#it's almost uncanny in a bad way but... it also fires off the gun in my braincage so uh

[tsunael]

bad habits.

-> inspo

[midnightdevotion]

Predators

Part two to prey

Pairing: Phoenix x reader callsign tiger (enemies to lovers)

warnings: swearing if that counts as one? and enemy themes

a/n: this was gonna be posted yesterday but I passed out way earlier than normal, oops. Hope you guys like it!

You pull up to the beach on what should've been a calm Tuesday morning. However, with the group of aviators arriving for something called dogfight football you doubt it will be anything close to a peaceful day.

You'd been at top gun for about a week now, and you've been on Natasha like smoke on a fire. The dog fighting in the sky has been intense, but you loved every second of pissing Natasha Trace off.

As for the rest of the team you guys all got along pretty well, nobody really wanted to get between whatever the hell kind of rivalry you two had. You and hangman got on like a wild fire. Which only pissed Phoenix more, which in turn made you even closer to Hangman.

You glance up as you see maverick pulling into the beach parking. He has two footballs and a group of aviators confused as to what exactly dog fight football entails.

He assigns teams and you can't help the smirk that graces your face as you are not only opposite teams as Phoenix but also Jake hangman Seresin is on your team.

"Ready tiger" Jake comes over to you and has a wicked grin on his face.

"born ready hangman" and then the game starts. It takes some time for everyone to figure out exactly how to play defensive and offensive at the same time, and then the chaos really begins.

It doesn't take long for you to start targeting Trace. Tackling her every chance you get, and you can tell it's pissing her off with how well you and Hangman are working together. It only really fuels your fire. It's like you and Jake can read each others mind, a simple look being all you need to communicate. The team is watching how play after play you go for Natasha, like a true tiger hunting down her dinner.

It's overall an exhausting day, but you can't help but to feel energized because you know you pissed Phoenix off all day, and it's only a matter of time before she lashes out at you.

"What the fuck is your problem Tiger" and you can't help but grin as you slowly turn around to look down at her seething form.

"What do you mean birdie? I don't have a problem" You know the entire team is watching with either apprehension or amusement.

"Then why are you so stuck on hating me? What the hell did I ever do to you" and maybe it's the fact that she genuinely seems confused about her ripping the only family you ever had right out of your hands, but it pisses you off even more.

"You stole everything" Your voice is lethal, eyes squinted and fists clenched. You see out of the corner of your eyes some of the team members step closer, it would make you laugh any other time but you are too busy hiding your pain behind anger.

Your gaze on Phoenix is predatory, and it's almost uncanny how much your callsign makes sense. Your intense stare makes her expressions and emotions unmissable. So you notice when realization dawns on her, putting the puzzle pieces together on why you hate her guts as much as you do. Sure you guys always bickered and tried to one up each other, which in hind sight wasn't all that safe, but once she took everything you loved you couldn't stop the joking rivalry from turning into a real one.

You have no interest in continuing this conversation, especially not in front of everyone, so you walk away. Your eyes scan the faces of your team and they all seem fine, but you see the weariness in mavericks eyes and you can't help but feel a little bad. You know all he's trying to do is make you guys a solid team, like the one you had back in Hawaii.

The next day, you're back in the jets dogfighting and running simulations. Maverick, putting you and hangman on a team after how well you two worked together during football was certainly paying off. You hadn't been tagged once by your fellow aviators, you and Hangman working in seamless harmony to take them all out.

You hear the groans from Phoenix and Bob as you take them down for the third time.

"time for more pushups" comes your sing songy voice in the headsets.

"shut the fuck up Tiger" Phoenix's clipped tone bites back

"Oooh birdie has talons" You smirk and you hear hangman laughing at your retort, only spurring you on. Unfortunately you don't get a reply from the downed pilots as they go to land.

You can almost picture her stomping down the tarmac angrily. It only brightens your mood.

"Alright aviators, you ready for the real challenge" you hear mavericks voice come over the comms. You glance at hangman out of the corner of your eye, and see him nod.

Maverick comes out of no where, quickly getting behind you, but you know exactly what you're going to do. Hangman is quick to drop off, looking like he's leaving you behind to get killed but, tigers are the hunters not the hunted. So you drop.

Quickly maneuvering so you pop up behind maverick, you know he has a way around this, in fact you're counting on it. You grin as he takes the bate, pulling the exact move you were expecting him too. Hangman is suddenly there and ready, it takes him a second but he gets lock on maverick.

There's a stunned silence that falls over everyone, even you and Hangman. Yes you guys had sat down and talked strategies to get maverick but having it actually work was incredible.

"Hear that Tig, no Push ups for us." you can't help the joyous laugh that escapes you, if you had to do another 200 pushups you might die at this point. Once you guys are back on the ground you walk over to where the other aviators are completing their pushups.

"hmmm sorry guys, if you want some pointers for tomorrow let us know, maybe we will help you out" hangman is cocky from the get go.

You feeling much too satisfied to not only have shown up Phoenix, but also win against maverick which no one has been able to do yet, you just smile. Looking over at Natasha as she grits her teeth angrily and continues counting her pushups. You watch, almost in a trance like state as the muscles in her back and arms move.

"c'mon tiger, let's go celebrate" and you let Hangman wrap his arm around your shoulders and guide you into the concrete building.

"they are going to be so much more insufferable now" you hear what has to be rooster grunt out as you make your way into the building. It makes you grin, but the smile doesn't quite reach your eyes.

You should feel nothing but overjoyed and yet you can't help but feel confused. Why is your heart beating so fast? and why were you disappointed when Trace didn't say anything to you.

Taglist:

@alanadetigy 

@luckyladycreator2 

@multiplefandomsmess 

@tkmarvel-divergentbish

@ohh-to-be-a-frog

@roosterschanelslut

@americaarse

@malindacath

@alldaysdreamers

@revengze

@hi-i-1

[collecting-stories]

First Kiss - Carl Grimes

Request: Hi so I’ve seen you take requests for TWD, so I was wondering if you can do Carl x reader. I was thinking you can do something that takes place in season 8 where the reader and Carl are talking about the war and the reader is all worried that Carl will die because he’s her best friend and the only one she has left, so maybe ti reassure her Carl kisses her and confesses that he loves her and maybe they become a couple, I thought it would be cute

The Walking Dead Masterlist

✰ ✰ ✰ ✰ ✰

There were a lot of things to know about Carl. He was headstrong, unbreakable in his loyalty to people he deemed family, constantly searching for his dad’s favor, and, most of all, really damn lucky. You’d met Carl the only real way to meet a person in a post-apocalyptic world, when he opened a shipping container and saved you from becoming another person’s dinner. Rick had told you, even as you stood there in the middle of the woods, shivering and bloody and caked in mud, that you would have to pull your own weight if you wanted to stay. 

“Don’t worry,” Carl had reassured you in a whisper as his dad walked away, “you’ll be fine.” 

In the months that followed Carl hadn’t only become your best friend but also your buffer to the outside world. If Alexandria had put a wall up around itself to block out the ugly parts of life than so had you, though yours just happened to be Carl Grimes. 

Sometimes though, you wished you could be that same wall of protection for him. At least long enough to prevent him from doing something stupid. “Everyone’s luck runs out eventually Carl, all it takes is one stray bullet or walker you weren’t expecting and bam!” You clapped your hands together with finality, “you’re dinner.” 

“I have to do something,” he stressed. 

Negan had incited something in Carl that was very different from his father’s exhausted submission. He didn’t want to bid time and when the war seemed to reach a crescendo, he was itching to get involved. Rick told him to stand down more times than you could count, trying desperately to give his son any kind of responsibility that would keep him alive but Carl had played with fire before and you were beginning to realize that he had an uncanny way of coming out unscathed. 

The eye was hard to miss but you’d seen the scar on his stomach from being shot too. The scars from the group they’d run into after their prison stronghold had fallen. You’d watched more times than you could count as Carl seemed to escape bad situations unscathed. 

“Stay here.” It seemed like the simplest option. He could stay here with you while you helped keep Aexandria standing and made sure nothing bad happened to Judith. “If everyone goes off to fight and no one stays…who protects the community?” 

“You’ll be here, you know how to shoot.” Carl reasoned, as if your months of practice with a gun had made you an expert. 

You had your own fair share of luck too. You’d made it this far after all, almost entirely alone. Both of your parents had died in the beginning, when reports were just coming in about people getting infected. They’d been some of the first. You’d bounced around communities after that, finding places that had kids that you could blend into…this new world demanded quick thinking and uncanny survival skills. 

“I’m one person Carl! Your dad put you in charge-“ 

“My dad doesn’t know what he’s doing!” Carl snapped, the mention of Rick always managing to put him on edge. 

He loved his dad, emulated him to a sometimes terrifying degree, but you knew better than anyone that adoration turned to anger and disappointment. When Rick didn’t live up to the unmeetable standards that Carl set for him in his mind, it only led to a further splinter in their relationship.  

“No one knows what they're doing,” you argued, “we’ve never been put in this sort of position before...I mean, Negan is-” you trailed off. You’d heard stories of the group before they reached Terminus, and while that community had been terrifying, there was something more to Negan that scared you.  

“He’s just a person.”

“So then stay here and trust that your dad is making good decisions.” You replied.  

“I can’t.” He moved toward the door like he was planning on leaving, ending the conversation there in the middle of the argument with no resolution. Before he could reach the door, he turned back around, “I don’t wanna fight about this with you every day.”

“I don’t wanna fight with you either Carl...you’re my best friend. I just want you to be safe and not get yourself killed doing something stupid.” You admitted. You didn’t know what you expected to happen, you just wanted Carl to come back to you and to Alexandria every night. You’d seen enough death in the time since the world fell apart, you didn’t want to lose Carl too.  

“You’re mine too...” Carl said, taking his hat off and setting it down on the table. He came over to you and placed his hands on your upper arms a bit awkwardly. Being in an apocalypse didn’t exactly lend a lot of time for flirting or even dating and traveling with a group of people so much older than him hadn’t given Carl too many moments to be with someone. But he tried to act instinctively, leaning forward and placing a rather awkward but delicate kiss on your lips before pulling away. “More than that. I love you and I need you to be safe, I need to know that I did everything possible to make sure that nothing happens to you.”

“Carl-”

“I mean it. I love you.” He repeated, “you’re more than just my best friend. Ever since Terminus...it’s like, I just want to be around you and knowing you’re okay, that’s all I care about.”

You nodded, taking the chance to talk once he’d stopped, “I feel the same way...I love you too.” You confessed, smiling at him.  

The war was certainly far from over, as was the discussion about him fighting, but at least he had told you how he felt and knowing you felt the same made him happier than he’d been in a long time.  

[bamfdaddio]

X-Men Abridged: 1981

The X-Men, those back-to-the-future mutants that have sworn to protect a world that hates and fears them, are a cultural juggernaut with a long, tangled history. Want to unravel this tapestry? Then read the Abridged X-Men!

(Uncanny X-Men 141 - 152) - by Chris Claremont and John Byrne, Brent Anderson, Dave Cockrum, Jim Sherman, Bob McLeod and Josef Rubinstein

While I also committed various fashion atrocities at the age of 14 (tye-die and fauxhawks, oh my), even Liberace would find Kitty’s outfits too much. (Uncanny X-Men 149; Uncanny X-Men Annual ‘81)

We dial back from the v. epic scope of the last few arcs. Instead, 1981 is just a lot of fun! We get:

Storm and Emma doing a Freaky Friday!

the X-Men vs. Magneto (again!)

A surprisingly effective Alien rip-off

An dystopian future! (OoOoOoOo)

Last year was the year of the Dark Phoenix, this is the year of Kitty Pryde. That’s not to say Jean’s death is swept under the rug: all throughout, we see her friends mourning her loss or remembering her fondly. (Scott even gets to have a demonic adventure about it.) But in general, Claremont puts Kitty in the forefront, fleshing out his YA-addition to the team. And what would a YA heroine be without a grim dystopia? Roll out the iconic Days of Future Past!

To be fair, 2013 was a dark time for all of us: What Does the Fox Say somehow got to the top of the charts and I was still watching Glee. (Uncanny X-Men 141)

How cool would it have been to see a name like Jonothon Starsmore or Eva Bell on those tombstones?

Anyway, that’s Kate. Kate’s had it rough. Mutants are at the bottom of the foodchain, most X-Men are dead and only a small cadre of resistance fighters remain, Sentinels dominate, and while she is married to Piotr, her children have been murdered. Bleak. Luckily, the rebellion has concocted the plan to shunt Kate’s spirit back in time to prevent this awful future from happening. (You’ve seen Days of Future Past, the last passably good X-Men film, you know what’s up.)

Let’s do the time warp again! 1981!Kitty’s mind gets taken over by 2013!Kitty, who promptly tries to convince the X-Men that a new Brotherhood of v. Evil Mutants will try to kill Senator Kelly, a presidential candidate who tries to put the mutant menace on the agenda. (Mutants tend to blow stuff up when he’s around.) Since the X-Men recently took a literal trip to Dante’s Infero and also befriended a cosmic world-ending entity, they basically shrug and go: “Yeah, this checks out.”

Off to Washington they go (zoommm) and there, they happen upon the Baddest Bitches in Herstory:

“How dare you hate mutants, senator Kelly! We’ll fix that by killing you!” (Uncanny X-Men 141)

This All-New, All-Different Brotherhood consists out of:

Destiny, a blind woman who can see the future. Definitely the eeriest member of this group. Badass lesbian, though that won´t be canon for years.

Avalanche. Greek who makes things shake. Is a long-standing member of the X-Men Rogue’s gallery, but rarely features in the spotlight. I think he got more characterization in four years of X-Men Evolution than he ever did in the comics.

Mystique. Shapeshifter. Ruthless and unhinged, the Cersei Lannister of the X-Men universe. Absolute legend, secretly the wife of Destiny, currently not as unhinged as she’ll be later. Immediately implied to be related to Nightcrawler: it’s the yellow-eyes-blue-skin-combo.

Pyro. Can manipulate fire, not create it. Absolute pillock, in all the best ways of the word. Originally intended as gay, but they decided to make him Australian instead. (?!)

Blob. Big, strong, immovable. We’ve seen him before.

One of the details in this fight I enjoy is that Storm is still struggling with her leadership, although she has a better grip on things than Cyclops:

Wolverine then proceeds to use those iconic but deadly claws about twice per issue for the next, oh, forty years. (Uncanny X-Men 142)

While the X-Men fight the Brotherhood in the present, we cut back and forth to the future. There, the X-Men consist out of some familiar faces - Storm, Colossus, Wolverine - and some surprises: Magneto (in a wheelchair), Franklin Richards (son of) and an unfamiliar ginger girl called Rachel. (She’ll be important later.) We even learn (one of) Magneto’s names: this is the first time he’s canonically called Magnus.

One of the strengths of Days of Future Past lies in its brevity, the way it tantalizingly taunts us with a brutal but familiar future without giving away too much. It’s single-handedly responsible for all those dark future timelines the X-lines are so fond of which will eventually culminate in time-displaced grandsons from alternative dimensions and the impossibility of a succinct answer to the question: “Who���s Cable?” Too much of a good thing and all that.

Still, what Days of Future Past does so successfully is:

Put the idea of the mutant menace back at the forefront, hammering home the metaphor of mutants being a minority. Mutants being put in camps and being forbidden to breed should - regretfully - make us think of all too many real life equivalents. (Specifically, all of the imagery harkens back to the Holocaust.)

It starkly shows what happens should the X-Men lose, reminding everyone of the stakes. The X-Men are here for a reason: bridging the gap between mutants and humankind. If they fuck up, we end up with mutant concentration camps.

It helps that the X-Men in the future almost all die horribly: Franklin is incinerated, Storm is impaled… It's brutal stuff. The only one to survive is Rachel, who wonders if their plan actually changed the future or if they created an alternative timeline. (It did the latter, sorry ‘bout it, Rachel.)

In the present, Kate chases after Destiny, who trains a gun on senator Kelly. I always wondered how this works: if Destiny saw the future, she knew that killing Kelly would trigger a terrifying future. What in the current Marvel timeline made her decide that the Days of Future Past was better? Did she see her own death? Did she see the Onslaught-crossover coming? The Chuck Austen run? What was it?

In any case, time-anomalous Kate stops Destiny from killing Kelly and the future is safe! For now. Kate disappears, Kitty returns to her body and some of the Brotherhood are apprehended. All is well, for now.

After being a key figure in DoFP, Kitty is also the main character in the Christmas special, which is basically a straight up horror and a pastiche of the Alien-movie.

Seriously, John Byrne still isn’t sure why he wasn’t sued by Ridley Scott for this. (Uncanny X-Men 143)

If you love Kitty Pryde? Read this issue. If you’re not convinced you like 80’s Kitty? Read this issue. It’s not continuity relevant and it’s basically Kitty playing the part of a Final Girl in a horror where she’s being chased by a demon, but it’s so good. It showcases all her strengths and her foibles. Kitty’s intelligent, cute (sometimes preciously so) and brave, but she’s also young, self-conscious and hot-headed. And it's not as if the other X-Men automatically adore her: Storm berates her all the time, she’s afraid of Kurt because of the way he looks (though she grows out of that) and she fights with Professor Xavier a lot. Moreover, she has a clever power-set for a young superhero who faces menaces on a daily basis: a thirteen year old who can go intangible is far less likely to have reality ensue on her and be dramatically offed because she's better at protecting herself.

I’m sure there are people who thought Sprite was hogging the spotlight, but I, for one, say she brings more to the table than, say, Angel. She’s not the Dawn Summers of this franchise.

Scott also gets a side quest. Poor guy can’t catch a break: first the love of his life dies, so he quits the X-Men, then he realizes he can’t do much else than be a superhero. He becomes a sailor on the ship of spunky captain Lee Forrester, is drawn into the sadistic plans of a demon unironically named D’Spayre and then shipwrecks in Bermuda with Lee.

The X-Men, meanwhile, are tormented by a team-up of Doom (who’s currently Latverialess and working on a comeback) and Arcade, that annoying crony. Locke, Arcade’s dom, has kidnapped the loved ones of the X-Men (Moira MacTaggart, Jean Grey’s parents, Illyana Rasputin and Amanda Sefton) in order to blackmail them into getting Doom to free Arcade. Apparently, Arcade accidentally insulted Doom and DOOM DOES NOT FORGIVE THAT FOLLY.

While the B-Squad (Polaris, Havok, Banshee and Iceman) goes to save Arcade’s hostages, the X-Men sneak into Doom’s castle. Well, except for Storm, who doesn’t give a single fuck and simply flies up to Doom, demanding an audience. Doom likes the cut of her jib and invites her to have dinner. (This is pre-Tinder, so this is a legit way of scoring a date.)

If Storm has a flaw (I said if!), it’s got to be her atrocious taste in men. (Uncanny X-Men 145)

The X-Men find Arcade’s cell empty, while Arcade casually saunters up to Storm and says hi. Storm realizes too late that this is a trap: while the X-Men are all trapped in Saw-like traps, Storm is encased in ‘living chrome’.

If you remember she’s claustrophobic, you know why this is a bad move.

While the X-Men free themselves from their traps - Polaris hilariously has to deal with a murderous merry-go-round - Storm is slowly driven mad in her prison, triggering a worldwide tempest. (She causes Lee and Scott to shipwreck.) Under the threat of Wolverine’s claws, Doom releases Storm - or rather, unleashes her.

“Instead of a Dark Lord, you would have a queen, not dark but beautiful and terrible as the dawn! Tempestuous as the sea, and stronger than the foundations of the earth! All shall love me and despair!” (Uncanny X-Men 147)

The memory of Jean brings Ororo back to herself and she starts undoing the superstorm she created. (If only climate change were reversed that easily.) Their confrontation ends by Storm easily forgiving Doom, because she apparently trespassed on his grounds without adequate cause.

Mkay.

All of Arcade’s hostages return to their homesteads, except for Illyana Rasputin, Piotr’s sister: she’s staying at the mansion for a while. Angel, who’s sort of been a part of the team since the Phoenix thing, has had it with Wolverine and his ‘tude, and decides to quit the X-Men : he doesn’t want to be a part of an outfit that has a killer like Wolverine on it. (Or maybe he’s just mad Claremont didn’t give him any storylines: his presence has been mostly pointless.) It’s too bad he left before Kitty started experimenting with her outfits: I bet he would have loved her ugly-ass costumes.

Equally inconsequential is the introduction of a brand new character, who then proceeds to disappear from the narrative for the rest of the year:

Black Tom has tried to kill you at least twice, but him sending you a long-lost daughter doesn’t give you pause? Ugh, Sean, you deserve Moira. (Uncanny X-Men 148)

Intrigued by Theresa? TOO BAD, WON’T SEE HER AGAIN ANYTIME SOON.

Another new character is the lonely, decidedly mutant looking Caliban, who can sense “people like him” and is on the lookout for companions. Like many lonely people who try and grasp at friendship, he decides to overshoot his shot and ruin the night of Storm, Kitty and Jessica Drew at a Dazzler concert. Because he tries to kidnap Kitty, the girls react a trifle aggressively. When they realize their mistake - the eerily pale Caliban is a simpleton rather than a menace - he’s already fled. No mention is made of the Morlocks yet!

There’s also another dull annual where the X-Men team up with the Fantastic Four to save Arkon’s dimension from the Badoon and yaaaaawn. Far more interesting is the landmark issue #150. Slowly, through the adventures of Scott and Lee Forrester, Claremont has been setting things up for the return of a favorite villain. While the X-Men investigate Magneto’s old base in Antarctica on a hunch of Professor X and tangle with Garruk, Scott and Lee survive Storm’s tempest, only to wake up next to a strange island that seems to have been raised from the ocean.

It’s apparently some ancient citadel from a long forgotten civilization with a fondness for squid statues. (I don’t know man, I’ve never been to the Bermuda Triangle, maybe this is just super-accurate.)The tentacles make Lee Forrester feel very amorous, but before Scott can tell her he is way too repressed to just have sex with an attractive someone he’s known intimately for a month or two, Magneto saves his ass by revealing he, in fact, raised this island from the seafloor.

Oh, Magneto. So extra.

My ambitious little mutant demagogue then proceeds to take the entire world hostage, showing how much he’s grown from the pompous, raving madman from the sixties. (Sure, Magneto is still a bit of a madman, but increasingly, he starts being on the right side of history.)

“I’m trying to make Magneto more sympathetic.”

“Just put him on a page with some bigger villains who are less noble, like the Vanisher, Count Nefaria, or…”

“Reagan, Thatcher and Brezhnov?”

“Er.” (Uncanny X-Men 150)

It’s obvious Magneto is being pivoted as a more noble villain, codified into the well-intentioned extremist we know and love today. Not only do we get the first hints at his past, fleshing out his motivations, he’s also not wrong. Humans are historically not great at taking care of the planet or each other.

When the Russians call his bluff and launch nukes at Magneto’s new island, he quickly disarms them. His retribution is swift and ferocious: the entire citadel is a machine that massively amplifies his powers. He sinks the submarine that launched the missiles, condemning the entire crew to death, and he casually erects a vulcano in a Russian city in Siberia.

Damn. Not messing around this time.

Despite his good intentions, Magneto is still definitely in the wrong: not only because of his methods, but as Scott points out: if Magneto unifies the world under his kind of benevolent dictatorship, all of that will simply fall apart as soon as Magnus dies.

In a way, Magneto is just as big a dreamer as Charles is: Charles believes in peace and integration, whereas Magneto believes his iron fist will be enough to make a perfect world happen. Both of them ignore the reality that acceptance is difficult and messy, because you’re trying to change essential human nature: the fear of the other. Magneto believes in big, sweeping gestures that will fix the world in move, while changing the world is also boring, hard work. One step forward, two steps back. Magneto just wants to leapfrog to his ultimate goal.

The X-Men fly over the citadel, returning from Antarctica, and their plane crashes into the ocean. (Magneto does not brook planes over his territory, humans!) The Professor is also nearby, looking for Scott with Moira, Peter Corbeau and Carol Danvers. The X-Men sneak onto the island, but to their horror, their powers are nullified by some machine of Magneto. They reunite with Scott, who formulates a plan to thwart the would-be ruler of the world.

While the rest of the X-Men go to trash the machine, Storm, Kitty and Lee infiltrate the control chamber where Storm finds a sleeping, shirtless Magneto. Once again showing her terrible taste in men, she is not weak in the knees at the sight of a sleeping Magnus: instead, she contemplates killing him.

Storm knows how dangerous he is, but she also knows that he’s a great man who’s fighting for ideals, no matter how misguided. She hesitates too long: Magneto stirs, suspects an attack and tosses her out of the window, to her death.

Magneto quickly undoes the sabotage the other X-Men have wrought to his machine. A fight erupts. Storm, meanwhile, has managed to grab hold of a ledge. She crawls back up and smashes an important-looking computer, restoring everyone’s powers.

The battle turns grim, but Scott sends Kitty away to wreck Magneto’s machinery. She sneaks off, following Scott’s orders and destroying both Magneto's power-up device and all of his plans by phasing though the computer circuitry. Magneto senses this and furiously gives chase. Overcome by rage, he attacks Kitty and disrupts her phasing power with a magnetic bolt, seemingly killing her?

Everything about this story beat is great: mama bear!Ororo, mournful Magnus and even the fact that Kitty’s godawful outfit serves a narrative function: highlighting to us (and Magneto) just how young she is. The fact that Kitty’s Jewish is just icing on the cake. (Uncanny X-Men 150)

And thus, the softening of Magneto commences. 1981 might be a year with wildly varying narratives, but it has given us at least three enduring legacies to the X-Mythos: a new kind of Magneto, a fondness for dystopian futures and the character of Kitty Pryde, who's really come into her own this year.

Ugliest Costume: Kitty! Purposefully, but still. Best costume, by the way, goes to Destiny, with her creepy, creepy golden mask. Just imagine this lady casually strolling across a battlefield, eerily calm and collected, dodging everything you throw at her. Awesome design.

Best new character: I usually pick one character - what good is having a shared award when declaring the best of anything? - but this year, it’s going to one of my favorite couples: Mystique and Destiny. Can’t wait to see more of them.

Most audacious retcon: Blob somehow retroactively becomes a member of the original Brotherhood, which is not what happened. Ever weirder is Xavier pondering that he never met Magneto before his attack in X-Men #1, while their cordially adversarial relationship rooted in a youthful friendship would soon become a cornerstone of the X-Men.

What to read: Uncanny X-Men 141 - 143 and 150 - 152

[wafflesetc]

It’s Alright

A/N: It feels weird for me to even write this, but there were two small things I wished I might have been able to see in 5x03. This is one of the two scenarios. Set within the 5x03 timeline.

Thank you to @kkruml for always knowing what I mean to say and knowing just how to fix it. Thank you to @walkinginland for always being a helping hand.  And thank you to @happytoobserve for being  the best cheerleader through all the seasons.

There was a palpable energy within the camp. Our trek to Hillsborough had just started, but the fear of battle was evident everywhere. The men, of all ages, were ready- or so they hoped. Jamie hoped so, too.

The fireside conversation had reminded me of nearly twenty years before. I could hear Jamie’s Gaelic commands in the back of my mind like it was yesterday. I could hear the sound of the bombs going off like I was back in France during a war that Jamie couldn’t even begin to comprehend. 

We had retired for the night, the exhaustion of the day settling within us. We weren’t as young as we once had been. Our tent was settled towards the back of the camp. Jamie had done that on purpose I think- a way for him to make me feel safe. We had two dozen well armed men all around us. Stubborn Scot didn’t understand all I needed was him to make me feel protected. 

I watched him take off his jacket and slip off his boots. He smiled at me and walked over towards my vicinity, tossing his dirk and gun onto our pillow.

“Come here,” I heard his voice as his hand touched the small of my back. “I’ll undo yer stays.” 

Instead of pulling off my jacket to allow him the access he was seeking, I quickly turned to face him, hastily wrapping my arms around his waist and squeezed him tight. Instinctively my husband returned the sentiment and put his arms around me. I must have been holding onto him harder than I realized because I felt Jamie’s chest tighten even more. 

“Christ, Sassenach,” He let out. “Are ye ill?” 

I could feel the tears rising to the surface, my emotions overcoming me. It hit me like a tidal wave, the memories coming back to me like a flash flood.The love and loss. Starvation. Echoes of gunfire. Moans of the injured and the mix of  sweat and blood dripping down my face.  

I had seen war and lived through it. I knew the turmoil that soldiers brought home. I also knew first hand how deep the trauma of loss ran within a person. It wasn’t just the heartache nor the physical consequences one could suffer. I knew all too well the abyss that loss could create. It had consumed me for nearly twenty years. I had once been a black hole of emptiness, trying to bring myself piece by piece back together. 

I felt Jamie’s thumb wiping the tear from my eye. 

“It’s alright…” I stammered. Whether it was to convince him or myself, I wasn’t entirely sure. “I’m alright…. I’m alright.” 

“I ken well enough not tae argue wi’ a physician but Claire…” I could hear the edge in the way he said my name, something he seldom did, “Yer shaking.” 

I could feel the heaviness in my chest yet I was breathless. As my surroundings started to come back to me, I recognized what was happening. 

“Yes… Yes…” I squeezed myself even tighter around him, steadying myself, tethering myself  to my earthly anchor. “I am just having a panic attack. Give me a minute, just hold me.”  

“I canna argue wi’ the doctor.”  

He stood there, his arms encompassing me, keeping me on this plane of reality. We stayed there for either minutes or an hour, I didn’t know nor did I care, and I looked up to find his blue eyes fixated on mine. His face held a tenderness and warmth within it, a look I had only ever seen on his face in moments when I caught him staring at me from across the way. It was one of those moments that when I saw it, my strength had been restored, for I knew deep within the very marrow of my bones, with Jamie, I held no fear of my past and no fear for what might happen in my - no our - future.

“I’m sorry.” I finally said. “It hasn’t happened since….” 

“Before Prestonpans, no?” 

Jamie always had an uncanny knack for remembering almost everything, but I had tried to forget our time before Culloden. And if I had tried to forget, I had been convinced he had surely tried to forget certain things. 

“Yes, I am surprised you remembered.” I tried to put on brave front but knew he saw right through it.

“Sassenach, I remember everything ye’ve ever told me about yer past.”  It was at that moment I loved him more than I did before. 

“I… Just. Tonight, sitting by the fire, it almost felt like when we were with Dougal and them, out on the road…” 

“Collecting the rent or should I say raising money for the Jacobites.” He half gave a laugh and a small smile, something about that time was making him happy. I knew it wasn’t the use of his back as a decoy, though.

“Yes.” I smiled, while there were always the bad things remembered, there had also been so much good within those times as well.

“Ye always looked so bonny wi’ the firelight… I can remember those nights spent under the stars before we were wed,” He pushed a curl out of my face. “I prayed for many nights for the Lord to make ye mine.” 

“Well it seems like the Lord listened.” I kissed the base of his jaw. “I just, we never want to go to war…. And somehow it seems like it always follows us.”

“I ken, mo chridhe.”  He titled my head up and kissed me softly. “We do what must be done, nay more and nay less. Wi’ ye by my side, I am forgiven of all my sins.” 

“May the Lord forgive us both then.” I laughed into his smile. We were inches apart, our noses touching, eyes closed, embracing our history and shaking the fear for whatever the future held. 

For whatever was to come, so long as we were one, nothing else mattered.

[alison-anonymous]

flawsome bandits pt. 15 ♡ sonic

Flawsome Love Rivals 

Part 15! I’m sorry it’s been a couple days since I last updated, but don’t you worry, I made this chapter a little longer to make up for it and loaded it with some moments I know you’re all going to love ;) A yandere and some jealousy with a bunch of fluff! Enjoy my darlings! ♡

Warnings - a yandere ;) and jealous Sonic

♡♡♡

“I can’t believe you crashed our drone into a tree.”

“OUR drone? You dimwitted simpleton-” 

“If I may, Doctor,” Shadow was quick to interject before his boss lost his temper for the eighteenth (or was it nineteenth?) time today. “I suggest that we try to find a place to stay for the night while we consider a way to get it out of the tree. It might even fall out on its own eventually.” 

Thanks to the engine that had fallen off of the drone because of Robotnik’s shit repair job, it hadn’t been too long before he had lost complete control of the machine and it had crash landed into a throng of trees a ways out in the woods surrounding Green Hills. They didn’t have to worry about anyone seeing them while they were out for a hike, but they were also out in such a secluded area that they would have to walk all the way to town in order to get supplies. Luckily, that was what Robotnik had minions for. 

He heaved a deep breath around his gigantic mustache hairs and lifted his goggles onto his cleanly-shaved head. “Right. Shadow, you can run to the repair shop on 20th Street in Green Hills and get me some repair products,” He dug around in his pockets and dropped a list of supplies into Shadow’s gloved hands. “Make sure no one sees you. If they give you any trouble, eliminate them.” 

“Yes, sir.” And with that, Shadow was gone. Robotnik turned back to Knuckles who was staring in awe as their drone swayed lightly in the tree. He pinched the bridge of his nose and let out a long sigh. 

“I don’t suppose you could lift this out of the trees?” 

Knuckles cracked his knuckles and gave him a smug smile. “I can do my best, Master.” 

Well. Things were going just splendidly, now weren’t they?

♡♡♡

Meanwhile, Y/n, Sonic, Tails, and Spirit were packing up the truck for their mission. They didn’t have a clue how long they would be gone for, so they were preparing for the worst. Spirit had provided multiple weapons to defend herself whereas Sonic and Y/n simply packed any necessities they might need as they had powers for their only line of defense. Tails surprisingly said he would do fine on his own, but Tom gave him a couple dart guns just in case. When questioned about if her parents knew where she was going, the family was surprised to find out that Spirit was technically living by herself at the moment. Apparently her mom died when she was young and her father was always away on business trips, so when he did come home, he was pretty tired. 

She assured them that she was fine, but Y/n couldn’t help but feel empathy for her. It was horrible to feel alone for so long, even when you’re surrounded by people. Maybe that’s why the two of them got along so well or why Spirit wanted to help them in any means that she could. 

She knew what it was like to be lonely, too.

“Alright, are you guys sure that you have everything? You’re not going to die the second you’re without me?” Tom had to clarify. Maddie chuckled next to him, giving him a playful nudge with her shoulder.

“Tom, they’ll be fine. Besides, Sonic won’t let anything happen to Y/n. Isn’t that right?” She looked to the electric blue hedgehog, who firmly nodded his head and threw his arm around Y/n’s shoulders. She giggled softly.

“That’s right!”

“Good,” Tom grinned maliciously. “Because if you do, I’ll kick your ass all the way to-”

“DAD!” If Y/n were an anime character, she would be sweat dropping at this moment. She looked to Sonic, who had a petrified look on his face and quickly gave him a tight hug to reassure him. “Nothing is going to happen. We’ll be okay!” 

“Right… And your mother and I will make sure that nothing bad happens around here. Besides Wade stealing my donuts…” Tom’s expression grew sour once more and the others could help but laugh. Finally, it was time to go. 

After multiple rounds of hugs and farewells and worried expressions that failed to be suppressed, Y/n climbed behind the wheel with Sonic in the passenger seat and Spirit and Tails got comfortable in the backseat. Even once Y/n had pulled out of the driveway and had made their way onto the main roads, Tom and Maddie didn’t go back inside until they were out of sight for at least five minutes. Pure dread sat in the pit of their stomachs. Of course, no one was going to acknowledge the enormous elephant in the room named DANGER, but it was just Robotnik, after all. They had defeated him before with just Y/n and Sonic, and now they had backup this time. Things would be okay.

They would be just fine… 

The ride out to the woods was silent for the most part, despite Sonic’s attempts to provide some comic relief. The weight of the situation was enough to shut everyone up, and they deserved a moment of silence anyways. They had been keeping up their act of pretending like this whole thing was an everyday occurrence and that they weren’t literally driving towards their potential demise. Or Y/n’s death. 

Little did they know that as they were driving through the woods, Shadow was on his way back from shoplifting a bunch of supplies for his boss. The dark hedgehog was quick to hide behind some bushes as he watched the truck rumble over the uneven patches of dirt as Y/n did her best to keep it under control. Sonic had his head stuck out the passenger window like a dog while a human girl and an orange fox sat in the back, conversing amongst themselves. Shadow’s eyebrows knitted together in concentration. It was them. 

He zipped back over to the drone, only to find a very peculiar sight before him. Robotnik had his arms wrapped tightly around a tree, almost as though he were trying to climb it but had given up three inches above the ground. Knuckles stood below him, trying desperately to push him up the tree. It wouldn’t have been awkward if Knuckles hands hadn’t been pressing against his butt.

“Shadow!” Robotnik cried, instantly dropping his legs, causing Knuckles to faceplant into the ground. “You’re back!” 

“Doctor,” Shadow quickly dropped the bag of supplies onto the ground next to him and flicked his ears back and forth, searching for the sound of grass crunching underneath heavy tires. They were heading northeast, a decent ways away from their current campsite. “I saw the targets a little ways from Green Hills. They’re in a truck and they appeared to be coming out to camp.”

Robotnik instantly began to seethe with anger. He was in no condition to fight against them at this point, and it was entirely possible that they weren’t just out here for a weekend camping trip. They probably already knew they were out here somewhere. It wouldn’t be suitable if he went out there to rough them up, but maybe Knuckles and Shadow would be decent decoys to scare them off. Buy him some time to get his shit together. The two instantly agreed to the plan and set off in the direction of the truck. 

♡♡♡

By the time Knuckles and Shadow finally reached them, the sun was beginning to set. The four had made a fire thanks to Spirit’s knowledge about camping and Tails had set up the sleeping arrangements inside the truck. Y/n and Sonic had been pulling out the bag full of food when Y/n’s ear twitched. 

The trees hummed their warning to her and she lifted her head, eyes scanning the treeline cautiously. Someone was out there. Watching them.

“Sonic.” 

The hedgehog in question turned his head to his girlfriend. His lighthearted expression instantly dropped when he saw her guard.

“You sense something, don’t you?” She didn’t even have to answer for him as a red laser came shooting out from between the trees. Only it wasn’t aimed for them. It was aimed at the fire where Spirit was setting it up. Tails’s eyes filled with fear.

“Look out, Spirit!” He leapt out of the car, slamming into her back and pressing her flat onto her stomach on the ground. She let out a small cry in surprise as the laser sunk into the tree behind her head.

“T-Tails?” The orangish-yellow fox quickly got off of her and gave her a sheepish smile, but his eyes still darted around the area where the laser had come from, ready to protect her if he needed to again. Y/n and Sonic beat him to the punch, however, as they jumped off of the bed of the truck and quickly stood in front of their friends protectively.

“Who’s there? Show yourself!” Y/n snarled into the darkness. Her hand twitched next to Sonic’s, her muscle memory reminding her that if it came down to it, they could always merge their powers again. She wasn’t about to let her friends get hurt on their first day of the job. Slowly, not one, but two figures began to emerge from the darkness. One bright red echidna and a hedgehog.

Black and red, with an evil glint in his eye. 

Y/n’s heart stopped. This hedgehog standing before her was the one who was going to try and kill her. It was uncanny. She didn’t know a single thing about him, who he worked for, what his name is, or how he was born. And yet she knew that he would try to kill her. 

And he might succeed.

Sonic’s gaze sharpened as he watched them come to a stop a couple feet away from them. “Who are you? You look like you stepped out of a horribly written ‘80s kids TV show.” 

“Is that an insult?” The echidna was evidently confused. The four took in his burly figure and slanted eyes. He looked like he could pick all of them up with one hand and bench press them for an hour straight if he had to. 

“I believe it is,” The dark hedgehog rolled his eyes at his companion and stared at Spirit and Tails who were still lying on the ground. “I see they have some accomplices. Pity. I was hoping this would be challenging.”

The echidna rolled his eyes. “Why did one of them have to be a girl? I bet Robotnik wouldn’t mind if we just brought her back with us and took out the boy. Don’t want to get a pretty thing involved in this fighting, right?” 

Y/n felt a flare of anger strike through her blood. Was he calling her weak? A pretty damsel in distress? The Princess Peach in Bowser’s clutches who couldn’t even run a brush through her hair without help? Her blood boiled.

Sonic’s on the other hand, exploded. His eyes narrowed to slits as he stretched his triceps. “See, now why did you have to go and threaten her? Now you made me mad.” And before Knuckles could say anything else, he was greeted with the feeling of Sonic’s fist sinking into his cheekbone. Tails quickly sprang up to go and help his friend just as one of the little egg drones came hovering by Spirit’s head. She growled at it, and grabbed a piece of stray wood, letting her enemy know she was a threat. 

That left Y/n standing alone with Shadow.

She couldn’t help but tremble in his presence as he sighed, slipping his gun back into the holster around his waist. He hadn’t even taken the chance to get a good look at her, so he took this chance to do so. The second he took in her face, he felt his heart skip a beat. His ruby eyes widened as he stared into her beautiful e/c orbs. Her quills were brushed back against her beautiful blue fur in such a way that it made him want to run his hands through it. Her ears looked so soft and her eyes and nose were nothing short of gorgeous. 

He was in love. In love with the enemy, oh how romantic! Perhaps he could take her back with him and find a way to convince Robotnik to let them get married, and then they could have a bunch of babies and they could leave these putrid allies of her behind! A blissful smile crossed his lips as he stared at her.

In Y/n’s point of view, she thought he looked like a pervert. Why the hell was he smiling at her like that? She grew uneasy, preparing herself to sing or to punch him - whichever was handy. 

“W-what are you doing?” She hated herself for stuttering. Her speaking finally snapped him out of it - even her voice sounded like angels. She put her fists up in an attempt to defend herself, but her limbs felt frozen. Instead of making a move to fight her, he made a move in courtship. Shadow slowly began to make his way over to her, doing his best to look as sexy and appealing as possible. But in Y/n’s eyes, he looked like he had a stick up his ass.

He circled around her and finally came to a stop right before her, pursing his lips to the point where it looked like he had sucked on a lemon. Y/n’s features contorted between disgust and confusion as he stared deep into her eyes.

“Hello, there, gorgeous. I don’t believe we’ve met, I’m Shadow. And you are…?” He purred into her ear. Y/n tried desperately to move as a million red alarms went off in her brain, but her limbs appeared to have gone limp at her sides. She couldn’t move. She could only stare, wordless, at him as her heart pounded fearfully against her chest. Was this what sexual harassment felt like? He slowly tucked a strand of her quills behind her ear, sending chills down her spine. But it wasn’t even remotely close to the chills she got from Sonic. These were dread chills, ones of fear and danger. There were no sparks, no excitement, no passion. 

Just fear.

Thankfully, while Tails and Spirit had been fighting off Knuckles and the egg drone, Sonic had glanced over just in time to see Shadow and Y/n. Only they weren’t fighting. Shadow had his hands on Y/n in places that they should not have been, staring at her with eyes that he wanted to prick out with a fork. Anger smacked the adrenaline out of his veins full force, and in a blue blur, he was shoving the dark hedgehog onto the ground. Shadow crashed onto the damp earth and let out a slight cry in shock. But Sonic wasn’t done yet. His jealousy took the wheel as he picked up a startled Y/n and threw her over his shoulder, keeping a firm grip around the back of her knees and her waist. 

He turned just as Shadow had gotten back up and gave him the scariest death glare anyone had seen. “Y/n. Is. Mine. If you touch her again, I will fucking kill you.” 

Y/n gasped softly at his words, but the flutter in her heart showed her appreciation. Unfortunately, Shadow didn’t quite share her emotions. As Sonic turned away from him and began to walk back towards the truck, he balled his hands into fists by his sides. A dark scowl drew across his lips as he shot invisible bullets at Sonic’s back.

“Love rival…”

♡♡♡

After an unsuccessful attempt at scaring them off, Shadow and Knuckles headed back to their master. Later that night, Spirit had decided to take the first watch in order for Y/n, Sonic, and Tails to all get some well deserved sleep. She sat on the top of the truck with one of Tom’s dart guns and one of her baseball bats sitting in her lap while the other three were in the back of the truck. Tails had curled up in the passenger seat and had been asleep for quite some time while Y/n and Sonic had opted to share the backseat. 

They laid curled up next to one another with a couple of blankets and pillows for comfort. But even as Y/n heard the soft breaths of her boyfriend as he drifted off into sleep, she couldn’t seem to find a way to close her eyes. She couldn’t believe the events that had happened today, how she had met the guy who was supposed to kill her and he ended up falling in love with her instead. 

She slowly turned onto her side, wincing as Sonic stirred in his sleep. God, he looked so peaceful while he was sleeping. He cared about her so much… she couldn’t help but grin as the image of him tossing her into her arms came back into her brain. He was adorable when he was jealous. She slowly stroked one of his ears, not being able to resist how soft they looked. She made sure to keep her touches gentle so as to not wake him up. Little did she know that he had only been half asleep.

He let out the cutest sound she had ever heard (a mix between a moan and a purr) as her touch finally lulled him into a deep sleep. She stifled a giggle as she watched him nod off and gently pressed a kiss to his temple. Things were going to be okay. As long as she had him by her side, she knew that nothing bad could happen.

They were going to be fine.

♡ a.a.

[aion-rsa]

Star Wars: The Mandalorian Season 2 Episode 8 Review – The Rescue

https://ift.tt/3r8bVxu

This Star Wars: The Mandalorian review contains spoilers.

The Mandalorian Season 2 Episode 8

The core of The Mandalorian has always been the connection between Din Djarin and Grogu. After the first live-action Star Wars TV offering proved in its first season that a story about a faceless Mandalorian could have so much heart (something I hope remains true in the many upcoming shows), that connection became even more vital to the storytelling in the second outing. Instead of the twisted family relationships between the Skywalkers, Din and Grogu were a found family dream, propelling the Child into households everywhere. Unfortunately, at the end of season two, Din and the Child’s heartfelt connection doesn’t quite feel as central as it should.

This isn’t the smartest show in the streaming world, but it is still one of the most fun. Din finds the location of Moff Gideon and the captured baby with the help of Boba Fett, Fennec Shand, Bo-Katan Kryze, and her lieutenant Koska Reeves. Their two-pronged rescue mission goes surprisingly well, the squad of Mandalorians and Din himself taking out stormtroopers, dark troopers, and finally, Moff Gideon. But when Din delivers Gideon alive to his allies, it’s clear this is only less than half of the former ISB agent’s plan.

Stream your Star Wars favorites right here!

Gideon tries to turn Din and Bo-Katan against one another, using his knowledge of Mandalorian tradition to initiate a fight. To truly gain the throne, he says, Bo-Katan has to win the darksaber from Din in battle. It’s both a keen portrayal of the nature of power (someone always must be humbled, especially according to an Imperial who thinks of all of the good guys as “savages”) and a classic manipulative villain. Although Gideon’s plan is clear, it doesn’t work. Eucatastrophe appears in the form of Luke Skywalker, who in the best Jedi fashion, breaks all the rules to save the day.

Din’s hard choices — whether to give Grogu to the Jedi, whether to let Bo-Katan kill Moff Gideon, what happens now that she has to, by tradition, take the darksaber from him by force — take a back seat. Instead, the energy of the final minutes is sapped by a cool but uncanny Luke, Mark Hamill’s welcome presence digitally de-aged far enough that he sometimes looks like his sketchy Battlefront avatar. That game keeps ahold of its medal as the best inter-trilogy appearance of Luke, too. Where his dialogue in the game emphasizes his kindness, on the show he’s first a warrior and then a plot device, interchangeable with the general concept of a Jedi.

cnx.cmd.push(function() { cnx({ playerId: "106e33c0-3911-473c-b599-b1426db57530", }).render("0270c398a82f44f49c23c16122516796"); });

Not to say I don’t want to see more Luke, but that bit of fan service sprinkled this episode with sugar when I wanted more substance. Frankly, I didn’t find the CGI appearance too off-putting on its own, although it’s even worse when Luke turns away from the camera toward the end. Luke’s voice doesn’t sound the same anymore, and his eyes don’t have the same spark. I wonder if it would have been better or worse to have cast fan favorite Sebastian Stan or another look-alike. The ambiguity itself speaks volumes.

Luke’s presence is clearly a case of Jedi ex machina, but I was so delighted to see him that I can’t present that as an entirely bad thing. (There’s even a bit of “we called it” pleasure in there.) But as elsewhere in the episode, the build-up goes on a bit too long compared to the payoff. Luke’s dialogue is sparse and lacks emotion. As usual, the music does a lot of work here, diverting from the Star Wars method of leitmotif to give Luke a new, mystical and melancholic introduction.

Even the long-awaited fight between Moff Gideon and Din wass more setup than payoff. Surely some of the time spent reminding us the beskar steel was strong, crafting a meticulous order of operations for how tough various types of metals and glass are, could have been traded for a more dramatic setting than a single hallway. The darksaber fight was cool, with the blade setting the wall on fire and Din using some impressive footwork, but the combat didn’t travel, didn’t tell its own story with acts and beats the way the best Star Wars duels do.

I’m also torn on the fight scenes with the infiltration team. More often than not I ended up wondering whether the cool stunts were going to get the good guys killed, their eagerness to get up close and punch seemingly unnecessary and unsafe when the stormtroopers have blasters. But at the same time, it was great fun to see a team succeed with such competence, the good guys well matched with the bad. It was especially exciting because it’s a team of almost all Mandalorians and all women, armored and weighty. Moments like Cara Dune’s gun jamming reminds us Star Wars is a janky universe, its heroes subject to inconveniences as well as epic stakes.

Read more

TV

Star Wars Fans React to The Mandalorian Season 2 Finale

By Kirsten Howard

TV

How The Mandalorian Captures the Spirit of the Star Wars Prequel Era

By Megan Crouse

Like last episode, the relationship between Din and the Child drives the titular Mandalorian’s every action. His love for the baby is the whole reason he puts himself in so much danger, goes to such physically taxing lengths. But they don’t actually interact very much in the end. Even the baby plaintively reaching for Din while handcuffed doesn’t reach the tear-jerking emotions of the scene where Din laughs just seeing Grogu responding to his name. The emotional connection between the two has been well established already, but this is the finale: it shouldn’t coast on the good will from the rest of the season but should make the connection even stronger so it can twist the knife even further later. The very beginning promised some neat characterization between the good guys. There’s a lot to say about the relationship between Bo-Katan and the other Mandalorians. The scene where she and Boba meet is delightfully prickly, everyone willing to fight at the drop of a hat. Bo-Katan dismisses Boba as a clone. Boba, perhaps comforted by Din’s quick acceptance , resents her self-proclaimed right to the contested throne. Koska being so willing to fight on her leader’s behalf gave some great heat to the scene. I love the idea that the two groups have such a deep fissure between them since it illustrates exactly what Bo-Katan is trying to unite, how hard that will be, and why not all Mandalorians might agree with her. It’s also just fun, a sort of Chekhov’s gun of that many people in Mandalorian armor being in the same dingy room together.

There was plenty to love in this episode. I gasped out loud when Moff Gideon nearly shot himself, winced when it looked like the dark trooper would smash Din’s helmet in, and felt that old, old love for Star Wars when it became clear the X-wing held no ordinary pilot. Seeing Luke in the flesh was a delight despite the flaws, reminding me of how much I love the central fantasy of Return of the Jedi: a super-powered nice person can save the day on both strength and kindness. Bo-Katan, Fennec, and Cara were wonderfully cool and central, too. Din showing Grogu his face was touching and long-awaited.

But Din letting the Jedi — any Jedi, but especially one he doesn’t know — walk away with the baby feels wrong. Maybe next season, we’ll see a repeat of the show’s beginning: Din having second thoughts and going to retrieve his son again. The tease at the end of the episode suggests a lot more Boba Fett in season three, a not unwelcome prospect due to Temuera Morrison’s good performance and one that might have made filming during the pandemic more feasible. But I’m left lukewarm about this episode. Even as it wowed with individual moments, the arc of “The Rescue” overall drifted too far from Din and Grogu. Surely some of the time devoted to build-up, shiny plot threads, and cameos could have been traded for a little more time with the iconic duo.

The post Star Wars: The Mandalorian Season 2 Episode 8 Review – The Rescue appeared first on Den of Geek.

from Den of Geek https://ift.tt/3aldGBy

[incorrectf451]

Montag and Beatty Were Prolly Gay and Here’s Why

Ok but on a serious note,,,,Beatty & Montag at least had some sort of sexual tension and you can’t deny that. I feel like their dynamic is sort of like rivals/friends to actual friends (last outlet for both of them) and then lovers. The way Beatty continuously teases Montag and just gets all smug when he fucks with him (Ex: Beatty teasing Montag for being afraid of the hound, Beatty continuing to tell Montag about his “dream” about their debate despite it clearly pissing him off) while also making an effort to console him (coming to Montag’s house when he claims he’s sick during part one) constantly just makes me feel like Beatty’s trying to repress his own feelings of both love and rebellion by spouting things he doesn’t truly believe him to both soothe his own anxieties about disobeying his calling as a fire captain while trying to keep Montag in a near yet still distanced spot, trying to get close to him and keep him as a companion while not giving himself away. Montag’s one of the only people Beatty really has a relationship with that we see. Though the others look up to him, Montag’s the only one who’s of constant interest to Beatty due to more curious nature.

Keep in mind this book was written during the 50s, when homosexuality was rarely accepted, and that Beatty also seems to harbor this popular social belief that minorities are constantly pushing to block or ban things that make them angry, implying they’re sensitive or weak or making people unhappy by fighting against bad representation. It would make sense that Beatty has internalized homophobia, believing fighting against the world would cause unhappiness, which he’s been programmed to fight against with fire. If we’re going off the idea that Ray Bradbury didn’t have the LGBT community in mind when he talked about minorities progressing in Beatty’s monologue about happiness (seeing as the LGBT rights movement didn’t really get jumpstarted until the 60s and 70s, and the community wasn’t really widely accepted until the 2010s), their world is similar to to Bradbury’s from the 50s: unaccepting of non-cishets. Beatty’s taunting could be a way to keep Montag away from books, yes, but wouldn’t that also be a way to drive Montag towards them? Pissing him off so he does the opposite of what he’s told? Why would Beatty purposely make Montag unhappy if happiness is his true motive? To protect himself from his own feelings.

I’d also like to mention Beatty’s death. Of course Beatty’s death affected a Montag. He killed a man, and his superior and a man who was close to him (almost like a friend) at that. But Montag also theorizes that Beatty wanted to die. This is where it gets reachy, and bear with me, but I think Beatty had wanted to die for a while. Beatty’d always been testing the waters, quoting books and telling Montag he’d read. His whole monologue about happiness was uncanny, and seemed fake. Like he was trying to fake it for himself, trying to give himself a meaning he felt he didn’t have without the books he’d been conditioned to hate. He was the chief, he couldn’t read and betray his team. If the only thing he wanted was something he could no longer have and things no longer felt meaningful to him, felt more like abstract happenstances that pertinent events (Ex: Montag’s pending arrest, Ms. Blake’s death), he had no reason to live. Beatty couldn’t escape his box, but he couldn’t just fizzle out or kill himself. He had a team, he had a purpose, even if that purpose wasn’t his choice or his desire. He had to let someone strong and worthy take him out, someone important not just to him, but to the world; someone who could change things for the better, for him. When Montag pulled out the gun, he appeared shocked for only a second before he began his teasing and challenging. He knew he could get out of this with pride and everything he had and had worked for— everything except for Montag, at least. It was the perfect opportunity. Montag had to kill him because Montag, in his eyes, was the most important person in the world.

On Montag’s side of this, I don’t really have a lot of proof. I’d like to point out that during part one, after nearly shitting himself about the hound, Montag briefly describes feeling like Beatty was touching him? It’s kinda wack, here:

“Montag blinked. Beatty was looking at him as if he were a museum statue. At any moment, Beatty might rise and walk about him, touching, exploring his guilt and self-consciousness. Guilt? What guilt was that?” (Bradbury 30).

Furthermore though, a page later Montag asks, for the first time, about the history of firemen. Beatty was the first person Montag came to with his concerns, the first person he trusted for an answer. He did the same about the hound. In fact, most of Montag’s concerns go to Beatty after Clarisse disappears. He hardly talks to Mildred about his problems and worries. As my English teacher pointed out, Mildred and Guy have a more roommate-like relationship. Guy and Mildred have no memory of meeting, marrying, falling in love, and Guy even mentions he doesn’t know if he’d cry if Mildred died. Personally, going back to the homophobia argument, I think Guy and Mildred might have married out of fear or forced love after first becoming friends. They have a casual relationship, built on living around each other and occasionally enjoying things together, though their beliefs and interests hardly ever line up. That’s why Mildred didn’t have much of a problem leaving when the firemen arrived. Montag was always a friend to her, just one she was legally bound to, that she could leave when she believed his ticket was punched and hers would be too if she stuck around for his antics. She was afraid, unable to stick it out or change like Montag wanted her to. Montag and Mildred cared for each other, sure, but they also realized they would be completely fine apart if something called for it. They could live without each other’s support, something most people truly in love couldn’t. Beatty couldn’t live without Montag, though, and Montag could hardly live with himself after Beatty died. Keep in mind I’m not trying to shit on Mildred, I think she’s really cool and understand why she left. Things were too intense and she just didn’t care enough to endanger herself, she didn’t want to sacrifice a happy life for someone she couldn’t force herself to love in the way she was supposed to and told to, and found solace in her lady friends when she felt Montag was no longer someone she could support. She stuck it out for as long as she could, trusted him until he did something she found unforgivable, invading her life and hurting the people she really did care for in the way she was supposed to for him. I’m just saying that the way she and Montag treated each other wasn’t as close as Montag and Beatty treated each other or even as close as Mildred and Mrs. Bowles/Mrs. Phelps treated each other.

Anyways that concludes my essay on why Montag and Beatty were prolly gay for each other, sorry it got kinda McFuckim sad. U can argue Beatty was just looking for a friend and/or he was evil and/or unintentionally an antagonist trying to achieve his goals of keeping others happy, and u can also argue that Montag only asked Beatty shit b/c he was his superior and Mildred and Montag were just,,,not in love and that was it and I’m a stinky kweer pee pee face buuuut I’m not changing my opinion. I think Ray Bradbury was a coward (even tho I love his writing) for not making them live as rebel husbands with three Pomeranians who read to each other at night but like wtv. Also I didn’t proofread this because I don’t care kk

[rattlung]

i wanted to get this out for halloween but then it ended up getting (and taking) too long so i was like aight whatever i’ll split it and post the first bit so i know at least some of it will be in time for the spooky scary. not that it’s really spooky scary, but yknow

anyway the second i saw cowboy mirage and vampire crypto i knew i had to write a wild west au with them. if any of you knew me from my glory ovw days, you know wth im talkin about. 

so anyway, slooow burn, animal death, blood, blood drinking, and possible ooc-ness because i couldn’t decide on whether i wanted mirage to have a very thick southern accent or not so his dialogue may be a bit whack. also with it being an au, characterization probably got skewed to shit. sorry about that :^(

cross posting fucks up formatting, so to be safe here’s the ao3 link but if that’s not the jam for your bread, it’s all under the read more

=======

The sun had set hours ago, but Elliott remained at his post.

Crickets and grass were his only companions on his porch, not even a candle was lit to keep him company. He didn’t want anyone to know he was out there and the little flame would have given him away. Besides, the moon was high that night and the stars glittered from behind it thanks to the cloudless sky. His eyes had adjusted well enough, and the open fields of the farm didn’t provide enough shadows to cause much concern.

No, Elliott was confident he’d catch who he wanted tonight, it was only a matter of whether or not the little bastard would show up.

He sighed and leaned forward in his chair to rest his crossed arms on the railing of the porch, then placed his chin on them. He hoped whoever it was would show. He couldn’t afford another big hit to the stock again. In the last week, he’d lost three chickens - one of them was the hen he’d sank three dollars into earlier in the month. It’d been a good one, too, healthy eggs up until she went missing with two of her sisters.

It was like nothing Elliott had ever seen before. There were never any carcasses left in the coop or on the land, no blood and maybe only a few stripped feathers. Coyotes were never that clean - not in Elliott’s experience anyway. And to take so many at a time?

Then the marks started showing up on the cattle. Two clean little holes at their shoulders that Elliott would have missed had it not been for the blood that oozed out of them, staining their fur a rusted brownish red.

That changed things. The body-less crimes started making sense, because they weren’t being killed - they were being stolen. Chickens were easy to make off with. Just toss a few in a bag and be on your way. Cows, though, they were marking those. Maybe one man was sent to scope out the pens to pick out the healthiest ones, then send off a crew to look for the marks and round them up to bring them home.

Elliott fought off a yawn and the on coming sense of second guessing himself. They would be coming with a group. He hadn’t thought of that before. If they did show up tonight and they were armed, there would be very little he could do with his mother’s old rifle. Quickly he decided he wouldn’t leave the porch if he saw anything. Just fire off a few shots and hopefully scare them off.

All of the Witts had met unfortunate ends. Two Witt sons died in the war, one to the flu soon after his third birthday, their mother to the plague - and the last Witt, dead to a bullet wound received while defending the cow that sneezed on him that very morning?

Yeah, no thank you, he’d stay right there on the porch, yes, ma’am.

So sit he did, scanning the horizon, the treeline, the pens, and tried not to fall asleep. He wondered if Ms. Williams had any hounds she’d be willing to part with to do this kind of stuff for him. Growing up, he’d always wanted a farm dog and Anita Williams trained some of the best he’d ever seen. Elliott would be able to leave it outside to patrol the land, sleep out on the porch, and chase off any predators or thieves that might be lurking while Elliott was in bed. That would be better than suffering through the brutality of waiting for the sun to rise himself.

Elliott didn’t notice his eyes had closed until they snapped open at the sound of sudden rattling in the hen house. He waited a moment, wondering if he imagined it, but soon there was a murmur of cluckings and Elliott got to his feet. He picked up the hat he’d hung on the back of his chair and placed it on top of his head before grabbing the rifle, standing at the very edge of his porch.

Surely they wouldn’t be going for more chickens, would they? When the cows they had marked were out roaming?

Elliott stepped off the stairs and onto the dirt pathway. If it was chickens being targeted tonight, that means there was likely only one of them. He checked the chamber of his gun before heading off, getting onto the grass as soon as he could in order to dampen the sound of his approaching footsteps. By the time he’s at the fence, the clucking had shifted and grew into something louder, the few hens he had left squawking at whatever was in there with them.

And maybe it was because their din was too loud, but Elliott couldn’t hear anything else. Nothing but feathered ruffling and the scrape of chicken feet.

A chill raised the hair on the back of his neck but he crept forward anyway. He wiped the palm of his hand off on his jeans and pushed open the gate, wincing hard when one of the hens in the coop got louder. The rest were a bit hysterical in their noise making, but this one’s panic was visceral. This wasn’t just someone walking through their nests and aggravating them out of sleep - these chickens were scared for their lives.

Elliott crept up to the wired entrance of the shed and peeked around. Small shadows flicked back an forth on the hay-filled floor in a frenzy. Hoarse, creaking noises spilled from their beaks and wings fluttered as they battled each other in their panic to press to the corners of the shed, close to the walls to get away from -

Now, Elliott wasn’t a religious man - which was an odd thing, when one lived in a small town like he did, where the person he bought canned goods from was the pastor’s brother, and the biggest building was the church which was always filled on Sunday. He never went to mass, not even for the holidays, and the Witt Family’s bible had been left in the bedside table’s drawer since he was a boy.

But he didn’t have to crack apart the thin pages of God’s Word to determine that whatever the thing was in front of him was bad.

Especially when it turned, a chicken limp and unmoving in its hands, and stared Elliott down with eyes that burned like indigo flames.

This isn’t a coyote, his mind helpfully informed him just as his mouth spit out, “Oh, fuck.”

The creature stood up fully and despite all its human-like qualities, there was still that electric energy that was just not right, uncanny and out of place. It showed off a human face, but its skin was so white it almost glinted blue when it passed through the moonlight that bled through the shed’s wooden panels.

Which is how Elliott noticed it was moving toward him. He raised the rifle up and pointed it square at the thing’s chest. If froze in its step, still as stone in half a second, but above the crying of his birds Elliott could hear the trill of something moving in its throat.

“Dro - Drop the chicken,” Elliott ordered, the stillness in his limbs compensating for his trembling voice.

To his surprise the creature listened to him. Its trill from before burst from its throat and its frown opened to let out a hiss, pitched low and piercing. The teeth it bared to him had a pink sheen, wet with blood, and its canines ended in vicious points - points Elliott was sure would match with the ones marking his cattle out on the fields.

“Oh, shit, okay - “ Elliott muttered, too panicked to remember that the creature could hear him.

It hunched down suddenly, dropping into a stance that made Elliott think it was going to lunge for him. Before he could really process that information, could even think to fire a shot at it to knock it down, to kill it, the creature spun around and crashed through the other side of the coop. Elliott blinked at the wire it split through like paper then hurried around the house. It was fast, already having leaped over the fence, a black shape that moved without sound, whispering over the grass in one, two seconds before it disappeared into the trees.

“That’s not a fuckin’ coyote,” Elliott said over the thundering of his heartbeat and the screaming of his chickens.

----=----

For a whole entire day, Elliott allowed himself to think that it was over. He let himself think that that was the last he’d see of the thing, that he’d scared it enough to retreat just from pointing a gun at it. Maybe the fear of Elliott actually using it would keep it away, whatever it was.

Truth be told, he didn’t really want to find out what it was. From the look he got out of it from the shadows, it looked human enough. A man as tall as him, dressed to the nines in black and red silks, slim with features Elliott might have tipped a hat at had he not been terrified the time he saw them. Human features. It looked human.

And yet, the bloodless chicken he’d been forced to get rid of proved otherwise. Once he’d been able to move, he’d wandered back in to examine it and found that it was little more than a husk, dried out and useless. It’s carcass was clean, feathers mostly untouched with no red soaked into them. On its breast were two, neat puncture holes.

The next day, one he’d used to catch up on sleep, he started feeling watched.

As he left the stables after shoveling out the floors, a familiar chill walked along his shoulders like icy fingers, eliciting a shiver from him. It lingered for a moment and slowly dissipated when he searched his surroundings, forcing himself to outwardly appear calm when he found nothing.

It would happen again - and often - in the following weeks. When he left the stables after milking, he’d feel it then. When he fed the chickens, when he lead the two horses out onto the pasture, checked on the hogs - someone was watching him. Waiting. And yet, as each night passed and he’d wake up, Elliott would set out to work and find that none of the livestock had been touched. The hens didn’t go missing. The puncture marks on the cows had scabbed over, and no new ones appeared.

Worriedly, Elliott wondered if he were next, that he was the one being stalked - but why wait so long? He lived alone on the Witt farm, and no one had visited him in the time between then and the encounter.

The idea of a peace offering came to him when he had to put one of the roosters down. It was the older one of the three, the one that was always more aggressive and tried to start fights with the others. Apparently, it had to learn the hard way that all fights it started were not always ones it could win. Elliott should have separated it sooner, or maybe had done something, but his mind had been in other places as of late. He’d felt terrible - for the cockerel, for himself. For his family. The only thing they’d left behind was this farm, and he was making a mess of it.

So, out he marched at the first sign of dusk, right to the edge of the trees where he’d seen the creature dart off all those days ago. He planned on calling out to it until it showed, dropping the rooster at its feet and declaring, There, see? I’m doing just fine on ruining everything on my own, so why don’t you just take the damn bird and go?

He didn’t do any such thing. He just stood there for a long moment, listened to the robins in the woods and the huffing of cattle behind him, and stared down at the rooster in his hands. Eventually, the watched feeling came. Elliott was so used to it that the chill hardly even registered. It was just eyes on him, now, no longer threatening or frightening.

For a moment, neither of them did anything. Nothing jumped out to attack him, and Elliott didn’t say a word. He never actually did. Eventually, he dropped the rooster onto the grass and turned back to the house, not even waiting to see if the creature would show itself.

The sun was finally wishing the horizon a farewell, sinking just under the trees as he’s finishing up the last of his rounds. Elliott tested the locks on the doors of the stalls to make sure they wouldn’t swing open and cast a long look at a cow sitting on the other side of one. She stared back at him. The scabs on her shoulders were just about gone, now, and her fur had grown over the little pink marks that’d been left behind. The rest of the cattle’s marks were just about the same. Nothing fresh.

Inside the Witt home, it was dark. There was still washing up he had to do in the big metal basin sat underneath the kitchen’s window. He probably wouldn’t get to until the next morning, so he pointedly kept his gaze away from there. He moved passed the old dining table that hadn’t seen use in years - mostly it was just full of tools he hadn’t moved back into the shed yet - and made his way toward the fireplace. Soon, the cold blue glow of the darkening sky was warmed by the slow starting flame. Elliott poked at it until he was thoroughly bored of watching sticks crumble into ash and was sure it wouldn’t smother itself.

With a heaving sigh he got back to his feet but didn’t go far, falling onto a wooden bench close to the fireplace. There were bigger and more comfortable places to sit, like the large wicker chair right beside him or the stool that had a pillow sewn onto it haphazardly, but Elliott had always sat on the bench. Maybe tomorrow, after he was done the cleaning, he’d move all the extra furniture out into the shed along with the tools on the dining room table. No use in having so many if he wasn’t using it. He didn’t get much company - none at all, really.

Elliott found himself staring at the book left on the seat of the wicker chair and doubted he’d even get around to doing the washing up.

Over the crackle of the fire, something thumped right outside the front door. Elliott straightened, twisted around to look toward the noise, and thought how weird it was to be thinking about never getting any visitors only to have one stop by. Or maybe the word was ironic.

But then he remembered the time and he held his breath to listen. There was no shuffling of someone on his porch and no knocking on his door. If someone rode all the way out to the Witt’s Farm after sundown it’d be for an emergency, so there was no real good reason for the stranger to be quiet.

Slowly, Elliott stood. Avoiding the floorboards that creaked, he crossed the room toward the door and picked up the rifle he’d left there. The silence was deafening and ringing with the dreadful thought of how he might actually be going crazy. Then, the idea of Elliott opening the door and finding nothing at all was almost as terrifying as opening it and revealing the shadow from the hen house. Had he actually heard something? Was there really something in his woods? What if he went outside to the coop and all of the lost chickens would be accounted for? What if the marks on the cows had healed so fast because they’d never been marked in the first place?

Elliott put his hand on the doorknob, sucked in a breath, held it, then twisted it and pulled it open. The door’s creak seemed like a wail in the empty night - because that’s what it was. Empty. No one standing at his stoop, no shadow perched on his railing ready to strike.

Nothing but the rooster he’d left at the trees, untouched and dropped carelessly at his door.

And for reasons he couldn’t explain, Elliott narrowed his eyes down at it and felt angry. Maybe it was the sleep he was losing, the constant worrying, the loneliness - or maybe he actually was losing his mind. Whatever it was, it was enough to have him bend over, snatch up the bird, and stomp down onto the path toward the trees. When he got there, he still said nothing, but that time he didn’t even wait around. Elliott just tossed the bird back onto the grass where he’d left it the first time and turned to storm away, ignoring the petulant feeling that rose at the display.

He made it about four yards before something hit the dirt behind him. He froze without looking back and grit his teeth.

“Alright, you sumbitch.”

Annoyed, he faced the trees again, passing the bird on the road. That chill was back. Instead of stopping him, have him think twice, it only achieved in making the anger thrumming around in his chest burn defiantly brighter.

Two indigo flames held his gaze when Elliott noticed them, dimmer than the last time he saw them. They regarded him with disinterest and that alone had him nearly seething.

“I’m tired of playing this game you’re havin’ with me,” he snapped. The shadow might have raised a brow at him, but with how dark it was Elliott couldn’t be sure. It didn’t say anything, so the question - the one he’d been wondering since that night - burst out of him. “Why haven’t you just killed me yet?”

Now the eyes moved, turning in a way that told Elliott that the creature had tilted its head. But still, the silence. Slowly, it looked down at the rifle Elliott had nearly forgotten about, pointedly, then back up at him. Elliott heard it hit the ground in the next second, which is how he learned that he himself tossed it aside.

Something that was smothered by the heat of the moment whispered to him, You sleep deprived idiot, just what in the hell are you doing?

What he said out loud was, “Do it, then. Nothin’s stopping you, so do it.”

The shadow did nothing; not a sound, not a movement.

Elliott heard his own breathing over the gentle breeze and wondered why it was so slow. He’d seen the speed the creature had moved at and his only protection was too many paces away. If it wasn’t planning on killing him, the anticipation should have been. But he was calm, staring demise dead in its lightning blue eyes, fists clenched at his sides.

The thought of it being incapable of speech occurred to him, but with the way it watched him, Elliott didn’t find it likely. Despite how inhuman they were, there was sentience behind the shadow’s gaze. Maybe too much for something that fed on blood. It looked at Elliott and he felt that it was capable of telling him exactly what it wanted to with a stare alone - all that and more. It was a heavy kind of thing to know. Elliott realized he had a hard time looking away, so when he managed it he didn’t dare look again.

“Just, get - get out of here.” He started making his way back - and didn’t look at the damned rooster again, either. “Leave me alone and terrorize some other poor bastard’s chickens.”

Coward, he thought, but didn’t know who it was directed to.

----=----

The next morning, Elliott woke up to one less crowing and his rifle propped up on the porch railing outside.

Something in the woods still watched him.

----=----

A few days passed until he saw the shadow again. Elliott was leaving the hen house and had thrown a look up at the sky to gauge the time, sighed at the moon, and turned to shut the wired gate behind him. When he turned around, a figure that definitely had not been there before stood in the path in front of him.

He gasped and sent himself back in a fit of shock, back slamming up against the shed. He scowled once he realized what - or, rather, who it was, but that was gone in the next second, too. The shadow’s posture was still one of casual disinterest; hands in pockets, shoulders relaxed, and expression blank if not aloof. But it was different, Elliott was sure. The skin, while always having been pallid, took a different tone, now, one that was qualmish and almost sickly. And the eyes - the eyes hardly even glowed.

It looked more like a ghost than a shadow.

“What’s wrong?” He asked - and why was he even concerned? It hadn’t tried to kill him yet, sure, but it was responsible for taking out almost a quarter of his chickens.

True to a pattern, the creature said nothing, however, it did give a meaningful look into the shed behind Elliott. When its gaze returned, he could see how its throat worked around a swallow.

“Are - “ Elliott looked back at the hen house as if to check to make sure that was what the shadow had looked at. “Are you asking me to - “ He cut himself off again, but pointed into the house.

It narrowed its eyes at the incredulous inflection in Elliott’s voice but did not say no.

The whistling of grass is the only sound for a long moment as a cool night’s breeze moved over the fields, Elliott at a loss for words. As the wind washed over him, chilling him that much further, he could see the creature’s nostrils flare minutely, and this time when its throat moved it was around a rumbling noise. From the base of its chest it traveled up and out as that familiar trill. It filled Elliott with a sense of urgency, one he couldn’t really explain.

He was torn. It was strange to be asked such a thing, but he supposed he should be grateful of the fact that it was asking at all. But how was he even supposed to answer? As far as Elliott knew, none of his chickens survived. He’d never found markings on them, they would just disappear. With the colder seasons approaching, he really couldn’t afford to lose any more of his livestock.

The cows, though, they’d apparently survived a few run-ins with the shadow.

Elliott looked over to the stables and felt shameful the second he did. Was he really considering it? Other than the fast healing punctures on their necks or shoulders, there had been no real changes in their behavior or health. The morning he’d find the marks on them, they’d appear nonplussed. But what if it hurt them? What if the experience was traumatic in a way Elliott couldn’t see?

Then again, could he really afford to deliberate on this? In that moment, with the shadow looking at him expectantly, it seemed to be between Elliott and the cows. Really, the choice was an easy one, but he was still allowed to feel guilty.

“Follow me,” he told the shadow.

As the temperature steadily declined throughout the days, Elliott had started rounding the cows up into the stables more often. It got too cold at night , and he didn’t want to give the cows a chance to catch an illness. It meant waking up earlier to give them more time to graze but it was safer. While he was unlocking the paneled door to the stables Elliott thought that maybe that was the reason he was losing more chickens. It was harder to get through a locked door without raising suspicion than it was kidnapping a few birds and letting the farmer’s blame fall onto coyotes.

The shadow didn’t make a noise but when Elliott turned, it was standing right behind him, nose wrinkled a little at the intense smell of animal and dirt. He didn’t jump that time. He picked up the unlit lantern he’d left behind on the stacked bales of hay, lighting it fast and hung it on the rung in between two of the stall doors. Inside one of them, the dull eyes of a cow shimmered and regarded him blankly. Elliott drug the door open and stepped inside next to her, touching at the glittering wet nose and felt her hot breath huff against his hand in recognition.

“It doesn’t - there’s no - it - it’s not gonna hurt her too much, is it?” Elliott couldn’t help but ask. Now, he expected a nonverbal answer so he looked back to shadow for it, finding more whites in its eyes and the stoic expression looking cheaper. It wasn’t watching him anymore, purely focused on the cow Elliott was petting at nervously.

It stepped closer, into the stall, and Elliott watched as the cow’s head tipped up apprehensively. The huffing of her breathing got a little bit faster and Elliott heard himself shushing her lowly, scratching around the longer scruff by her ears. He couldn’t imagine he was helping too much, but the only thing she did when he saw the shadow disappear around her other side was let out a small grunt of displeasure.

Time passed; the only sound came from his and the cow’s breathing and the brisk wind rattling the wood of the barn. Elliott kept up his attempt at comfort, watching her face intently, and was surprised to find her calm once again. Slowly, he stepped away, gauging her reaction at the movement but didn’t get one.

He moved back into the base of the barn and heaved up one of the metal buckets he’d filled with grain. It was a favor he’d done for himself that night to save himself some time when he woke up to feed them, but he figured that the cow deserved some special treatment. Elliot brought it over to her front and held it right under her nose for her to sniff out, knocking the handle out of her way and hugging it to his stomach due to the weight of it.

The cow’s ears twitched back and forth in contentment, dipping her snout into the grain and eating it by the mouthful. Relief coursed through him like the blood in his veins and Elliott felt himself smiling a little.

“Good girl,” he told her, to which he got very little in the way of a response.

The shadow straightened in a fluid movement, one Elliott watched with rapt attention. Even in just the few short minutes, there was an excruciatingly apparent change in the creature. The intensity of its eyes returned, their brightness amplifying its now fuller features and adding more color to the porcelain-looking skin - it was the most human Elliott had seen him.

“You were starving,” Elliott muttered with a voice awed in his realization. He thought back to the look the shadow had given the cow before and identified it now as a pained and feral sort of hunger. “Why didn’t you just take the damned rooster?”

The creature wiped the cow blood off of wet lips and had the audacity to look at Elliott like he was the disgusting one. Before he could remark on that, prove to the other how backwards that was, the shadow’s mouth opened and for the first time, he spoke. In a voice that was low and smooth, with layers upon layers of something deep and new to Elliott threading through the syllables, he simply stated, “It was dead.”

Elliott sputtered, a little dumbstruck. “So?”

The shadow’s eyes narrowed into a disbelieving glare. “It was dead for a long time.”

“You’re gettin’ partipu - pertil - picky about what blood you’re drinking, now?”

If he were being frank, Elliott wasn’t sure why he was antagonizing the shadow. He’d been merciful so far in not maiming him. And Elliott couldn’t exactly say that if he’d left something out for the hours the rooster had been sitting, he would drink it, either.

But surely drinking blood wasn’t enjoyable in any sense.

Elliott pulled the bucket out from under the cow. Some feed stuck to the wetness of her nose which she cleaned off with a few swipes of her tongue. “I guess we’re done here,” Elliott said to her, but mostly to the shadow.

The shadow that had since disappeared from the stables.

Sighing, Elliott replaced the now three quarters filled bucket with the others as he shook his head. “Guess we are.”

----=----

They weren’t, but Elliott had expected that much.

Every other night, now, when Elliott was finishing his rounds he caught sight of the shadow leaning against the barn doors like it was an arrangement they’d agreed on. He’d finish locking up and meet him there where he’d open the doors and wave the shadow inside, direct him to one of the seven cows, and pretended it wasn’t abnormal. Every farmer had an odd case; a pair of horses that only fed at a specific time of day, cattle that grazed exclusively on the left side of the pasture, a herding dog that befriended and mothered ill lambs.

Elliott’s odd case was a vampire, but it was fine. Every farmer had an odd case. Some odder than others.

Things started to change on the evening Elliott had just left the stables unlocked. One of the pen’s posts had crumbled from age and the fences around it sagged too close to the dirt. It was a reminder that he’d have to put work into replacing them before the winter, or else he’d have a lot more work come spring. Like the dishes in the basin and the extra furniture still in the front of his house, that was a problem for tomorrow’s Elliott. He’d just repair the broken one for now.

He was just testing out the sturdiness of the new post when he noticed that the shadow was standing behind him. By then he was so used to the minor jump scares that he only just barely lost the hammer in his grip. It thumped onto the old, rotten fence post he’d left laying there and landed quietly in the grass.

“Lord - Jesus - Chri - you gotta stop doing that,” he told the shadow, hand over his heart.

Silence from the shadow. He’d gone back to his quiet pledge, not having spoken since their very short conversation in the stables.

Elliott was used to that, too, so shook his head and leaned down to pick up the hammer and the post. He could leave it to dry out on his porch, break it apart further and use it for tinder later. “I left the barn open,” he said when he saw that the shadow was still standing there.

“I know,” the shadow responded. Something flashed in his eyes, probably on account of how fast Elliott snapped up to look at him, not having expected an answer. It was some kind of struggle, Elliott imagined, because his mouth opened a second before he said anything. “Thank you.”

Elliott’s eyes widened. “I - uh. Y-yeah, you’re welcome. It’s fine. It’s - y’know, it’s better than you killing my chickens.”

That flash of something struck again. Elliott wanted to apologize. He genuinely didn’t want to offend the shadow, and he might have actually done it if he didn’t speak before him. “Why haven’t you told anyone?”

And that would have been smart, wouldn’t it? Letting the town know about the blood drinker in their woods. They could have helped Elliott a few dead birds earlier, rounded up enough of them for a search party - if they even believed him in the first place. But that would have involved killing the shadow, or running him off, and Elliott didn’t really enjoy the idea of that. In some kind of morbid way, through all of the heart-pounding meetings and stress-induced nightmares, he kind of liked the company. He’d probably miss it if it were gone.

Besides, the nightmares were really nothing new.

Still, he decided he wasn’t going to tell the other that. He just grinned, leaned up against the freshly repaired fence - very sturdy -  and said, “I think I’ve got you handled.”

The shadow’s brow rose and he looked Elliott up and down, then finally back up again. “No,” is all he said.

The smile dropped from Elliott’s face but he didn’t say anything more on that, because, unfortunately, the shadow was being very fair. “Right, well,” he muttered, pushing off the fence. He was ready for bed. “Have a good night, then.”

“Are you Witt?” He was asked after a few paces.

Elliott paused, turned around slowly. “How’d you know about that?”

“I listen,” the shadow stated simply.

Looking around acres of empty land, Elliott wondered, to who? “Yeah, I - well, I’m one of them. Witt’s my last name, so there’s… Well, there’s been a few Witts.”

The other’s head cocked to one side. “Which Witt are you?”

The only one, really. “I’m Elliott.”

The shadow nodded, looking him over once more. “Good night, Elliott.”

All he did was stand there for a moment, blinking, too caught up on how his name sounded in the smooth whisper of the other’s voice. He’d never heard it be said like that before.

Then, finally, his brain caught up.

“Hey, wait,” he called, despite the shadow not having moved an inch. “That’s not very fair, now is it? I don’t get to know your name?”

He wouldn’t exactly say that the shadow was the teasing sort, but it did take numerous weeks to get a decent two-sided conversation out of him. Mostly, Elliott expected the same response from before. Another ‘no’ before he disappeared for a few nights again.

“Tae Joon,” was what he got, though.

Elliott tried it out for himself. “Tae Joon.”

The shadow’s head tilted further.

Elliott smiled, tipped his hat. “You have a good night, Tae Joon.”

He shifted the wooden post around for easier carrying and put his back to the shadow, knowing that if he turned around now he probably would find empty air. It was fine. Elliott knew he’d see him soon.

=====

yyyyeaahh this is what i’ve been putting off prompts for BIG oof :^(((( 

not sure when i’ll finish the rest of it tbh but here’s this for now i guess 

[saltnhalo]

For @rainbowskittle

“Special Agent Winchester? Come with me.”

Dean straightens up at his post and raises his eyebrows. “Now, sir?” he asks of his boss—the gruff-looking Special Agent Singer who has been in charge of the Presidential detail for as long as anyone can remember. It’s not often that he directly singles out agents, so Dean can’t be sure if this is a good thing or not.

Singer just inclines his head silently. He’s not going to get any extra information, then—but he’s gotten used to that, after so long in the Secret Service. There are always things going on that are above his pay grade or none of his business. He steps away from his post and follows Singer when he turns and walks away, surreptitiously straightening his suit. Wherever they’re going, whoever Singer might be taking him to see, he needs to look like the damn professional that he is.

They walk in silence through the corridors of the West Wing, and Dean tries not to analyze the situation too much in his head, but when they reach the doors of the Oval Office—

“The President has requested to speak with you.”

Nervous butterflies erupt in Dean’s stomach.

President Novak is the kind of guy who will always take time out of his day to chat with his employees—be it a wave here, a ‘hello’ there, or even just the uncanny way he manages to remember little details about the lives of so many of his staff members. For someone tasked with running a whole country, it’s pretty fucking impressive.

But with Dean, it’s different. Always has been, ever since Dean started his detail here.

The first few times they’d met, he’d been little more than a fringe guard. Someone tasked with covering one of the many possible areas and angles, counting the number of tiles on the floor to keep himself entertained until the fleeting moment when the President and his inner team would pass.

Dean had seen him in photos, or on television, but the first time he met President Novak in person, that was it. His colleagues tease him about his unrequited crush, and he’s become the butt of many jokes after he’s been caught staring when his attention is elsewhere, or when he manages to stumble over the briefest of interactions that he has with the guy.

But not long after the first time that Dean crossed the President’s path, he was promoted to the recon team, and then to the inner team, tasked with being President Novak’s personal bodyguards. Being around the President more often makes it easier for Dean to talk to him (he’s almost managed to get over his awkwardness) and, admittedly, stare, but it also means that he gets the opportunity to pay closer attention to President Novak’s habits.

And if Dean happens to catch him staring once, or twice, or a dozen times throughout the day, well. It’s an interesting fact that he files away for a rainy day—when he’s not tasked with literally having the guy’s life in his hands. In this line of work, distractions and emotions are far from ideal.

Dean may have failed more than a little on both fronts, but he’d thought that he’d managed to do an okay job at hiding his infatuation from the man himself.

Considering he’s being called into the Oval Office alone and in the middle of his shift, he’s starting to suspect that that might not be the case.

Special Agent Singer steps back, taking up his position outside the office, and nods towards the closed doors. “Whenever you’re ready, Winchester.”

Whenever you’re ready. As if Dean feels ready in the slightest to face the most powerful man in the United States—the very man Dean has been maybe kind of pining over ever since he joined the President’s detail.

But he has to get it over with sometime, and decent guy or not, the President is not someone who should be kept waiting.

Dean takes a deep breath, steels his nerves, and pushes the door open.  

Even though Dean has been working in the White House for more than a few months now, he’s only seen the inside of the Oval Office a handful of times, and this one is no less nerve-wracking than the others. In fact, it’s more nerve-wracking, because once he’s closed the door behind him and turned to face the rest of the room, it’s then that he realizes—it really only is him and President Novak in here.

The man himself stands up from his desk when he Dean enters, and for the first time Dean has ever seen, he actually looks a little… nervous. He straightens the cuffs of his shirt that are rolled halfway up his forearms and then touches his half-loosened tie as though he’d forgotten to tighten it before Dean entered—not that Dean minds in the slightest. With the messy hair and the more casual look, he might almost be able to forget that he’s standing in front of the President of the United States.

Almost.

“You wanted to see me, sir?” Dean asks, and even though they’ve had countless comfortable interactions, he can’t help slipping back into the respectful address.

Novak gives him a quick smile and gestures to the chair opposite his desk. “Welcome, Special Agent Winchester. Please, have a seat. And I’ve told you, you’re welcome to call me Castiel.”

God, that shouldn’t be enough to make Dean’s heart beat faster. He nods jerkily and crosses the room to the desk, taking the offered seat. “Okay, si—Castiel.” He can feel his cheeks burning with embarrassment—this is not how a Secret Service agent should be behaving.Get a fucking grip, Winchester. “Why did you want to see me?” he asks, before he can make any more an idiot of himself.

Now that Dean is seated, Novak sits down as well, resting his clasped hands on his desk. He doesn’t fidget or look away, and there aren’t any physical tells that he can see, but Dean begins to get the niggling feeling in his gut that something is wrong.

“We need to talk about your position on my security team,” Novak says finally. His gaze is steady and even, but it feels like the calm façade is born from years of practice. Whatever direction this conversation is going in, the President seems… off. Not his usual self.

Dean swallows. “What do you mean, sir?”

The corners of Novak’s mouth turn down. His voice, when he next speaks, is soft, but his words are blunt.

“I’m having you removed from the White House security detail.”

Dean stares. He stares and he stares and he stares some more, because he can’t quite figure out what the fuck just came out of Novak’s mouth. He’s being removed? What? Why?

“Are you firing me?” he asks, dumbstruck. He knows he’s let himself be distracted by the President more than is probably reasonable, but he hadn’t thought he was that bad at his job. Why the fuck is he being removed from the detail?

There’s a hint of guilt in Novak’s expression, but still, he sticks to his guns. “I—not technically, but—“

“Why?”

President Novak closes his eyes, takes a deep breath in, then exhales. When he opens them, he’s watching Dean with a look in his eyes that Dean can’t even put a name to. “Because I can’t have you around me like this anymore, Dean.”

And suddenly this meeting has become incredibly personal.

“What do you mean, around you?” Dean asks quietly, leaning back in his chair. Novak’s words feel like a physical blow, one that has sent him reeling and that he feels he needs to recover from. He’d thought that they’d been friendly at the least, and had some kind of… connection at the most, but now…

Now it seems as though that’s not the case at all.

For the first time, Novak’s composure seems to crack. He runs his fingers through his hair, looks up at the ceiling for a second, then rests his arms back on the desk. “I mean,” he begins, sounding more vulnerable than Dean has ever heard him, “that while I’m working, I can’t have you near me. You’re distracting, Dean—I’ve seen you watching me, I’ve seen how you look at me and heard how to talk to me, and I can’t get it out of my head. It puts me in a difficult position, because I can’t afford to be distracted or worrying while I’m supposed to be working. I can’t concentrate when I know you’re close by, part of my security team, putting yourself in harm’s way because of me.”

“I do it because it’s my job,” Dean protests hotly, his cheeks burning with shame and embarrassment. It’s clear that the President wants nothing to do with his stupid infatuation, but Dean doesn’t protect him because of some fucking crush, he does it because he took an oath to serve his country and if this is how he does so then so fucking be it.

Novak raises his hands placatingly. “I know,” he acknowledges, “and you’re very good at what you do. But you… you can’t say you haven’t noticed it. Neither of us are working as well as we should, and we can’t keep operating under these conditions—you distracted from your job and me constantly worrying about what could happen if my life really were to be threatened.”

“I’d protect you!” Dean snaps, more forcefully than he meant to. “I might have a dumb crush, okay, but I’d still take a bullet for you. I’d still be able to protect you and do my job.”

“And that’s exactly why I can’t keep you on my team!” Novak shoves back from his desk and stands, palms planted flat on the table as he leans forward towards Dean. His hair is a mess, his eyes wide and voice shaking enough that it makes Dean think fuck, this is really serious. “Because it’s bad enough to know that there are people out there whose job it is to die in my place, but knowing that you’re one of those people? If you died protecting me, Dean, I would never forgive myself.”

What?

Castiel’s last words echo through Dean’s head in the ensuing silence that stretches out between them. The President’s ragged breathing is the only thing that fills the air—and Dean feels as though he’s holding his breath, as though he’s not quite sure what just happened or, more importantly, what all of it means.

“You’d never forgive yourself… If I died?” he asks, his words quiet. “Why me?”

Slowly, all the fire and the determination drains out of Castiel. He sits back down, and when he looks in Dean’s direction, he can’t look him in the eye. Instead, he focuses on a point just over Dean’s right shoulder and addresses that.

“Because I like you, Dean. I like you a lot. And every night, I fall asleep wondering if tomorrow will be the day you’re forced to put your life on the line in exchange for mine, and I feel sick at the thought of it.” He looks down at his hands, folded tightly together on the table in front of him. “I understand if that makes you uncomfortable. If you’re not fully interested in having a relationship with a man, or if my feelings are too strong for you. I would understand if you wanted to resign based on what I’ve just told you. But I can’t…”

His voice cracks.

“I can’t keep you on as part of my security team. It’s more than I can take.”

He finishes talking and, once again, there’s that fucking silence. The silence that seems so full and so heavy that it drapes around Dean’s shoulders and smothers him until he can barely organise his thoughts, until all he can think about is the way Castiel had sounded when he’d told Dean that. Like he was watching his world fall apart in front of his eyes.

Dean takes a deep breath.

“So, just to be clear,” he says. “You’re firing me because you’re into me, and knowing that I’m tasked with protecting you and putting myself in danger for you is worrying you. Yes?”

Novak nods. Fuck, this is so much more touchy-feely than Dean is ever comfortable getting, but for once, he might not be the most emotionally constipated person in the room. It sounds like they’ve both been too stupid to make the first move—though, why the President of the United States is into someone like Dean, he’s not quite sure.

“And if I wasn’t working for you, you’d take me out on a date. Yes?”

Novak pauses, lips pressed into a thin, nervous line, then says, “Yes.”

Slowly, Dean lets himself smile, until his lips are curled up into a wide grin and his heart is double-beating happily in his chest. “In that case, I quit,” he says, standing up from his chair. He reaches for someone’s discarded business card on the corner of the desk and a pen, and scribbles his number onto it before handing the card to a dumbstruck Castiel. “And you can take me out for dinner on Friday.”

[fullmetalscullyy]

royai week day 3: flashover

rated: t | words: 2278

read on ao3

flashover: the near-simultaneous ignition of most of the directly exposed combustible material in an enclosed area. a flashover occurs when all of the combustible materials in a room or compartment reach their ignition temperatures at the same time.

Without a word shared between them the two officers moved through the darkened warehouse completely in sync. No sounds were made except from their boots hitting the concrete floor. Shouts sounded from distant rooms, directing the two towards that location. Roy Mustang signalled with one hand without looking at his partner, stating he would open the door and Riza Mustang would enter afterwards, storming the room with her gun raised. She’d already let off three shots as they’d moved, incapacitating three men without a second thought. Her expression never strayed from the cold fury that Roy also wore, a mirror of his wife, and with good reason.

Roy kicked the door open with all his might, channelling all his anger and fury into that movement. He would have been surprised when the rickety old thing was knocked off its hinges, hanging on by the top one only, but other things were occupying his mind. Riza stormed in a second later, popping off two shots before the men in the room had even turned.

“Get down!” Roy ordered, lifting his hand poised to snap. Cold eyes calculated the room, picking out the number of men still standing. Riza was already taking down those who had moved to retaliate, but Roy saw as the remaining men lifted their hands in surrender, the eyes above their bandanas wide with fear. “Amestrian Military. Get down on the ground, now!”

A few complied, except for one standing over the Mustang’s target for infiltrating this warehouse. Roy glared at him, daring the man to make a movement. Oh, how he wanted to kill him. He wanted to kill them all for what they’d done. His anger was a beast raging inside of him, beating against his chest and clouding his vision. Roy was so close to giving in to it and letting this unrestrained emotion tear into these people and hurt them they way they’d hurt him and Riza.

But he couldn’t. Not in front of his son.

The boy whimpered from his spot on the floor. His eyes were as wide as saucers, skipping between his mother and father both in relief and desperation. Roy’s vision went red as he saw the bruise on his face and the rope tying his ankles together. His arms were pulled behind his back, no doubt restrained with rope too.

“Maes?” Riza called to him, voice even and controlled, ever the soldier. Without looking at her Roy knew her fury matched his. Riza was terrifying when she was truly angry. He’d only ever heard it, walking through those tunnels underneath Central years ago, but he’d never seen it. And while he hated to see her this way, Roy didn’t blame her. These bastards had taken their son and Roy wouldn’t stop her if she decided to tear them limb from limb with her bare hands. “Are you all right?”

The man standing over their son tightened his grip, levelling his gun. Riza fired and Roy snapped at the same time, the former hitting his shoulder to knock him down while Roy’s flames burned the weapon from his hands. With an anguished cry he fell to the floor, landing heavily on his back.

“Maes?” Riza barked, her anger leaking through. She was becoming desperate. She needed an answer from their son, needed confirmation that he was okay.

“I… I’m –”

“Get back!” one of the men cried, lunging for Maes. The boy’s eyes widened once more as a knife was pressed to his throat. “Stay back!”

Roy didn’t even know what happened. It was like he lost control of his body and another entity took over when his son’s panicked eyes desperately called to his. He’d just been pushed to breaking point and this was the result. Instead of the cold fury a calmness overtook him. He lifted his hand and snapped without a thought, flames erupting over the man’s arm. The knife clattered to the floor as he cried out. Roy was careful though and made sure nothing touched Maes. At the same time, Riza fired her gun, both attacks in sync, and she hit the kidnapper’s shoulder. It was uncanny how alike they were, especially in this situation.

Maes rolled away in horror, shuffling towards his parents as the man burned in front of his eyes, screams of agony filling the room. To his right, Riza looked on and made no move to stop her husband.

“Dad…” Maes whispered in horror. He was too far gone to think about how he was burning someone alive in front of his child. He didn’t need to see this. Roy was so lost in his anger, his pain, and his grief that he didn’t think about how after Ishval he’d promised himself and the woman beside him he’d never use his alchemy for something like this again.

But these bastards had kidnapped his son. He was beyond reason. Roy had vowed he’d rain fire and brimstone down upon them when they came face-to-face.

Roy knew both he and Riza were losing their grip on reality as they searched for Maes. They’d lived at the office for the last week, ever since he’d been taken. Maes had been kidnapped on his way home from school. It was neither of their faults, but both shouldered the blame.

The others were extremely concerned. When Havoc had told them both to go home, his own frustration leaking through as he yelled at them to take care of themselves for Maes’ sake, their glares had stopped him short. Because, how could they rest when their son was out there, alone, afraid, and possibly dead at the hands of men and women who wanted to hurt the General and the Captain? Havoc should know that, but he didn’t understand. None of them did. After that incident the search continued, but the rest of the team kept their distance from the couple. They were spiralling into a very bad place and Havoc had tried to help them, but their grief and fury created a cocktail of emotion that was difficult to break free from.

It even reached the point where they would argue with each other. Little things had them snapping at the other, almost insinuating blaming them for their son’s abduction. The words were never said but the implication was there. Roy hated it but he couldn’t seem to stop himself. Not when Riza was glaring at him angrily.

Their relationship was straining. They both knew that.

However, when the moment arrived that they found Maes’ location they were an unstoppable team. They moved fluidly together. Words were unnecessary because they both knew the other’s next move. They were both dead set on finding their son and would cut down anyone who tried to stop them or hurt their boy.

“Dad, stop!” Maes shouted, backing up and hitting his father’s legs. Roy eventually tore his gaze away to look down into his son’s terrified eyes. Something snapped within him and that calmness left him, leaving a burning in his chest as he realised he was scaring Maes. Roy snapped again, removing the oxygen from around the kidnapper, leaving the fire to go out and him to slump over, unconscious.

After that show of power, the other men shut up and went willingly.

Maes shouting at Roy to stop broke through his haze of anger. Blinking twice he looked down at his son but Riza enveloped him in a tight hug and drew those black eyes away from Roy.

The rest of the team entered the room, weapons raised and trained on the remaining men. They were arrested and escorted from the room without a word to the two parents. Havoc shot Roy a look as he passed the final time but continued on his way. Roy knew that look. He wasn’t happy with how the situation had been handled, however it wasn’t just Roy who’d been on the warpath, Riza had been too.

A problem for another day.

“Mum,” Maes whimpered, clutching onto his mother, burying his face in her military jacket. Riza had removed the ties from his wrists and hadn’t had the chance to remove the others because Maes had thrown his arms around his mother.

“It’s all right, Maes, we’re here,” she soothed. Something lanced through Roy’s chest at her words. Their son had watched his mother kill someone and his father burn a man alive. They’d been relentless and Roy felt ashamed that they’d been so furious they hadn’t even considered that.

What happened in Ishval haunted them to this day, over twenty-five years later. They’d both vowed they would atone for it but today – in front of their son – they’d almost stooped back to that level. Roy could use the excuse that their son had been taken and they would do anything to get him back, but he didn’t need to go that low and needlessly kill. The men would be punished for their crimes. Roy had taken enough lives with his alchemy. He didn’t need to take anymore.

And Roy had never wanted Maes to see them in action.

Maes knew what happened in Ishval. Both he and Riza had sat down and explained everything to him when he was ten. As part of the new education criteria Roy had introduced in order to educate the future on what happened there, Maes would find out in high school. They’d told him two years prior to when he would learn it, to give him warning and allow him to process it. They also explained everything that had happened with the late Fuhrer Bradley, but the story of the homunculi wouldn’t be taught in schools. That would instil fear and may give others the idea to try it somewhere down the line. No, those involved in Mustang’s coup on the Promised Day had all agreed to leave that part out.

Their son had been hurt and confused at first. His parents were good people, how could they have done such a thing? He’d even run away from home to Havoc and Catalina’s house, leaving the two of them petrified. Maes had refused to come home. Both parents were distraught but there was nothing they could do. It was what they deserved after everything they’d done, they reasoned as they held each other in their despair.

It took a conversation with Edward Elric to coax Maes back home. The ten-year-old had run into his parent’s arms, sobbing about how sorry he was. Ed had just nodded and left them to it, returning a few hours later when Maes had fallen asleep on the couch with Riza, both exhausted after crying for most of the time. Roy was exhausted too, but he’d forced himself to remain awake. He didn’t get to rest after everything he’d done, all the pain he’d caused. When Ed returned, he told Roy that they’d both chatted, and Ed had explained to Maes everything they’d given up after Ishval. Their lives, their happiness, their personal future in order to atone for what they’d done. Ed told Maes everything that had happened on the Promised Day, how his mother had almost died and how his father was forced to open the gate at the hands of Fuhrer Bradley and lost his sight. Apparently, that was enough to bring their son home and hear them out.

“I’m sorry,” Maes whispered into her jacket. “I didn’t mean to –”

“It’s all right,” Riza reassured him, rubbing circles on his back. “It wasn’t your fault. These were bad people who wanted to hurt your father and I.” Roy’s chest tightened as he noticed Maes stiffen at the mention of him. “It was not your fault,” Riza stressed, holding him tighter.

Remaining silent, Roy kneeled and gently removed the ties from his ankles. He resigned himself to the fact that Maes would always fear him after today.

That was something Roy had always feared.

After the ties were released Maes moved away from Riza and threw his arms around his father’s neck. Roy was surprised, his eyes meeting Riza’s. There were so many emotions on her face that it was hard to pick out just one. Relief and happiness that their son was okay and alive had replaced the rage that had graced her features only moments ago. However, there was a hint of sadness, grief, and shame mixed in there too. She too was ashamed of how she’d acted in front of their son. They’d both been pushed to their limit and had reacted accordingly. The whole week their fuse had been getting shorter and shorter, their moods and emotions volatile. When they arrived at the warehouse they had combusted together, and all bets were off. Entering this room and seeing that their son had been injured pushed them over the edge, reaching boiling point, the pair erupting into a rage that knew no bounds, and wanting to hurt these men in every way possible to make them pay for what they’d done.

Riza nodded at him, giving Roy’s hand a quick squeeze. Roy wrapped his son in his arms tightly, burying his face in his dirty t-shirt. Roy didn’t care because Maes was alive and he was safe now.

Both he and Riza had a lot of things to talk about and deal with in the aftermath of this week, but right now, Maes was all right and that was all that mattered.

[stillthewordgirl]

LOT/CaptainCanary fic: (I Don’t Believe in) Destiny (ch. 10 of 11)

Leonard Snart is back, finally pulled from the timestream where he's spent the last four years. But he wasn't alone, and the repercussions of that will echo through the Legends, the Time Bureau, and beyond.

And maybe, just maybe, they'll bring everything around full circle.

You can also read here at AO3 or here at FF.net.

---

Ch. Ten: Every Game We Played

The Legends aren’t there. Not yet, anyway.

Ava stares out the viewscreen of the bureau mother ship as they come in over the wreckage of the Vanishing Point, blasted and silent and dark. There’s no sign of the Waverider. To her right, Druce is stone-faced, looking down at the wreckage of his past—and future?—home.

The blast of the exploding Oculus wellspring hadn’t wiped out everything—which doesn’t seem to make much sense; wasn’t it a freed supernova?—and there’s enough surface there to make the stand Druce wants. There’s even the ragged shell of a building around what Ava believes was the wellspring.

She bites her lip. Leonard Snart had caused this. But given all she’s learned…

“All hands brace for landing,” intones the pilot of the mother ship, a woman Ava had known by another name who now calls herself Liri Lee. Druce had gotten to so many of the bureau, so many people who believed they deserved more, knew better, because they’d been, for a while, custodians of time.

It’s true. Even with good intentions, power corrupts

Still, Ava rips her mind away from that. She braces, as directed, for landing. And she controls her expression as all those on the bridge…10, in addition to her and Druce…look to the Time Master for direction.

Druce scans them, then nods regally.

“I must go to the wellspring,” he announces. “There, to await the enemy. The others…keep them away.” His gaze hardens. “And you will be rewarded.”

The others don’t look at Ava, their supposed director, at all. They salute Druce, as does Ava, slightly belatedly.

Game time.

*

The bureau has already landed at the Vanishing Point.

Sara, looking out the viewscreen of the Waverider, takes a deep breath, letting it out slowly. She’s not naïve enough to believe that Ava isn’t there, given the presence of the bureau mother ship, but she’s trying not to think about it.

Leonard, to her right, glances at her. He doesn’t say anything, though, and Sara doesn’t pursue it.

Mick, to her left, mutters something under his breath. “Well,” he says, “Time Bastards are here. OK. Everyone clear on how we’re playin’ this?”

They’ve talked and talked about it, but it really all comes down to something too simple to even be called a plan.

John snorts. “The usual,” he says cynically, leaning against the holotable. “Chaos. While handsome there,” he nods to Leonard, “strolls through it all and goes for the wanker who started this.”

Sara rolls her eyes, forebears to mention that he really doesn’t have to be here—heaven knows John’s prone to wandering off on other business—and admits that he has a point.

“Yeah,” she acknowledges. “That’s essentially it. Gideon, would you pull up the info on the Time Bureau agents we know are in on this?”

Names and faces flash on the screen. Sara’s seen all the data before, but she studies it intently again, considering abilities and matching them with the teammates around her.

One, whom Mick had known as Walker Gabriel, is a bull of a man, and Sara knows that—should he become a Time Master—he’ll be an enforcer and hunter not unlike Mick had been, just much higher up. She already knows that Mick has called dibs on facing him, and she’ll respect that. It seems like there’s bad blood there.

The others: Hand to hand. High-tech combat. A touch of supernatural ability or more. Weapons expertise. High versatility.

In an uncanny way, Sara thinks, they really do mirror the Legends. Is this really how it was always meant to be? Legends vs. Time Masters, again and again and again?

“Versatile, my ass,” Charlie mutters from behind her. Sara glances around in time to see her cracking her knuckles. “I’ll show that minger who’s versatile.” She gives Sara a wolfish grin.

Sara grins back; it’s better than worrying. She pulls the viewscreen back to its view of the wreckage of the Vanishing Point and then glances over at Leonard.

“You ready?” she asks, trying to sound confident.

She expects snark in return. But Leonard’s eyes are cool and serious. He gives her one sharp nod, his gaze still on the viewscreen, on the place where he’d died…or they’d thought he had.

“Yes,” he says, voice low, intense. “It’s time.”

She doesn’t think he means the pun—but with Leonard, you never can tell. Sara reaches out and takes his hand, squeezing once, then lets go. They’d said what they needed to say to each other, last night.

And it is, indeed, time.

*

Druce’s people are waiting for them. Sara, bo in her hands, in full uniform, leads her own people toward them. She doesn’t look around to see when Leonard ghosts off on his own. She keeps her eyes forward and on the enemy.

The woman at the front of that group…it isn’t Ava. It’s a tall redhead, who’s watching them with equal parts wariness and what seems to be disgust. Sara, for now, resists the urge to glance around, looking for blond hair.

She flourishes her bo and reaches for cool confidence with a side of attitude.

“Well,” she tells the scowling woman, the one Mick had identified as Liri Lee. “Fancy meeting you all here.”

The woman laughs. “You are under arrest,” she says bluntly, coolly. “Legends? Agents of chaos, more like.” She nods sharply, looking around at them. “I’ll never understand why we just didn’t put you down like the mongrel dogs you are. Time was ordered and controlled until…”

Mick interrupts her. “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he says, staring over her head at Walker Gabriel. “Less talking. More fighting.”

And he brings his heat gun up and fires.

Well, it’s not how Sara might have chosen to start all this, but it works. The other woman leaps out of the way, Gabriel roars and charges Mick, and the fight is on.

Sara whirls as Lee turns for her, blocking and feinting at the redhead. She hears the other Legends engaging the other would-be Time Masters. And she counts as she glances around: one, two, three…10 total, looks like.

No Druce. But she doesn’t see Ava either.

Where is she?

*

The shell of the Oculus wellspring building is just that…a shell. Leonard strolls in like he owns the place instead of his terrified dash from last time, but his heart is thudding so loudly in his chest that it seems far louder than his own footsteps.

On some level, his own body remembers what happened here. The fear, the anger, the regret, the salt and sweet of Sara’s kiss. Staring at her as long as possible, trying to take her image with him into the night.

And then Druce. One last bit of defiance before it all went away.

This time, the Time Master waits for him here. Leonard can see his figure on the platform where the device that harnessed the wellspring stood—stands. The man, who’d worn regular, if nondescript, clothing of the time while he’d held Leonard captive at the Time Bureau, is now back in the sort of robe he’d worn before.

And he’s watching Leonard approach with an expressionless face—but furious eyes.

Ah. It’s nice to know he’s managed to piss off the Time Bastard again. Leonard slows just a little, adding a touch of swagger, a smirk touching his lips. Racing heart or not, he’ll be damned if he’ll show anything other than insolence.

He halts at the far end of the bridge over to the device, studying Druce. Waits until the other man decides to speak...and then promptly beats him to it.

“Well,” he drawls, folding his arms, “seems we wound up here regardless.” He tilts his head. “Too bad it’s not gonna go the way you think it’s gonna go.”

The words appear to infuriate Druce even more—just as Leonard wants. His eyes flash, and he takes a few steps toward the other man, almost involuntarily. Leonard can now see the large knife in his hand. A killing weapon; a gutting one. Peachy.

“You…” Druce starts.

Leonard inspects his nails. “Yes,” he says curtly. “Me.” He lifts his eyes, then, letting ice fill them. “And I’m gonna win this time, too.”

His taunting is working. Druce’s face goes hard, rage spilling over into features and body language. He takes another few steps toward Leonard.

“You are nothing!” he cries at Leonard. “Do you know how old I am? What I have seen? I walked the streets of ancient Athͮenai; I have dined in the halls of the lords of the future. The man named Chrysós brought me forward from my homeland and I became his better. I…”

“Don’t care,” Leonard cuts in nonchalantly. (Though he’s kind of wondering about this “man named Chrysós.”) If Druce gets just a little closer, he’ll be able to get a hand on him and start this whole thing. “You’re still…”

“Freeze!”

Leonard’s heart contracts, mostly for Sara’s sake, but he doesn’t take his eyes off Druce. “Seriously?” he yells, however, at the sound of Ava Sharpe’s voice. “You’re using cold puns? At me?”

He can see the blond woman moving in from his left…and, then, the glint of light off the gun in her hand. Crap.

Druce smiles smugly. He’s still just a little too far away for Leonard to lunge for.

“Director Sharpe!” he says, raising his voice. “Excellent timing!” The tone dips as his eyes bore into Leonard’s, and he takes a step backward. “The release of energy should happen as close as possible to the device and the wellspring as possible. But I don’t have to be the one who kills him—as much as it would be gratifying.”

In his peripheral vision, Leonard sees Sharpe move closer. He takes a reluctant step out onto the bridge, toward Druce, who takes another step back too. Then Druce turns, moving closer to the center of the platform, trusting the bureau director with his back. He’s that sure of her.

Leonard hears Sharpe draw in a quiet breath, and he dares a swift glance at her. The bureau director’s face is still and thoughtful, and her demeanor isn’t nearly as committed to her course as he’d figured.

So…he rolls the dice. He transfers more of his attention to her, even as Druce raises his voice, saying something else. Sara had loved this woman—still does in a way, he’s sure of it. There’s got to be something there.

“Sure you wanna do this?” he says very quietly.

Her eyes flicker—and Leonard’s suddenly very sure he’s right. He gives Sharpe a tiny nod, and just like that, they’re on the same page.

“Sara truly was telling the truth,” Sharpe says quietly. “All of it.”

“Pretty sure she wouldn’t lie to you,” he says just as quietly. “Sara takes care of the people she cares about. She’s lost too many of them.”

Ava nods, as Druce, realizing something is happening, turns back toward them. And then, in a lightning-swift move, she shifts, turning the gun on Druce.

The Time Master’s jaw drops.

Leonard watches as he struggles with what’s just happened. The look on Druce’s face is priceless, disbelief and horror and anger warring with each other. Anger wins.

“You were supposed to be one of us!” he roars, spitting mad. “A Time Master! You idiot! You’ve thrown it all away!”

Sharpe retorts, but Leonard is suddenly hearing words spoken not so long ago.

Find a crack in what’s supposedly meant to happen.

Ava Sharpe had, after all, become a Time Master, in the way things went before. Now, she wouldn’t be one. Because of her own decision, her own choice--the things that all time turns on.

One little crack is all you need to start it.

“Do what you need to do,” Sharpe tells him, voice controlled. “I’ll make sure no one else interferes.”

“Got it.”

There’s no more point in waiting. Leonard takes three swift steps toward the incensed Time Master, who’s still staring at Sharpe. And almost before Druce realizes it, Leonard grabs his arm. The other man tries to pull away, and it would be just a bit too easy to fall.

But Leonard closes his eyes, lets the temporal energy surge, and then twists.

*

When Leonard had worked his smaller time tricks back at the ship and outside Salvation, Sara hadn’t felt anything. John and Nora had said they could sense a flicker of some sort of energy, and Charlie had described a sort of unnerving feeling during some of the bigger surges of time. No one else had noticed.

But when something happens at the Vanishing Point, even as the Legends are still facing off with Druce’s people, everyone feels it.

Sara thinks it feels a little like the bottom dropping out of the world—or her stomach, maybe both. She stumbles, catching herself, even as things feel like they start to whirl around her. She hears her team cry out around her, and tries to look, but everything’s blurry.

And then it’s done.

Sara’s stomach tries to revolt, but she controls it, drawing in a steadying breath, grip tightening on her bo, and looks for the team. Predictably, it’s the more magical members of the group who’d felt the discharge of energy the most. Nora’s down, but Ray’s standing over her, ready to defend her. John looks a little worse for wear, but he’s on his feet—more or less. Charlie…well, Charlie’s on her hands and knees, throwing up.

And there’s one of Druce’s Time Bureau people headed right for her.

Sara yells, feeling like her voice echoes oddly, and runs toward her teammate even as Zari whirls and does the same. The man—someone named Ryder, Mick had said—glances her way, raising a weapon, and Sara crashes into him, grappling briefly before she disarms him and lays him out on the ground.

There’s a noise behind her, though, and she whirls, realizing belatedly that she’s still a little dizzy. The woman Liri Lee is right on top of her, and…

And then Lee goes flying, knocked away by the burst of some sort of energy. Like the stun guns the bureau agents sometimes use, Sara thinks…and then blinks at the person who’d wielded it.

“Need some help?” Gary Green grins at her, incongruous in his thick dark glasses and dark suit, there at the Vanishing Point.

“What?” Sara manages, glancing around. Gary’s not the only one. Other bureau agents—not the ones answering to Druce—are helping the Legends who’d been most affected by the time surge and facing the renegade bureau agents.

“We kinda stowed away,” Gary tells her. “Director Sharpe didn’t like that Druce picked all the people on the mother ship. I, uh, got a group of the ones she trusts most together.” He gives her a lopsided smile, obviously proud that he’s one of them. “Thought we might be needed.”

Hope rises in Sara’s heart. “And where is she?”

He glances toward the wellspring

*

When Snart had grabbed Druce’s arm, they’d both suddenly glowed with a blue light so bright that Ava had taken a few steps backward, lifting an arm to shield her eyes. Things seem to spin, and then she sees a surge of energy down in the wellspring channel below.

She has just enough time to worry about that—a scaled-down supernova, Druce had said—when the light freezes, sort of, flickering in place. Controlled and steady, she thinks dizzily.

Is Snart—the man who destroyed the Oculus—creating it after all? She can barely see their shapes in the radiant energy by the Oculus device.

It surges again. Ava closes her eyes.

When she opens them again, both men are gone. Vanished into the light.

*

It’s kind of nice to know that after all those years of developing concentration and attention to detail—first to spite Lewis by becoming a better crook, then because of his own pride and love of a challenge—it’s all coming back to help him now.

Leonard will admit that this is a far greater challenge than most, though. He has to use the temporal energy to keep himself, Druce, and the device and channel for the wellspring the only things that are hurtling back through time, or he could age the others here out of existence—which doesn’t bear thinking about. And Druce, once he gets over his stunned surprise at what Leonard’s doing, tries to take over, but Leonard mentally strongarms him away.

I’ll show you willpower, asshole.

And…there. So long ago. The moment the supernova was born, and a ship—a sphere?—hovers not so far away. Leonard wonders, but this is not a point when he can hesitate.

He takes a deep breath and…stops time.

The supernova fills the wellspring. The device glows. The Oculus exists once more.

And Leonard takes himself and Druce into the timestream itself.

It’s blue, all blue light and nothingness. They’re surrounded by it. Leonard, watching, see Druce’s eyes widen with…fear?...before the other man controls his expression.

“The Oculus,” the Time Master breathes. “You destroyed it…and then you created it. Symmetrical.” And then he chuckles, giving Leonard a knowing look that turns his stomach.

“Ah,” he says. “After all, you’re still the pragmatic one. And while I don’t know precisely how Ms. Sharpe’s…change of heart...will affect things now, there is room for one more member on the High Council. Is that what you want? Because…”

Leonard laughs in his face.

“Nope,” he tells Druce. “We’re just here to make sure you don’t find ways to do this again.” He pauses. “Someone called it ‘breaking the chain.’ Doesn’t matter if it happened before. It’s not happening again.”

The Time Master blinks at him, clearly surprised. “But it has happened,” he says fervently. “It must happen. Or you would not be here, I would not be there. Those so-called Legends, they would not be here. Time is a line…you may move back along it, or forward, but you can’t just split it off.”

Leonard thinks of “wibbly-wobbly timey-wimey stuff” and the web of Hypertime that Mary had described to them. “Nope,” he says again, folding his arms. “It stops here.”

Druce’s eyes narrow. “And how, Mr. Snart, do you presume to do that?”

Leonard smirks at him. “Not me,” he corrects. “Them.”

The blue light brightens. Druce puts a hand up, looking almost frightened again. Leonard watches as the light takes a vaguely humanoid form, and the very same feeling of presence he’d felt while trapped here before.

They’d tried to help him cope, then. He knows that now. And he’s pretty sure he knows why. He’s been in juvie or jail or prison plenty of times himself.

The timestream…Time Force…regards Druce, then glances back at Leonard, who nods to them.

“Go ahead,” he says. “He deserves it.” He looks back at the Time Master, smirking. He might be more or less a good guy now…but that doesn’t mean he has to be nice.

The other man stares at him. “But…you…”

Leonard’s smirk grows. “You’re the one that imprisoned them and used them,” he says, looking back at the humanoid Time Force. “I’m the one who freed them.” He pauses. The figure of blue light takes a step toward Druce, who tries to back away but can’t. “Which one of us do you think they feel kindlier toward?”

Druce looks like a man facing his worst nightmare. “But you created the Oculus!”

“Doesn’t mean it’s controlling anything this time around…or ever again.”

And then the Time Force reaches out and grabs Druce’s arm, much like Leonard had earlier. Light flares—and they both vanish. Leonard feels a surge of power as the other man’s own store of temporal energy goes back to where it came from.

It’s all rather anticlimactic, really.

Leonard lets out a long breath, then glances around, trying to work out how he’s going to get home. He has power here…maybe he always will…but that doesn’t mean he wants to stay. He’s spent enough of his life in the timestream.

He only wonders a moment, though. That’s when the light brightens…and a humanoid figure appears there again. This time, though, they’re choosing to appear much more lifelike.

Leonard smirks a little. “So,” he drawls, studying the Time Force’s chosen form, “is this a way of pissing off the competition in the realm of...hmm...humanoid personifications of abstract concepts? By borrowing the form of the other guy’s representative?”

The entity studying him in return looks just like Barry Allen, at the moment, although they’re wearing a blue suit instead of a red one, and their eyes are nothing but blue light. They don’t respond, but they don’t seem ill-disposed toward him. Fortunately.

“So,” Leonard tells them, driven for once to fill the silence, “the Oculus is still a thing. Or a thing again, I don’t know. But no one’s gonna be controlling you with it now.” He eyes the avatar. “I kind of get the impression you wouldn’t be as easy to control anyway, now that you’re more awake and aware.”

The Time Force studies him…and then smirks. It’s not quite an expression Leonard’s ever seen on Barry’s face before, although he’s pretty sure he’s seen it in the mirror. Then, the being reaches out and takes his hand.

And with the gesture comes a question, asked directly into his mind.

It’s all Leonard can do not to jerk his hand away.

“No,” he says firmly. “Sorry, but no. I have...a lot of things to do. A life to live. But I don’t want forever.”

The entity that had just offered him immortality in the role of their caretaker inclines their head. Then they tilt it inquiringly, another clear question.

“OK, there are a few things I wouldn’t mind changing,” Leonard concedes. “If you don’t mind.”

When the Time Force indicates that they don’t mind indeed, he carefully opens his mind and lets them see, getting a prompt affirmative. Then the avatar lifts their blue-light eyes to Leonard’s and smiles again, stepping closer, a clear suggestion in their posture.

Time to go home.

Well, since Allen’s now married, he might as well enjoy this while he has the chance. Leonard closes his eyes against the light as Time-Force Barry’s lips touch his, warm, soft, and crackling with energy.

And then he’s falling into that light, again.

*

Ava feels like she can still see the afterimage of the blast on the inside of her eyelids when she hears someone—Sara—calling her name. She turns, watching the other woman—and some of the other Legends, plus the familiar sight of Gary and her other most-trusted agents—running toward her.

She waits uneasily for them, but Sara doesn’t hesitate. When she reaches Ava, she pulls the bureau director into her arms, hugging her soundly, spinning her around until Ava’s breathless.

“Thank god you’re OK,” Sara says, staring at her. “You are OK?

“I’m fine, Sara, I’m fine.” Ava reassures her. She starts to speak, to explain her change of heart, to apologize for not listening before, but Sara’s looking at the center of the wellspring now, and her face is still. Frozen.

Before she can speak, though, Mick Rory reaches them, scanning the area, his face a study in conflicting emotions.

“Snart?” he barks. “Where is he?”

Ava spreads her hands out before her. “He vanished. He and Druce,” she says helplessly. “Neither one of them has reappeared, although that did.” She finally turns and studies the light in the wellspring and the device atop it. “They brought it back anyway. The Oculus device.”

“It’s not like it used to be,” Sara tells her quickly. “Or, at least, it won’t be if Leonard did what he planned to.” She studies it, biting her lip. “But…”

Her voice trails off. And Ava can’t think of a damned thing to say to her.

*

It’s obvious…at least Sara hopes it is…that Leonard had indeed broken the chain. They’re all still here, after all. They’ve won. And Druce is gone.

But Leonard is gone too.

Sara stares into the wellspring as if it holds answers. But it didn’t last time, when it was blowing up around her, and it doesn’t now. But what if…

She turns, holding her hand out to a startled Ava. “Can I borrow your time courier?” she asks urgently. “Maybe…maybe he’s stuck again. Maybe we can get him out.”

The other woman blinks at her. “Well, yes,” she says, starts to remove the device, “but…”

“Blondie, it’s not the same.”

“But we have to…”

“Sara!”

They all turn, and Sara focuses on the figure at the entrance to the wellspring building. It’s Gideon, who’s been part of the Waverider during all this, now back in her humanoid android form.

Even from here, Sara can see her smile.

“You’re needed back on the ship!” the AI calls, amusement and relief in her tone. "There’s something there you need to see!”

[arizaluca]

Day 13: Supernatural AU

Me: I should work on economics.

Also me: I’m literally going to binge the class tomorrow and Sunday. One day of not working on it will not kill me.

Jesse was always taught to fear fae.

Not a halfling, because they were a halfling-- their fairy father just didn’t stick around very long.

Their mother didn’t stick around for very long either.

But she did impart that lesson.

Fairies, gnomes, dwarves, sylphs, dryads, whatever-- they have magic that is entrancing and hypnotic and beautiful and toxic. They draw you in before trapping you. They can do amazing things but choose not to, instead sneering down at the humans, who can only watch and stare.

So to have a fairy rummaging around in a leather back and searching for a calming potion for them while Reuben snuffles in their lap is uncanny enough that they nearly stop crying.

But nobody ever got anything for ‘nearly’.

“Pardon,” Ivor mumbles somewhat gruffly when he turns and his wings (his wings, his wings, a pair of dark blue, somewhat crumpled appendages that he’s been keeping stuffed under his robes for who-knows-how-long) brush against Jesse’s face, momentarily making a puff of what smells like glistering melon waft in Jesse’s face.

Jesse just mops at their face, embarrassed at the flood of tears going down their face. “’S fine.”

It’s strange enough to see Petra’s sheepish smile from twenty minutes ago, filled with more canines than molars or incisors as her bandana twitched, almost showing those wolf-like ears that she sported, momentarily distracting from those deep purple underscores beneath her eyes.

Being a werewolf really does do that.

Bad enough that Lukas’s eyes gleam a shade of unnatural red beneath those blue contact lenses, bad enough to see gleaming, sharp needles of teeth whenever he smiled too widely, scary enough to see that the vampire Jesse had gotten to know was hungry, starving for blood, if the way he’d latched onto the oldest horse in the cave, sunken his teeth into its neck and quietly sipped when nobody was looking was any indication.

It’s odd to see Ellegaard talking to Magnus, his human brain and eyes not processing the wispy dead woman sitting next to him and awkwardly patting him on the back. Axel and Olivia didn’t see her either, or Gabriel.

But Soren did.

Soren.

It was a shock when he’d shouted at Ivor, making the other man start violently, blue wings ripping through his robes a little bit from how hard he’d flinched, but it was even more of a shock when Soren stamped his foot petulantly and his boot had come off, revealing a cloven hoof instead of a human foot.

(The way his hair was so unruly that it looked as if he’d run through a hurricane in it even though Jesse had offered him a hairbrush once or twice suddenly made sense.)

So now Jesse’s sitting in the corner of the cave, crying, because they’d tried to avoid fae and fairies and the supernatural for years, tried to hide the way their ears were a bit pointy at the tips, the way that their veins weren’t blue and dark but instead a pale green, the way their already-green eyes had greenish whites as well, the way their magic would explode out of their hands (the only thing they were okay with channeling it with) after long periods of suppression.

(They suspected that Aiden knew, if the way his glassy eyes narrowed at them sometimes was any indication, but they were definitely sure that Gill knew. He’d walked in on them in an alley, trying to suppress flickers and flashes and pops of magic, the sputtery light forming in their hands popping violently when they’d spotted Gill and making a shockwave that slammed him into a wall.)

(They were surprised when he didn’t mention it to Aiden when Aiden asked where he’d been, Gill’s eyes flicking to Jesse awkwardly before smoothly making a stupid joke that made Maya facepalm and Aiden snort, trying not to laugh at him.)

Axel tried to hug them to calm down, but Jesse just pushed him away, as well as Olivia, all while sobbing like the world was about to end because two of their friends, two people who’d they’d learned to trust and communicate with and, heck, love were members of the fair folk. The gentry, the fae. 

Petra had tried to get up to stop Jesse from crying but ended up hunched over and moaning with pain on the floor, Lukas had frantically mopped away some of the blood on his lips while trying to swallow, resulting in blood smearing across his sleeve (the horse was fine, don’t worry), Ellegaard awkwardly drifting between them and Magnus.

Gabriel looked as though he wanted to awkwardly pat them on the back, but Jesse was just weeping so hard that it looked like it would’ve been too awkward, Soren trying to say something assuring while yanking his boot back onto his foot to hide the cloven hoof because that wasn’t doing anything to calm them back down.

Surprisingly, Ivor was the only one who wasn’t trying to hide his wings.

After reaching back and tugging his wing free from his robes, letting the crumpled appendages spread and start circulating blood, he’d knelt down next to them and started rummaging around in his bag, muttering something about a calming potion as he pulled out random items before shoving them to the side.

He took a photograph, glancing at it before tossing it to the side, a regretful emotion barely even flickering across his face. Interestingly enough, the photograph landed on Reuben’s head, the little pig snuffling and trying to poke it off before taking it in his mouth and holding it out to Jesse.

Jesse took the photograph, turning it over. Ivor was standing with his hand on a woman’s shoulder, giving a warm smile while holding a tiny little kid. He was the one holding the kid, while the woman was beaming at the camera joyfully.

Odd. You wouldn’t expect Ivor to have a wife or a ki--

Jesse’s skin suddenly crawls with apprehension. Surprise. Shock, you could even say. Zings of magic, usually dormant and barely ever controllable, start zipping down their fingers, sparking and popping and almost setting the picture on fire until Jesse dropped it, feeling ice drop into the pit of their stomach.

There’s multiple reasons that Jesse feels like someone just shoved an ice cube into their stomach, all hitting them rapid-fire like a machine gun.

1) Ivor’s robes weren’t the dark ones he had on now, they were more... colorful. Fae-like, at least by a little bit. And yet they looked familiar.

2) The woman in the picture looked a lot like Jesse’s mother.

3) Jesse had this picture next to their bed at home, back at the treehouse, sort of hiding behind that shot where Axel was lifting Jesse into the air while they tried to whack him, Olivia managing to grin and not grin at the same time, except with their father’s face scribbled out by their mother.

[illumynare]

Red vs Blue Fic: First Name Agent, Last Name Washington

Summary: Five times Caboose called Wash “Church,” and one time he didn’t.

Parings: None.

Warnings: Canon-typical language.

Notes: Also available on AO3!

@redvsbluesecretsanta fic for @all-my-fandoms-are-killing-me, who requested Caboose + Wash. Huge, HUGE thanks to her for being so patient as I flailed my way through finishing this story. <3

1.

The first time that Caboose calls him “Church,” Wash just says, “Yeah?”

It’s 18 hours after Sidewinder. They’ve found an abandoned Sim Trooper base to hide at, and Wash is—

He’s tired, with a paralyzing weariness that he’s never felt before. The “looks like you aren’t going to prison” adrenaline has all worn off. Even with the healing unit running at full power, he still hurts almost everywhere from fighting the Meta.

(Meta. Maine. He can think the name, now that he’s dead—now that Wash doesn’t need to use him. Now that the Meta is not another obstacle between Wash and freedom, he can let himself wonder if his old friend was really all gone, or—)

He’s tired, but he can’t rest. The Reds and Blues gave him a suit of armor and helped him dodge the UNSC, they promised him a place on Blue Team, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t going to stab him in the back.

So he’s sitting at the kitchen table, head in his hands, trying not to sleep and trying not to panic and trying to understand what’s happened.

You helped us, Wash—sure, but he’d helped South. He’d given the Project his entire fucking life. He’d given Epsilon—

“Hey, Church!”

“Yeah?” says Wash, turning around, only a little twitchy, because he knows that voice. It’s Caboose—out of his armor for the first time that Wash has ever seen, dark curls damp from the shower.

Then his mind stutters, freezes. Rewinds.

Hey, Church.

That wasn’t his name.

It wasn’t his name, but he said yeah because he forgot. He forgot and answered to the wrong name and fuck fuck fuck they know they finally know—

He realizes that he’s on his feet, gun drawn.

“Oh!” says Caboose. “I did not know we were playing hide and seek.”

“What?” Wash demands, his voice cracking. “What the hell—what are you—”

“DROP IT, MOTHERFUCKER,” Tucker yells, charging in through the doorway with his sword drawn.

He’s not trained like a Freelancer. It should be laughably easy for Wash to drop him, despite the glowing energy sword, and without even firing a bullet from his gun. Wash aims a kick at Tucker’s leg, meaning to send him sprawling—

But the exhaustion and the injuries are too much. Wash’s own leg gives out, and he tumbles to the ground. His gun skids across the floor.

Tucker grabs it, shutting off his sword. “What the fuck were you doing?” he demands, his voice low and dangerous.

“Church and I were playing a game,” says Caboose, as cheerful as ever. “I won.”

“I’m not—” Wash starts, but then his mind roars with static and he can’t go on.

Not Church, not Epsilon, he’s not he’s not, but the name Wash feels heavy and foreign, and he is—he is—

He’s finished. That’s all he is, right now, same as on Sidewinder. Tired and finished, without the strength left to even pretend he knows his name.

“You tried to kill Caboose,” says Tucker.

“Yeah, uhhh, that is part of playing hide and seek,” Caboose says. “I find Church and then he tries to shoot me.”

Tucker glares at Caboose. “That isn’t Church, you idiot.”

Wash manages to find his voice and say, “He called me ‘Church.’”

In an instant, Tucker’s glare is turned on Wash. “So you decided to fucking shoot him?”

“I—”

Wash doesn’t know what he can say: there aren’t words for what it was like, waking up with two selves in his head, feeling that other self die, and then living with the memories. Knowing every moment of every day that if he ever let them know he remembered being Church/Alpha/Leonard/Epsilon, he would be killed.

“Give me one reason I shouldn’t call the UNSC and put your ass in jail,” says Tucker.

“Uhhh, because he is Church?” Caboose offers.

“I wasn’t asking you!”

“. . . I’m sorry,” Wash says helplessly. “I thought— Back in Freelancer, if I’d answered to that name, they would have killed me.”

Tucker snorts. “Yeah, right.” The he does a double-take, looking at Wash’s face. “Wait. Seriously?”

Wash’s nerves are buzzing with fear. It can’t be this easy—nobody ever believes anyone, not if they’re teammates, not if they’re friends—

“Yeah,” he says.

“Ugh,” says Tucker, and he relaxes, all the anger draining out of him. “You Freelancers are really fucked-up, you know that?”

“Yeah,” says Wash.

2.

The thing is, Wash’s job on Blue Team is just “pretend to be the Alpha AI,” and that’s . . . horrifyingly traumatic in a number of ways, but it’s also boring.

He already looked a member of the UNSC in the eye and answered to the name “Leonard Church.” He got away with it. Here at Blue Base? There’s nothing for him to do.

Wash can’t remember a single time in his life when he didn’t have a mission, a goal: get off that dirtball. Survive the war. Make it onto the Leaderboard. Burn down Freelancer.

Now? He’s lost.

So he’s pried open the microwave and he’s trying to fix it, because the only other possible project is teaching Lavernius Tucker to act like a soldier, and fuck if he’s going to waste his time on that kind of hopeless cause.

“Church,” Caboose says from behind him.

i am epsilonepsilonEPSILON i was leonard church we are BROKEN don’t say goodbye i hate goodbyes

Wash curls his fingers into fists, wait for the memory to pass. For his thoughts to sound like his own again.

“Don’t call me that,” he grits out, turning to face Caboose, who is in full armor this time.

“Yeah, I don’t know if you noticed, but you are wearing Church’s armor and replacing him on Blue Team, so that kind of makes you Church.”

“But I’m not—” Wash realizes his voice is rising and he chokes off the words. Tucker has the uncanny ability to appear any time he raises his voice to Caboose, and Wash is really not in the mood to be reminded again that if he screws up too much, they’ll throw him to the UNSC.

“Church went into the memory unit,” he says wearily. “Remember?”

Caboose nods. “Yeah, and you replaced him. It is not that complicated.”

Sometimes Caboose is clearly just babbling—How sad would it be to not have a brother and to lose a brother all in the same day?—but sometimes he talks slower, seems more aware of the world outside of his brain. This is one of those times.

“Have there been other Churches?” Wash asks.

“Yeah,” says Caboose. “There was Church, who was my best friend ever, but his body fell out of the jeep and I lost him. And then there was Church, who lived inside the memory unit and listened to my stories, and then he was a robot, and then he went back into the memory unit. And then there was you.”

I’m not Church, Wash wants to howl, but Caboose is staring at him like—like—

Like he has a place on Blue Team. One that means something.

“And now my helmet is stuck and it is your job to get it off,” Caboose goes on. “Because you are Church.”

“Wait,” says Wash. “Seriously?”

But as he wrestles Caboose’s helmet from off his armor, and deals with the chewing gum smeared inside the locking mechanism, he’s . . . grateful.

Pretending to be Leonard Church—Alpha or Epsilon—makes Wash’s skin crawl. Cleaning up after Caboose isn’t exactly fun. But it’s something. It’s a reason for them to keep him on Blue Team and out of prison, and Wash isn’t a bit less desperate than he was when he teamed up with his friend’s walking corpse and shot Donut.

He can stand being Church.

He will be Church.

3.

After Wash leads Blue Team to victory a three times in a row, he starts to relax. He knows, and he knows they all know, that the war games are pointless. But Sarge is just as dedicated to the complete and utter destruction of Blue Team as before, and Tucker enjoys making the Reds sing embarrassing songs to get their flag back, and Caboose is just happy to be on a mission with “Church.”

So it works for them.

Wash avoids thinking about how it can’t last, just like he avoids thinking about how he got here and why Simmons won’t talk to him. For once in his life, he’s not brooding about the past, and he’s not desperately crawling towards the future. He’s just—

Making coffee in the mornings. Watching Caboose tinker with the jeep. Putting out the fires Caboose starts in the kitchen and then feeding everyone MREs. Saying, “Yeah, buddy,” even when he doesn’t fully understand what Caboose is saying.

It’s . . . not exactly good.

But it’s the longest, most peaceful stretch of not bad that he can remember having in a very long time.

There’s only one thing wrong, really, and it’s Tucker. Not at first, when he just avoids Wash. But as time goes on—Tucker hangs around them a little more, but he’s always giving Wash these weird, resentful looks that send little sparks of adrenaline down Wash’s spine, because he could call the UNSC.

Wash tries. He leads them on another raid and they win, again. He cleans the base. He banishes Caboose from the kitchen and manages to cook their meager supplies into an actual dinner, complete with mashed potatoes.

But something’s still wrong, and it’s more than just Tucker’s initial wariness, his protectiveness for Caboose. Wash can see it getting worse as they eat dinner together, the way Tucker’s mouth slants down and his shoulders tense and he’s hardly even eating.

It’s getting worse, but Wash has no idea what to do.

“Well,” Caboose says cheerfully, “I think that maybe tomorrow, me and Church—”

“He’s WASH, you moron,” Tucker snaps suddenly, slamming his fork down on the table. “Get that fucking straight.”

Fuck, Wash thinks, hardly daring to breathe. This is it.

“Uh,” says Caboose, “I think you mean Church.”

“No, I mean Agent fucking Washington, the asshole who shoots people for no reason.”

There’s a buzzing in Wash’s ears. He can hear the memory of Simmons screeching, the sound of Donut’s body hitting the ground.

I had to, Wash thinks dizzily, I had to, he was in my way, I couldn’t go back to prison.

But—

He’d ended up headed for prison anyway, and it was only Caboose’s begging that saved him, and now he can’t miss the way Simmons is still scared around him, the way Grif always positions himself between them.

He can’t miss, either, the gaping hole on Blue Team where Alpha and then Epsilon used to be.

In that instant, Wash desperately wishes that he really was Church. That he wasn’t the kind of person who did those things.

“No, he is Church,” Caboose explains patiently, “because Church is Blue Team captain.”

Tucker starts to rise from his seat. “Call him that ONE MORE TIME—”

Wash starts to rise too, raising his hands placatingly, because he can’t let this turn into a fight. Not with Caboose in the middle. “Look, Tucker, I know it’s weird, but if it’s easier for Caboose—”

“I don’t give a fuck!” Tucker snaps. “Church was my best friend.”

“He left,” says Caboose, his voice soft and final.

There’s a moment of shocked, frigid silence. Tucker’s mouth is open, but he doesn’t say anything.

“Church is the one who stays and takes care of us,” Caboose goes on. “Epsilon left because he liked the mean lady better. It’s not us, it’s him. I realize this is hard for you to understand, Tucker, because you are kind of dumb. But it is time for us to move on.”

Wash looks at Tucker and—shit, are those tears in his eyes?

“Fuck you,” Tucker chokes out, and bolts.

With a sigh, Wash sinks back into his chair, and puts his head in his hands.

“I’m never making dinner again,” he mumbles.

“Well, I thought your mashed potatoes were delicious,” says Caboose, patting him on the shoulder.

4.

His fever has broken.

Wash knows this, because the floor isn’t rocking underneath him, and when he looks up, the ceiling doesn’t look like it’s bubbling and seething.

Yay.

He still feels awful: aching all over and exhausted in a way he hasn’t been since he was in the hospital recovering from South’s bullets. When the gunk in his lungs makes him convulse with coughing, he wishes bitterly that the healing unit could help with a virus.

But no. He’ll just have to lie in this bed and suffer for a few more days. Hopefully Caboose won’t burn down the base in the meantime.

“HAPPY BIRTHDAY, CHURCH!”

Wash sits bolt upright in bed, scrabbling for the pistol he usually keeps under his pillow—it’s not there—before he realizes that he isn’t being attacked. It’s just Caboose and Tucker, carrying a cake.

A birthday cake, with candles burning. Wash wonders if he’s still hallucinating.

“See, Tucker?” says Caboose. “I told you he was well enough.”

“Do you mean too sick to run away?” Tucker asks. He puts his hand on Wash’s forehead. “Yeah, okay, I guess you won’t die.”

“What . . . is this?” Wash asks fuzzily.

“Look, I know,” says Tucker, and puts a cup of orange juice in his hands. Wash wraps his fingers around the cool glass. “But Caboose really wanted to do this on your actual birthday, so . . . just have a bite of cake and I’ll get you some chicken soup. I make the best chicken soup.”

“Um,” says Wash. The last thing he remembers Tucker saying him—before he got sick—was Fuck off, Washington.

“It’s not my birthday,” he says finally, because—because he’s Church now, and he knows (remembers) that Leonard Church was born on September 21st.

(Welcome to the world, Epsilon. Today is your birthday, and that was timestamp 3/12/2559 17:51:33 UTC.)

“Umm, I think you lost track of time while you were sick, Church,” says Caboose. “It is May 1st, and that is your birthday.”

“Yeah, Simmons hacked the Freelancer records,” says Tucker. “That’s how we know your birthday and that you used to—”

“OKAY TIME TO SING NOW,” Caboose interrupts.

They sing. They’re completely off-tune. They sing, Happy birthday to Church, but it’s on Wash’s real birthday, David’s real birthday, and he—

He doesn’t know what to think about that.

After they finish singing, Tucker cuts the cake, and hands Wash a slice. Wash stares at it, remembering the time that Caboose tried to use powdered sugar instead of flour.

“C’mon, man,” says Tucker, “it’s safe. I cooked it.”

So Wash takes a bite. It’s a chocolate cake, fluffy and rich and absolutely delicious, and he can hardly taste it because his brain keeps repeating Tucker’s words: It’s safe. I cooked it.

He’s pretty sure that a week ago, Tucker wouldn’t have so much as opened a package of crackers for him, and he certainly wouldn’t have tried to soothe Wash’s fears about Caboose’s cooking.

He slants a quizzical look up at Tucker.

And Tucker sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, so . . . you’re really pathetic when you’re sick, and I guess I felt sorry for you? Also, uh. You kinda talked a lot when you were delirious. And, uh . . .”

“He means that he realized you were Church,” says Caboose. “Took him long enough. Stupid Tucker.”

5.

Carolina’s alive.

Carolina’s alive.

Carolina is alive.

One part of Wash’s brain is still stuck on that fact, still gibbering over and over that she was dead she was dead I was the last—

—and one part of him is snarling why the FUCK didn’t she come back for me?—

—but he’s got that mostly locked away now, in the back part of his mind where he keeps the broken, jagged memories that aren’t his.

He knows how to put his insanity aside and deal with a crisis, and right now, Carolina is the crisis. Carolina, and what she’s asked of him. (What he’s not sure he could refuse even if he wanted to.)

“She wants to find the Director,” Wash says to Church and Tucker.

“The what now?” asks Caboose.

“The Director of Project Freelancer,” Tucker says, and Wash can’t read the look that he slants up. “Right?”

“Right,” said Wash. “The one who created the AIs and the Meta and the—”

“Yeah, yeah.” Tucker waves a hand. “We got the whole ‘killed my friends, prepare to die’ speech like five times already.”

I killed your friends, Wash thinks, and this time what he feels isn’t guilt but a sort of startled wonder, that they’ve put that aside as he never could.

“I owe Carolina,” he says. “She was my squad leader, and—”

—six years old, sitting on the lawn with daisies in her hair—

“She was a friend,” he says firmly, pushing the memories away. “I’m not asking you to help us. It’s not your problem. But she says that she knows where Epsilon is, and she can get him out of the memory unit. That’s how she’s planning to find the Director. If you want to come with us, you’d be, uh—”

He can’t quite bring himself to say, useful in a fight, because he’s seen how they fight. Last time Red Team attacked, Tucker tried to hold them off with his sick dance moves.

Then again, they brought down the Meta.

“You’d be welcome,” he finishes awkwardly. “Or if you don’t want to . . . I’ll come back. With Epsilon. I promise.”

He stops, and waits for Caboose’s disappointment, Tucker’s anger. Because he knows his promise isn’t enough, he’s going to lose the only place he can still belong—but he can’t refuse Carolina, he can’t—

“Okay,” says Tucker. “Let’s go.” He grins at Wash. “Like I’m gonna let you be the one who has frenzied pre-battle sex with Carolina.”

“What?” Wash’s voice cracks. He can feel his brain physically trying to eject the memory of Tucker’s words.

“Plus, the last time you went on a road trip with a Freelancer buddy, you ended up nearly dead,” says Tucker.

“Yeah,” says Caboose. “And we already agreed you could skip dying, even though it’s part of the job. So we are coming with you, Church.”

Wash stares at them, and he can’t believe this is happening, he can’t believe it’s so easy, nobody ever chooses him—

“Thanks, guys,” he mutters. “Thanks.”

1.

Everything’s so fucked-up.

Wash stands watch, staring into the sunset. He’s pretty sure the Reds and Blues won’t put up with Carolina for much longer—and they shouldn’t, it’s not like they owe her anything—

But Wash owes her so very much, and he doesn’t know how he can turn on her.

Even though he also owes the Reds and Blues everything.

“Sneaking . . . sneaking . . . sneaking . . .”

Wash sighs, and looks over his shoulder. “Hello, Caboose.”

“Hello, Agent Washington,” Caboose stage-whispers, and the name sends a pang through him. Because he’s not Church anymore. They have a Church, their Church, one who never shot or kidnapped any of them.

One who deserves to be with them.

“Caboose, you know you’re supposed to be in the temple with the rest of your squad,” Wash says.

Not his squad. Not anymore.

“Um, yes—well, um—but you see, um,” Caboose’s voice drops lower, “I am spying on you.”

Wash sighs again. It hurts, to be reminded that they don’t trust him anymore, that he’s not one of them anymore, that he was never one of them. But he chose this.

“Why are you spying on me, Caboose?” he asks wearily, turning to face Caboose.

“Well, yes, um, since everyone is kind of scared of you and Carolina, we figured we should try and get as much information on you guys as possible, so um . . . where do you guys see yourselves in the next five to ten years?”

You and Carolina.

Everyone is scared.

He’s lost it, all the fragile trust he built with the Reds and Blues when they were hiding together and they had no future. Wash knows that, and the knowledge is tearing him apart—but he also feels a tremendous rush of affection, because—well, Caboose.

“Caboose,” he says kindly, “you realize that when you spy on someone, no one's actually supposed to know that you're spying on them, right?”

“Oh, yeah, I know,” says Caboose. “I just figured you wouldn't tell anyone.”

“Wait,” says Wash. “What makes you think that?”

“Oh come on, Agent Washington—I mean I—you know, I'm pretty sure that we can trust you?” says Caboose. “I mean we are friends.”

He turns and ambles off as Wash stares at him in stunned amazement.

Wash hasn’t been “Church” since they pulled Epsilon out of the memory unit. He assumed that meant he was downgraded to being just another Freelancer, one of the interlopers that the Reds and Blues had to defend themselves against. But—

“Friends,” Wash mutters, and feels the center of his world start to shift.

[platinumshawnn]

be home, be here | Collins

Summary: Collins’ returns home from service for the first time in while and meets the little one who calls him a hero even when he feels like anything but. (1944)

A/N: I don’t know, a little Christmas themed Collins angst?? The end was a little rushed and it got super long, like way longer than I expected but this will hold over until everything else is posted. 

Word count: 5,090

musical inspiration: They Sang Silent Night by Fiona Bevan

@ontheoddoccasioniwritestuff

She always heard the whispers whenever she went into town, leaned over the grocery stand and eyeing tomatoes; her son’s hand in hers and voice soft, airlike and sweet, suiting to her heart like shaped face with its delicate features and her fragile looking stature. It was hard not to miss her, go unaware of the hushed whispers that followed her in the market, eyes watching her float along with a little chubby cheeked four year old with blue eyes and blonde hair that made him an uncanny spitting image of his father. Everyone knew and talked, she knew and remained quiet -- she knew of the disapproving looks she got whenever they were out together because you would have to be blind not to notice them.

It was an obvious thing by the fact that there was no ring on her left hand and in such a small community, it didn’t take long for the news to get out.

An unwed 18 year old, pregnant with the bastard of an RAF soldier, deployed for duty and hopelessly waiting around for a man that may not return -- or that of a man that might return and not wed her, it seemed foolish of her. It had been a hard decision for her but with his persuasion, she had kept the child and beared the burden of voices it came with, the looks it earned, there was no way to avoid any of it. Through letters she had told him over and over how it was worth it, to look at their son’s face as he slept -- the circumstances of his conception and his birth, born during the Blitz in an underground air raid shelter just two blocks away from her family home. She told him how wonderful he was and how he was the only piece she needed of him to promise that one day things would be different; things would be better.

She had sent Collins a photo of his son, as a way to provide him hope and a reason to come home, to fight even when he was most exhausted and doubted himself and the cause of what he was fighting for. She didn’t know what it was, maybe a lover’s thing, but she could feel his hope dwindling and pain in the written words of his letters -- he struggled and wanted nothing more than to come home as soon as possible but this war was long and it had felt like there was still an eternity left ahead of him. It was long for both of them, but most of all, for him and her heart ached for him. This wasn’t the life they had ever planned or wanted, but by whatever higher power, it was the one they were given and it was a difficult one.

It was difficult explaining to their son, Jack, that his father couldn’t just come home when he chose; trying to explain to him what was going on, ‘why those scary horns keep making that loud noise’, ‘why we have to go into that stuffy dark place every night’. Her own mother usually handled those things and it overtime became harder to explain why grandma and grandpa didn’t visit anymore. He was barely four and there was no easy way to explain war to a child.

She didn’t know when it had started, but it had turned into almost a game for him that she went along with, because monsters didn’t exist outside of his closet or under his bed just yet; soldiers were nothing more than little plastic men he always carried in his pocket wherever they went and fighting bad guys from planes was only a game he played by himself at home; running up and down hallways with his arms stretched out wide and pretend guns formed by his little hands -- it made her tense and hold her breath whenever he imitated that awful buzzing sound that left her with a sense of dread that made her bones ache. But she didn’t say anything. She didn’t tell Collins about it.

Stories about what his father was doing were nothing more than that. Bedtime stories of a fictional man he was probably sure didn’t exist -- Collins always at least mentioned something in every one of his letters that she could turn into a bedtime story, a piece of his father every night before bed, and the wonder in his wide blue eyes was a sight that made her own heart swell. No words or amount of letters could ever describe it to Collins as pure and heartwarming as it was to see how amazed he was by stories of this man he’d only ever met once as a young infant. Even if to Collins it wasn’t as exciting, it was the one thing that got her through the long nights and days of living on constant edge. Seeing his fascination towards his father unknowingly and how he admired this heroic figure. In Jack’s eyes, Collins was some sort of superhero.

Jack shivered against her as a particularly chilly winter breeze blew, his chubby cheeks pink despite being snuggly wrapped underneath a red scarf that had been his father’s as he crunched after his mother; one mitted hand in hers. There were still a few wandering residents that exchanged soft greetings with friendly smiles and mumbles of Merry Christmases  as they passed with their bags in hand from last minute shopping the night before, Christmas’ Eve, while the pair had decided to make a quick run to a local shop to pick up the cookies that Jack had insisted for weeks upon weeks to put out for Santa, a still childish, excited gleam in his eyes that his mother admired -- that even during these past five years that had been awful, he remained unshaken and positive, pure and kind, flashing that dimpled smile and waving at others as they passed one another in the narrow aisles of the market. Much like his father, he was a people pleaser.

“Mama.” He whined, sniffling. “‘S cold.” Jack pointed out again, blue eyes peering out beneath all his snow gear to look up at his mother who looked down and over at him, a sweet smile being given in return.

“I know, my love, we’re almost home though.” She softly reassured, pausing to crouch so that she could kiss his gloved fingers; earning a little giggle in response. She stood upright and nodded, the two continuing their journey, admiring the lights of Christmas trees in windows and along the houses, all red and white and green lights wherever they looked and a positive feeling in the air -- a feeling that was felt even stronger as they passed Sayer Street, remaining debris still around if you really looked after a rather quick clean up. It was now a car park but there was still...this feeling....it stopped her, her son saying nothing as he stood there and allowed her to eye the sight; vividly able to remember the night it became nothing but rubble and fire. Jack had his head down and had been playing with one of the army men he insisted on taking everywhere, too entranced to even question what his mother was stopped for and thinking about, too young to understand. He had hardly been more than a pink screaming baby at the time, most of his first few months spent in air raid shelters in the area -- how many close calls they avoided was astounding.

“Are we going to grandma’s?” He suddenly asked, looking up at her with curious, confused eyes as he sniffled and licked his upper lip; watching as she hesitated, gulping as she had to force him a smile.

“No, my dear. I just saw something…” She replied. She had seen something. More than enough -- both tragic and awful and heart warming and inspiring; having watched this city both fall apart and rebuild up from the rubble.

Cecile was outside her home when they finally arrived, her own two boys running around her and throwing snow as they let out shrieks of laughter and squeals when the snow seeped into the little cracks where their jackets didn’t cover and protect, cold and wet as it trickled on to their skin. She easily caught her youngest as he slipped by his arm, letting out a quiet scold before her attention turned to Grace who approached with a still very distracted Jack. The two exchanged tired smiles, greeting one another with soft mumbles as Grace touched her son’s back to gain his attention, bending to lean close to his ear and point towards the playing others. “Why don’t you go play with Tommy and James? Show them your new army men, maybe.” She encouraged with a kiss to his temple before reluctantly nodding and running forward with a shout of their names.

The two women watched their children from a few feet away, Grace setting her bags down as she followed her son with her eyes, taking her gloves off to give some breathing air; sweaty and hot from being confined for hours in the meantime. “Did you get anything yesterday?” Grace asked quietly, glancing over to her friend who looked over at her.

“No.” She answered in response, her relief seeping into her words. “But Marie did, poor girl. Charles was killed a few days ago on a routine run. Some Luftwaffe’s came out of nowhere, was just him and that young boy.”

Grace nodded slowly, “Eddie, he’s from the other side of town. Baker’s boy.” The two would probably be in the paper the following day.

In turn, the other woman nodded also with a quiet sigh of ‘yeah’, the two falling into a long pause of silence as if out of respect. These conversations were normal between the two, at least mentioned twice a week. Cecile had lived next door to Grace for three years since she and Jack had moved onto their quiet little street in February of ‘41  after her family home had taken a direct hit while she was locked in a bunker a few blocks away, forcing her to move. She was a thin blonde who was a few inches shorter than Grace herself; with a pointy nose and thin lips and wide blue eyes, married to a burly looking soldier who towered over her named Tom who was also astoundingly gentle with their boys. Little James was only two when they first moved, teetering a few weeks of his third birthday, and had been sick with pneumonia when Grace had first met them; her own little one strapped to her chest and only a few months old yet. Although she had a number of years on her, the two had instantly been bonded by their servicing lovers that, on the other hand, were a little stiff in each other’s presence.

That had been the last time Jack had been home.

Despite whispers about Grace and her situation, Cecile had stayed by her side and the two relied one another rather heavily the past few years. In fact, Grace liked to think of her as almost family like by this point.

“What about you?” Cecile asked, looking at her again, this time with a look more of concern. “Has there been any updates on Collins? His condition?”

Grace shook her head, lips pursing and looking down at her gloves. “No, there hasn’t been anything recently.” She said, remaining quiet and avoiding her gaze that she knew was pitiful, inhaling deeply and looking up to where her son waddled around in the high snow, the three boys imitating guns and planes and yelling orders at one another.

“Does he know?” Cecile pressed in reference to little Jack.

“No. He doesn’t even know he actually exists, I don’t think.” Grace admitted, sighing as Cecile frowned in confusion. “He thinks he’s just some made up man in bedtime stories and nothing more. Maybe it’s best though, in case...” She drifted off, clearing her throat.

It was a reluctant suggestion, but Cecile had spoken up finally again after a minute, “Grace, if he has been...if he’s in a camp-.”

“I know.”

“-the chances…”

“Cecile.” She stiffly said, interrupting her and sending her silent with a warning look. Suddenly overcome by guilt, she sighed, her features visibly softening. “I know.”

The two didn’t linger around too much longer, deciding it was getting late and to part ways, calling their children each to go inside; earning some whines in complaint as they rolled out of the snow and complied, Grace smiling as the two boys huffed when they were given a warning scold before bidding goodnight politely as ordered. Jack practically clung on to her as he mumbled a quiet goodbye himself, evidently tired and ready for bed as they made their way up their stairs and into the quiet home; the furniture and all kept minimal as they didn’t own too much.

She helped Jack out of his coat and other outdoor clothing before taking off her own and ushering up to bed, close behind. He changed and was in under his covers when she returned from changing into her own nightwear, hair finally let down from it done up, stiff style and in loose tendrils down her back as she pulled his blanket up over him and tucked it just beneath his chin.

“Mama?” He piped up as she adjusted the blanket. Grace hummed. “How did you and papa meet?” He continued on, eyes watching her as she moved back to sit in the seat next to his bed.

“If I tell you, that’s your story for the night, deal?” She softly said, smiling a little. The little boy eagerly nodded.

“Your father used to come to grandpa’s shop all the time.” She began, digging through her mind for the images of the memory. “He was a tall skinny lad who clearly wasn’t from around here but he insisted grandpa made the best tarts and was more than willing to take the train every week just for them. And he did. He came around more when he began training to be in the army and he would come in, everyday, and I was working the cash. He’d come in with this big smile and would always greet me with the usual, ‘hi there, miss, you look beautiful today, as per usual.’”

Jack let out a quiet murmur of ‘yuck’, giggling. “What got me was his smile and how kind to everyone he was. Much like you, actually.” She explained, tapping her son’s nose with her index finger. “One day, he comes in, and he asks me to go out with him that night. I’m surprised but I say yes. He took me to see a movie and we just talked and laughed...he was quite charming really and I fell in love with him instantly. Grandma and grandpa thought he was a little too old for me but I was too in love already to want anybody else. Soon enough, you happened and your father left before you were born to go fight some bad men. I bet you he’s out there right now actually...flying and protecting us right now.” She dwindled, using one hand to float around as if imitating a plane.

“Has he ever met me? Does he know what I look like?” Jack asked. “You say I look just like him a lot.”

Grace laughed softly, “Yes. When you were very, very little.” She answered. “You look just like him and it’s one of the very reasons I love you so much, it’s why you’re so special.”

“Is he gonna come home one day, mama?”

This question stopped her, her eyes observing the way he looked at her with hopeful eyes, eagerly awaiting her reply; snuggly tucked into his bed and sinking further down into his pillow. She had no idea how to answer, not wanting to promise something she couldn’t -- a promise she wasn’t sure she could ever keep because the chance was very well there, that his father wouldn’t return. And yet, looking into those eyes, she couldn’t will the words to leave her mouth as she brushed a hand through his hair; her boy who was waiting for his father to return home from war. She sighed. “I don’t know, my love.” She finally honestly said in a quiet voice.

“I hope he does.” He said, optimistic and bringing a smile to his mother’s face.

Grace let out a soft laugh from her nose and leaned over as she stood, “I do too. Now to bed you go, Santa will be on his way and you can’t be awake when he arrives.” She murmured and kissed his forehead. “He doesn’t give toys to kids who stay up late, trying to see him.” She warned, her tone light and more playful as she raised her eyebrows and began to retreat when he spoke again.

The blankets could be heard rustling as he shifted, “I don’t want toys though!” He whined.

The brunette stopped at his door, hand over the light switch to his room as she turned to look at him, her head resting against the doorframe. “Then what do you want most, my love?”

“I want papa to come home, safe, for Christmas.” He quietly said, turning over and leaning to grab something from under his bed that she immediately realized was a paper; a drawing to be exact, his messy writing scrawled across the bottom of the page and signed off by himself. “Can you put this out for Santa with his cookies? I want to make sure he gets my letter.”

She hesitated but eventually returned and collected the fragile paper before giving him one last loving peck to his forehead with a mumble of ‘of course’, before she whisked out of the room; his light being turned off and door shut as she stood in the hallway between their rooms, her eyes casting down onto the drawing of a little yellow haired boy smiling and holding the hand of another yellow haired man who was much bigger, one obviously representing himself and the other Collins. Aside of the drawing his letter had gotten her, choked up and having to stifle the cry clawing up the back of her throat as she stood at the top of the stairs.

Dear Santa,

It’s me again, Jack Collins.

This is very late so I hope you get this in time. I asked you for new army men and a plane this year but I wanted to ask if I could change my presents and ask for something else. I don’t want to ask for too much but I was wondering if you could bring my dad home to me and mum soon. I know she misses him and I miss him too.

She said he’s been gone for almost four years and he misses us just as much and wants to come home. I hope that’s not too big to ask. I hear mum crying about him some nights so I know she’s scared and misses him even if she doesn’t say it. Miss Cecile told me she just wants the war to be over soon and that it’s very hard on everybody not knowing if he’s okay. It’s okay if you can’t bring him home though, but please watch over him and make sure he’s okay for us. Give him this drawing maybe too if you can and let him know I love him.

Thank you. Merry Christmas

-Jack Finlay Collins

December 22 1944

Grace did eventually put it by the plate of cookies she put out in her son’s favour, munching on them to make it look touched and real, leaving crumbs and at least half a cookie and a quarter glass of milk behind before she sat on the couch with that thin piece of paper; crying and praying to God, to whoever it was out there, for the sake of her son -- at least to try. But it felt unheard and ignored, like she was wasting her breath, as she had for these last four years, yearning for the return of a familiar pilot who she could only vividly remember by the picture on her bedside table that she made sure to take with her whenever they evacuated into shelters, carrying it in her coat each time. She had ran back inside once before moving, very pregnant and wobbling inside despite her mother's protests and demands to leave it behind; holding her very swollen belly and having to steady on the stair railing before she darted into the living room for the framed picture of Collins’ smiling face.

Their house took some blast damage that night.

Although she had every detail of him memorized and stored in her brain, she felt attached, like if she ever lost it or didn’t see it regularly, she’d forget him  -- she felt as though the memories of his voice were deteriorating and it wouldn’t be anytime soon, not while she was alive, that she ever allowed herself to forget what he looked like.

She didn’t know how long she sat there, in tears and praying over the crying over the rosemary that had once been her mothers and begging some higher power. She just knew that she was woken by Jack crawling onto the couch, snuggling against her with his face close to hers -- so  close that his nose bumped hers and his heavy breathing ruffled her hair with each exhale as she forced her swollen eyes open to look at him, meeting expectant eyes.

“Good morning, mum.” He chirped, voice soft. “It’s Christmas.”

It physically hurt her throat to speak, but she mustered her words and laughed softly. “Yes, it is.” She tiredly said, watching as he slipped from the couch to stand and run towards the tree where a few gifts were now tucked under, sliding onto his knees and looking back at her expectantly as she yawned and slowly woke enough to clamber to her feet and join him. Grace wrapped herself tight in the thin robe she had fallen asleep in, letting out a dramatic ‘brrr’ as she slowly knelt beside her son who reached straight  for his stocking.

“Merry Christmas, my love.” She murmured, his own return mumbled as he fished through the little toys and trinkets and small surprises that filled the stocking; her eyes carefully watching him and how his eyes lit up with such fascination at every little thing. He tore through his gifts rapidly, letting out a shriek of excitement when he unwrapped and unveiled a new plane that he had eyed for months, his mother laughing quietly and witnessing a moment where his excitement dwindled, and she knew exactly why. Exactly where his mind went. But he said nothing and picked himself back up, soaring with excitement over his new toys as she then lead him back upstairs to dress for the day, putting together a quick breakfast for them.

The morning was rushed, behind schedule as she pulled his hat on on their way out the door, just on their way to church as he hobbled down the stairs, his mother behind him as she fixed her own coat. She took one of his hands in hers as they began to make their way down the street, being halted by the sound of honking coming up behind them, determined and persistent to gain attention -- and they succeeded. Grace pulled Jack to a stop and turned to watch just as somebody clambered from the vehicle a good ten feet away, the door slamming shut as a few goodbyes and happy holiday’s were bid, her son burying into her side.

“Did I miss breakfast?” The familiar voice shouted, jogging to approach Grace as she wrapped one arm around her shivering son, frowning as the figure was currently buried in a thick jacket to shield from the harsh blizzarding squalls of snow that blew; the only distinctive feature being those eyes. Those eyes…

“Collins?” She quietly whispered.

“Are we off to church already?” He asked, acting oblivious but as he nudged a scarf away from his face, she could see him grinning as he stopped just a few feet away and set his bag down, arms stretching out. “Come here.” He softly added, his playful tone gone and voice now thick with emotion as he stood there, waiting.

“Oh!” She said after a minute of hesitation, hardly able to believe her eyes as she hurried forward, her son close behind as she flung herself towards the blonde who pulled his hat off, blonde hairy messy and being dampened by snowflakes that caught in the locks. He had lifted her from her feet as he wrapped his arms around her midsection, hers around his neck and rocking there for a few moments, a sob of joy leaving her mouth. “Oh thank God, thank you God.” She cried, burying against him as she shushed her softly, lips near her ear.

“I’m okay, I’m here. It’s okay.” He quietly murmured.

“No, you-.” She stuttered, sniffling and consumed by a million emotions at once as he set her down, his hands on her face. “You were...the camps, I thought...I have the letter inside!” She brokenly shrieked, earning a small smile and laugh.

“You underestimate me. I’m not a fool, Miss Brown.” He stated, playfully and soft. “A group of other lads came up with this plan, didn’t go as planned at first but…”

“But, I thought you were…” she stuttered.

He shook his head, eyes glancing over her shoulder. “Another time, darling.” He softly insisted, obvious that it wasn’t a conversation he was too eager, exhausted eyes sympathetic and pleading for it to be dropped. “Who’s this little one?” He asked, playing oblivious as he began to circle his lover to near the little boy who had his hands in his pockets and fidgeting around. Jack sniffled.

“I’m Jack.” He replied shyly, watching carefully as Collins knelt in front of him. “Jack Finlay Collins.”

“You are not.” Collins said, feigning disbelief and letting out a low whistle. “You can’t be the Jack, no. Last time I saw him, he was nothing more than a lil’ baby.  Only the size of my forearm here he was. You’re way too big to be him.”

Their son made a face and shook his head, “No, I’m Jack. I’m just big now.” He argued, looking at his mother, “My name is Jack Collins, right? I’m Jack!”

Collins snorted and looked back at Grace who nodded. “That’s little Jack, I promise you.” She agreed.

The older blonde looked at the little one and laughed, “Huh, I suppose you are. You do look a little like him…” He pondered, shifting his position with a wince and grunt so he was knelt on his right knee. “Well, Jack, my name is Collins.” He stated, holding a hand out to his son whose eyes went wide.

“Like Collins from mum’s bedtime stories?” He asked, looking to his mother for an answer.

“I...suppose so,” Collins answered, glancing back with a raise of one blonde eyebrow, a quizzical look being cast over at the brunette who remained quiet. “That would be me.”

Jack shook his hand shyly after Collins nodded towards his hand with a dimpled smile, chuckling. “Do you really fly planes and fight bad guys?”

Collins nodded. “Sure do.” He answered, releasing Jack’s little hand from his own. “Hey, what else has mum here told you about me?”

“Just that you fight in those planes that sometimes go over us and she’s told me stories about you and your best friend, Evans, getting into trouble.” He explained, looking carefully at Collins who seemed to be lost in thought at the mention of his former partner. “Mum has a picture of you in her room, I’ve seen it before.”

Collins softly laughed, the sound forced as he reached into his pocket. “Have you now?” He asked, earning  a nod. “I have a picture of you too, wanna see?” Again, another eager nod. The picture was carefully taken out, a little worn around the edges but Grace knew the picture immediately; a shot of Collins carefully holding Jack in his arms when he was a tiny six week old, eyes loving and adoring as he held his son for the first time.

“When was this taken?” Jack asked as he closed the gap between them to lean over in order to see the picture.

“About three years ago, if I remember exactly.” Collins answered without a pause, smiling as he looked at the picture. “I’ve got another one in my bag but it’s what got me through every day, out there. Seeing you. Knowing you were here and safe, taking care of your mum for me. Brave one you are.” He said, nudging his son who licked his upper lip again and shyly looked away.

“Do you remember me?” Collins asked as Grace came up  behind them, a hand resting on Jack’s back as he stayed quiet and shook his head. “Do you know who I am?” He asked, his boy reluctantly shaking his head again, “I’m your pa’, silly. You look just like me, how didn’t you notice that and realize?” He teased, brushing his son’s cheek as Jack looked up at his mom who only smiled.

“You’re my pa?” He asked, warily. Collins simply nodded as reply, his son’s words of sheer excitement as he jumped, looking up at his mother, “My letter worked! I asked Santa to bring papa home safe and it worked!” It was then that he flung forward and nearly knocked his dad over, arms wrapping around him as much they could, his father startled at first but then letting out a breathless laugh as he looked up at Grace. They exchanged small smiles, Collins wrapping his arms around his son and pressing a kiss to the side of his head as he sighed, content -- relieved even as he shut his eyes and breathed deeply, relieved to be home, and see that those tiring four years had some good out come. That there was still some good even if he had felt as though he hadn’t deserved as much, he had this -- love and happiness. And though there were some thing’s still unfixed and broken, although things were not the same, this was enough.

[fae-fucker]

Shatter Me: Chapter 12-13

Chapter 12

5 full minutes under piping hot water, 2 bars of soap both smelling of lavender, a bottle of shampoo meant only for my hair, and the touch of soft, plush towels I dare to wrap around my body and I begin to understand. 

They want me to forget. 

They think they can wash away my memories, my loyalties, my priorities with a few hot meals and a room with a view. They think I am so easily purchased.

Or they just ... don’t want you to fucking stink like twelve rat corpses. Because you’ll be interacting with other humans now. 

I’m sorry, does letting people shower mean they want to brainwash you now? Is basic hygiene yet another head of the Establishment Hydra?

YA dystopias have this uncanny and frankly impressive ability to make me side with the evil government, just because the heroines are such absolute morons.

I also want to touch upon the fact that not only did Juliette get out of nearly 300 days of solitary confinement with her shitty mind intact, she also somehow managed to keep her morals and “loyalties” (How can you have loyalties when you constantly whine about how alone in the world you are and always have been?) and is just too pure and good to fall prey for their devious manipulation tactics!

Unbelievable. Literally, I do not believe this. She should be crying of happiness at this point and forget all about eveyrbody else. Yeah, she wil have to remember eventually, but right now? Fuck no.

But I guess that would mean she’s “weak”, wouldn’t it? And we can’t have a weak, a human female character! She must be strong and dignified and always know right from wrong and survive solitary with her flawless mind and morals still intact! 

Fuck off.

I didn’t want the clothes or the perfect shoes or the expensive anything. I didn’t want to be draped in silk. All I ever wanted was to reach out and touch another human being not just with my hands but with my heart.

She’s not like OTHER GIRLS. She doesn’t want PRETTY CLOTHES. She just wants to TOUCH someone with her PURE HEART.

She angsts about how she never had any human contact and “grew up” through books, which would be sad if the “books are holy” wank was kept short, which it obviously isn’t. We gotta wax poetic about books in a YA book, how else will the reader know she’s special for reading? Also idk where she got these books since the Reestablishment supposedly destroyed everything, but ok.

Juliette angsts some more about the usual, nobody-likes-me crap. I love how despite the fact that people have treated her like shit and she doesn’t have any memories of ever being loved, she’s still such a pure-hearted wee angel that she’s not even a little bitter and still thinks of all the poor and starving people!

It just makes so much sense that she wants to protect those people who shunned and despised her! She’s just so good and pure!

They think I’m a doll they can dress up and twist into prostration. 

But they’re wrong.

But ... Why? Who are you fighting for? What have you got to lose by joining them, and more importantly, what will you win by resisting? 

I know that the main conflict comes from her resisting and being whiny about it, but even that needs a good motivation? Why is she doing this? What does she think she’ll do? Escape and live among the poor and helpless, who all hate her because of her Bad Touch? 

What is Juliette’s motivation for literally anything she does?

Adam comes in and is stunned by how hot she is now that she’s clean, because of course. 

I have no idea what to expect I have no idea what my life will be like in this new place and I’m being nailed in the stomach by every exquisite embellishment, every lavish accessory, every superfluous painting, molding, lighting, coloring of this building. I hope the whole thing catches fire.

The Reestablishment is evil for taking away art and beauty.

Art and beauty is evil also because the Reestablishment has it.

Aight.

Adam takes Juliette to Warner Bros. where he’s chilling at a big table with a bunch of other dudes, and Juliette notes that there are no other women so you know this properly evil and it’ll be time for Juliette to feminisms this place up.

Juliette is seated right next to Warner Bros. because drama.

I’m so thirsty I could inhale a waterfall.

I had to read that and now so do you. 

I hate his smile. 

Hate looks just like everybody else until it smiles. Until it spins around and lies with lips and teeth carved into the semblance of something too passive to punch.

I had to read that and now so do you: The Squeakquel. 

Hey uuuuh Tahereh WHAT THE FUCK DOES THIS MEAN.

This isn’t even purple prose anymore, this has transcended the boundaries of human comprehension. 

“Are you not hungry?” Words dipped in sugar. His gloved hand touches my wrist and I nearly sprain it in my haste to distance myself from him. 

I could eat every person in this room.

So this basically confirms that Juliette doesn’t believe the crap she spouts, right? Otherwise she’s literally considering cannibalism right now. 

He licks his bottom lip into a smile. “Don’t confuse stupidity for bravery, love. I know you haven’t eaten anything in days.” 

Something in my patience snaps. “I’d really rather die than eat your food and listen to you call me love,” I tell him.

FEMINISMS! 

Also why the passive narration? “Something in my patience snaps”? This is like two layers away from your own person. Why can’t you just say that you snap? Too much agency for you there?

Also also: No. She hasn’t eaten anything in DAYS. She should be INHALING food right now. I don’t fucking CARE how PURE she is, unless she can sustain herself by sucking energy out of her high horse, she’ll forget all about the EVIL GOVERNMENT and EAT. 

Hey YA? Can we uuuh ... let women be people please?

Warner Bros. is a deeply fucked up man who may I remind you will be Juliette’s fuckbuddy at some point, so he takes her rejection by shooting a gun into some food. 

Don’t you just ... love all these extremely violent men in YA fiction being portrayed as hot? I know I don’t! 

Warner Bros. goes all Christian Grey and threatens Juliette into eating some food.

Amazing.

Chapter 13

Adam has fucked off and Warner Bros. takes Juliette back to her room.

“I don’t want you to hate me,” Warner says as we make our way toward the elevator. “I’m only your enemy if you want me to be.” 

“We will always be enemies.” My voice is cracked into chips of ice. The words melt on my tongue. “I will never be what you want me to be.”

Because reasons! 

Warner Bros. smiles at her and of course he’s gorgeous, duh. He’s clearly a fucking asshole and a violent man but HOTDANG we have to know he’s bangable.

“You and I, Juliette—together? We could be unstoppable.”

I would call this foreshadowing but it’s actually more like spoilers at this point.

Juliette notices that Warner Bros. is covered everywhere except his face so she can’t touch him even if she wanted to. You can’t just Harry Potter vs Voldemort that shit and touch his face? Give him a Bitch Slap of Death? For someone who refuses to bow to the Man for reasons unknown, you sure give up pretty easily.

“What’s your first name?” I ask him. 

We’re standing in front of my door. 

He stops. Surprised. Lifts his chin almost imperceptibly. 

Focuses his eyes on my face until I begin to regret my question. “You want to know my name.” 

I don’t do it on purpose, but my eyes narrow just a bit. “Warner is your last name, isn’t it?” 

He almost smiles. “You want to know my name.”

1) Is Warner Bros. fucking OK? Is he stuck? Do we need to reboot him?

2) What the fuck is this atrocious dialogue? Was Tahereh absolutely shitfaced when she wrote this? 

3) Why doesn’t Juliette seem to have any sort of control over her own damn body? Why is this such a common narration tactic that’s used for NO REASON in YA books? Girls don’t even have agency over their own bodies in fiction, for God’s sake! 

Warner Bros. shows off his inner masochist and tells Juliette he’ll tell her his first name if she shows him what she can do. She refuses to touch him (-why did you worry about being able to touch him before you dingus?) and Warner Bros. asks a man named JENKINS to take her to her room and not let go of her no matter what happens.

Juliette tries to escape but ends up getting caught by Jenkins and:

I feel alive. 

I wish it hurt me. I wish it maimed me. I wish it repulsed me. I wish I hated the potent force wrapping itself around my skeleton.

But I don’t. My skin is pulsing with someone else’s life and I don’t hate it. 

I hate myself for enjoying it. 

I enjoy the way it feels to be brimming with more life and hope and human power than I knew I was capable of. His pain gives me a pleasure I never asked for.

Let’s be fucking real: This could’ve been such an epic, interesting concept and we’re stuck with THIS.

I’ll put this in my pocket and make sure to use this in future WIPs. I’ve always been a fan of Reaver type powers in Mass Effect and Dragon Age (where you drain an enemy’s health to refill your own), I think exploring that concept in a book would be super interesting.

Juliette starts screaming for someone to help poor Jenkins and we get this crap:

Warner’s gloves are back in place and he’s trying to hold me together, he’s trying to smooth back my hair, he’s trying to wipe away my tears and I want to murder him.

He’s a bastard abuser but it’s OK because he has a hidden soft side, y’all!

Juliette passes out for no reason. I guess that’s the only way we’d get a “smooth” chapter transition.