And I’m sorry.”

               “Sorry won’t change what happened.”  Stan sighed.  “But yer here now, and that’s what matters.  As you can guess, we’re gonna need some extra help ‘round the place in a few months. Are ya gonna stay this time?”

               “Yes.”

               “Promise me, brother.”

               “I promise.”

----- 

May 24, 1993

               “Mystery Shack, how can I help ya?”

               “Stanley…”  Stan’s heart stopped at his mother’s tone.

               “What is it, mom?”

               “It’s- it’s Filbrick.  He- he had a heart attack yesterday and he, uh, he passed away.  They called it a coupla minutes ago.”  Stan froze, the phone nearly slipping out of his hand. “I know there wasn’t any love lost between you and your father, but I-”  Ma Pines paused.  She continued speaking in a choked up voice.  “-I thought you should know.”  The ground seemed to fall out from under Stan.  It felt like the world had stopped moving.  

               “Dad, I wanna lollypop,” Emmett, one of his seven-year-old twin sons, said, tugging at his shirt.  “Can I take one from the gift shop?”  Stan didn’t respond.  “Dad?” When his father continued to stay silent, Emmett ran off, shouting for his older sisters.  

               “You don’t need to come to the service.  Hell, I doubt you’d want to if even I begged,” Ma Pines continued.  “But a boy needs to know when his father dies.”

               “Y-yeah,” Stan finally stammered.  “Th-thanks, mom.  And…I’m sorry you’re gonna be on yer own now.”

               “Oh, hush.  I’ll be fine. More or less.”  Ma Pines sniffled, somehow making the sound elegant.  “And I’ll wanna talk to those grandkids of mine next time I call, okay?  Given that they’re yours, those girls and boys oughtta be raising hell, and I wanna know what kind of hell it is.”

               “Okay, mom.”  

               “I love you, Stanley.”

               “I love ya, too.”  Stan hung up the phone and stared at it on the hook for a few seconds, before stumbling backwards drunkenly.  

               “Whoa, whoa, dad!” Daisy said, barely catching him.  “I’m not strong enough to hold you up!”  Stan stood and turned around.  Emmett was hiding behind Daisy, who looked concerned.  

               That’s the same look Angie gets when she’s worried.

               “Emmett came and got me,” Daisy said.  “He said something was wrong, that you weren’t talking to him.  Is everything all right?”  Stan ran a hand through his hair.

               I can’t be a good dad right now. I can’t.  He swallowed, remembering whose death he had just been told of. But I have to.

               “Yeah, junebug.  Everything’s fine.”  Daisy eyed him suspiciously.  

               “Really?”

               “Yeah.  I just need a moment is all.  You and Danny take over tours for the rest of today, okay?”

               “Okay, but-”  Stan walked away before Daisy could finish talking.  Like before, noises and things seemed to fade, until he was relying only upon muscle memory to get to his bed and sit down heavily.  

               Why am I upset?  That bastard never cared about me, he never supported me, never loved me.  I should be glad that he’s gone.  But I’m not. And it’s not just ‘cause Mom’ll be on her own now.  A voice broke through the mental fog that had surrounded him.

               “Stan?”  He felt the bed sag slightly as someone sat next to him and put a gentle arm around his shoulders.  “The kids said somethin’s wrong.  What happened?” Angie asked in a soft voice.  

               “My pops is dead.”  

               “…Oh.  I’m so sorry, darlin’.”

               “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.  I should be dancin’ on that fucker’s grave.  But I- I miss him.”

               “Feelin’s don’t always make sense,” Angie said.  She stroked his cheek.  “Are ya goin’ to be fine on yer own, or do ya want me to stay?”  

               “…You can go if you-”

               “Do ya want me to stay?”

               “If ya want,” Stan said, trying to sound casual.  Angie sighed.

               “There ain’t nothin’ wrong with bein’ vulnerable sometimes, Stanley. Nothin’ wrong with needin’ help, or a lovin’ touch.”  She rested her head on his shoulder.  “Maybe someday I’ll get through that thick skull of yours.”  Stan chuckled, despite himself.  Angie laced her fingers with his.  “You’ll get through this, Stanley Pines.  Ya got through tragedy ‘fore.  You’ll do it again.”

               “…Yeah.”  He knew she was talking about Ford, completely oblivious as to his attempts to get the machine up and running again.  Stan squeezed Angie’s hand.  She responded by nestling herself against him.

                Ford…I wonder what he would think about Pops being dead.  I guess I’ll have to ask him when he gets back.  He could feel Angie’s steady breathing, the warmth from her body percolating into his.  I’m gonna bring him back.  I have to.  

----- 

April 6, 1998

               “Dad?”  Stan looked up from his latest taxidermy creation, an unholy combination of a largemouth bass and a peregrine falcon.

               “What is it, Emmett?” he asked.

               “Em wanted to talk to you ‘n Ma about something.”  Stan frowned at his youngest child.

               “What?  It better not be another appeal ‘bout the banned activities list.  Y’all know the rules.  Once somethin’s on that list, you’re not gonna do it.”  Emmett shook his head, making his brown curls bounce. At twelve years old, he was already taller than Angie, and showed a distinct resemblance to his McGucket relatives.

               “No.  I mean, I do think some of the things on the list should be reconsidered-”

               “Emmett…”

               “-but the thing Em wants to talk about is different,” Emmett finished.

               “Where are they?”

               “The kitchen.”  

               “Got it.”  Stan exited the room he had designated as his “workshop”.  He looked back, but Emmett wasn’t following.  “Ya comin’?”  Emmett shook his head again.  

               “Em just wanted to talk to you and Ma.”

               “All right.”  

               The kids never wanna talk to us one-on-one unless they got in trouble.  What did Emory do this time?  Lost in his thoughts, Stan didn’t watch where he stepped.  As a result, he didn’t notice Danny’s latest project, a semi-sentient toaster, laying on the floor.  

               “Hot Belgian waffles!” Stan roared upon stubbing his toe on his oldest child’s experiment.  The toaster made a sad beeping noise.  “Danica Viola Pines!”

               “Yeah?” Danny called.  Her voice was a bit distant; she was probably upstairs doing homework.  She was trying to get it out of the way so that she could enjoy most of her Spring Break.

               “Ya can’t leave your stuff layin’ ‘round the house!”  

               “Sorry, Dad!”

               “Come get yer toaster thing ‘fore someone else gets hurt!”  There was a momentary pause.

               “Can I get it in a lil bit?  I’m almost done with my essay.”  Stan sighed.

               “Fine.”  He nudged the toaster off to the side so that no one else would trip over it and finished making his way to the kitchen.  Angie was sitting at the table with Emory, Emmett’s older twin.  Stan kissed his son and wife on the head before taking a seat next to Angie.  

               “Danny’s stuff hurt ya, huh?” Angie said.  Stan nodded.

               “We’ve got too many kids, Angie.”

               “No we don’t.”

               “Okay, but the girls are mad scientists.  Still can’t believe Danny got into MIT, since her experiment she presented was a death robot.”  He cracked his back before settling into a more comfortable sitting position.  “What’s goin’ on, squirt?”  As the shortest of the children, Emory had picked up that nickname early on.  Emory took a deep breath.

               “It’s- there’s somethin’ I need to tell ya.”  His voice broke.  “But I’m a bit scared.”  

               “Oh, hon, don’t be,” Angie said immediately.  “We’re always here fer ya.”  Stan nodded. Emory took another breath.

               “I- I’m not a boy.”  Stan blinked. He looked at Angie, who had a perplexed expression on her face.  “I talked to Uncle Fidds about it and- and he said that he’s a similar sorta way and-”

               “Sweet potata,” Angie said gently, “are ya sayin’ yer transgender?” Emory nodded hesitantly.

               “Y-yes.  I- I’m a girl.  And maybe you’ll be good about it, maybe you won’t but I thought should tell ya.”    

               “Why wouldn’t we be good about it?” Stan asked.  Emory looked at him.

               “I- I just know that yer proud to have two sons and-”

               “I’m proud of all of ya.  Son or daughter, mad scientist or child that doesn’t blow up the house every other week,” Stan said airily.  He squinted at Emory.  “But if ya get married, you’re keepin’ the Pines last name, right?  I know Danny’s not plannin’ on it.”  Emory cracked a half-smile.

               “Stan,” Angie sighed.  “Hon, how do ya want us to refer to ya?” she asked her child.  Emory brushed aside caramel-colored bangs.  

               “W-well.  Um, she and her and stuff like that.”

               “That’s a given,” Angie said.  “I was talkin’ ‘bout yer name.”

               “Oh!  Uh, I dunno,” Emory said with a shrug.  

               “Our other name choice was Emily,” Stan suggested.  “From ‘fore you were born.”  Emory nodded slowly.

               “I- I like that.”  Angie smiled kindly.

               “Then that’s what we’ll call ya.”  

               “Emily Pines does sound better than Emory Pines,” Stan said idly.  Angie rolled her eyes.  

               “Yer just sayin’ that ‘cause I picked Emory and you picked Emily.”  

               “I’m just better at namin’ things.”

               “Ya named that dang goat Gompers,” Angie said.  She frowned.  “Where is that critter, by the way?”

               “Uh, I think Daisy wanted to use Gompers fer something,” Emily said.

               “Isn’t usin’ pets in experiments on the banned list?” Angie asked.  She looked over at the fridge, where the list of things the children were not allowed to do was kept.  She picked up her half-moon reading glasses, which she kept on a chain around her neck, and put them on to squint at the list.  

               “Well?” Stan asked after a few seconds had passed.  Angie groaned.

               “It ain’t on the list.”  There was a loud crash from somewhere inside the house.  

               “It’s gonna be now,” Stan grumbled.  

               “Gompers, no!”  Daisy’s shout was accompanied by a series of destructive sounds.

               “I told ya, they’re mad scientists,” Stan said firmly.  He frowned at Emily.  “And since it turns out you’re a girl, you’ll be one too, won’t ya.”  Emily grinned.

               “Maybe.  I do like explosions.”  

               “That’s too bad for you, then.”  Stan stood up.  “Explosions were the first thing on the list.”  He set off to investigate the damage to the house.  

----- 

August 17, 2009

               The sun was bright, the air was warm, the sky was a gentle blue.  It was a beautiful fall day.  

Stan stood stoically next to his wife and kept his gaze trained on the casket being lowered into the ground.  

               “Today, we lay to rest Dulcimearl Raymond McGucket,” the pastor began. Stan could feel Angie’s whole body shuddering with grief.  He put a gentle arm around her shoulders.  “Mearl, as everyone called him, was a pillar of this community.  His fam’ly was one of the founding fam’lies of Gumption, and he embodied the spirit of our founders: honesty, hospitality, and, well, gumption.  To him, fam’ly was of the utmost importance, and he poured himself to helping his daughters and sons, including those who were not biologically his, but spiritually his. He always dreamed of becoming an artist. In a way, he did; his children were his greatest works of art.

               “Mearl never went to college, and insisted his children have the opportunities he didn’t.  He fought the Gumption School District tooth and nail to make sure his fam’ly was taken care of.  Mearl was a kind, gentle soul, but never afraid to fight for those he loved.  A true Christian, he opened his heart and home to all, regardless of background, religion, or any other factor.  Though many in his fam’ly were dif’rent, he accepted and loved them all, as any father should.”  Stan glanced over at Fiddleford, who was standing next to Lute woozily.

               He looks like he could topple over if there’s a mildly strong breeze.  

               “Dulcimearl is outlived by his wife, Sally, his seven children, his ten grandchildren, and his eighteen great-grandchildren, as well as numerous nieces and nephews.  He was the last of his siblings to pass away.”  The pastor bowed his head solemnly.  “He will be missed.”  That was the last straw for Angie, who began to sob in earnest.

               “Ma, it’s okay,” Emily said softly, hugging her mother.  “He’s in a better place now.”  Stan squeezed Angie in a comforting manner as she continued to cry. He looked over at Lute and Fiddleford again.  Lute had a calm expression, belying the tears streaming down his face.  Fiddleford was now leaning against Basstian, pale and devastated.  

               “Would anyone like to say a few words?” the pastor asked.  Stan removed his arm from around Angie’s shoulders and took a step forward.  The pastor nodded at him.  Stan swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry.

               “Mearl saw me stranded on the side of a road in New Jersey when I was seventeen,” he began.  “And even though he didn’t know anything about me, he invited me to live with him, and his fam’ly.  I don’t wanna think about what might’ve happened, if he hadn’t seen me back then.

               “I didn’t know what a good dad was like until I met him.  Some part of me wishes I didn’t know, that I hadn’t met Mearl, ‘cause then I wouldn’t be- be hurtin’.  But more of me is happy that I got the chance to find a fam’ly that cared about me and- and loved me.”  Tears began to well up in Stan’s eyes.  “And all of that is ‘cause of Mearl.”  He looked at the casket.  “I’m gonna miss you, Dad.”  He stepped back again, biting his lip in an attempt not to cry.  Emmett and Daisy wrapped their arms around him in a tight hug. Emily and Danny were still trying to comfort Angie, whose tears were dampening her dress.  The pastor looked over at Ma McGucket.

               “Would his widow like to say something?”  Ma McGucket nodded and stepped forward regally.  She was the most composed of anyone at the funeral, something Stan had noticed right away.

               She always keeps her head when things go to shit.  Ma McGucket brushed a strand of snow-white hair away from her face in the same manner as Angie and Violynn often did.  She cleared her throat and began to speak.

               “I met Mearl when I was in college.  Things happened pretty dang fast after that, and I ended up balancin’ bein’ a mom with finishin’ my degree.  Mearl was always there.  When I had a night class, he put the kids to bed on his own.  He made meals.  He changed diapers and gave baths and read bedtime stories.  He was the love of my life, my soulmate, my forever partner.

               “Mearl had the biggest heart of anyone I’d ever met.  Not ‘cause he was southern, but ‘cause that’s just who he was. He was a father to everyone, even if they weren’t born his children.”  Ma McGucket met Stan’s eyes and cracked a small, sad smile.  “I shudder to think of how the lives of everyone here would be dif’rent, if it weren’t fer Mearl’s kindness.”  She looked down at the casket.  “Near the end, he struggled a lot.  We both knew he���d be joinin’ his sisters, brothers, and parents in Heaven soon.  He told me to take care of everyone when he was gone.  And I aim to do that.”  She looked up again, her eyes bright with unshed tears.  “Y’all may have lost a father, but yer mother’s still here.  And I’m stayin’ fer a while.  I’ll wait to join Mearl until I can tell him an’ Saint Peter for certainty that everyone in this fam’ly is safe and sound.  

               “I’ll miss him every minute of every day.  But I ain’t leavin’.  I’ve got an eternity to spend with him after this life.  Five, ten, fifteen years ain’t goin’ to make a difference in Heaven, but it’ll make a difference here on Earth.  Like Mearl always said, fam’ly comes first.”  

               Stan couldn’t hold back his tears anymore.