#keith needs a nap

[alluraswifey]

They have such a good bond 💖💗

[windybreeze12]

Voltron : On A Couch

Lance: Sprawled out on the couch, limbs for miles head on a very very soft pillow. Keith: The very soft pillow Pidge: Fuck the couch (sits on the ground cross-legged, laptop glued onto their legs) Hunk: Sits like a perfect cinnamon roll, legs crossed, literally perfect the man can do no wrong I swear Shiro: Not even in the room, he is on his bed taking a well-earned nap

[theres-no-protocol-for-this]

Naptime for Keith.

[alluraswifey]

Nah cause why my last character Kieth from VLD.

Like he’ll just be like:

Keith: Well your honour my defence is this- *punches the judge* let’s go bitch.

😂

[callsigns-haze]

A pilot? Again?

Pairing: Jake Seresin X detective, single mom reader

After investigating a crash at Top Gun for four hours, Detective Y/N, who lost her husband Daniel four years ago, finds no evidence of foul play and deems the case closed. During her time there, she reconnects with Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw, Daniel's younger brother, and meets his charming wingman, Jake "Hangman" Seresin. Hangman flirts with Y/N as he walks her to her car, and for the first time in years, she feels comfortable with the attention. Before leaving, Y/N gives him her card with her number, leaving the door open for future contact. Hangman promises to text, sparking the potential for a new chapter in her life.

This chapter contains references to past personal loss and emotional themes. It features characters dealing with grief and the aftermath of a tragic event.

Two Weeks of Silence

It had been two weeks since the funeral, but the house was still suffocating. The silence was unbearable, the only sounds coming from the occasional babble of 14-month-old Keith or the quiet shuffle of Logan, who had been eerily quiet since his father’s death. It was as if the life had been drained from the walls along with Daniel "Griffin" Bradshaw, Bradley’s older brother by two years.

Y/N stood in the kitchen, gripping the counter with trembling hands, her back turned to the door. The numbness hadn’t left. It clung to her like a second skin, tightening with every passing day. She had held it together at the funeral—everyone had said she was so strong. Strong for the kids. But now, without the distraction of people offering meaningless words, she felt nothing but an empty ache.

Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw had been coming over almost every day since the funeral. Not that she’d asked him to. He just showed up, like he was trying to step into Daniel’s shoes. But he wasn’t Daniel. He never would be.

She heard the familiar creak of the door behind her. She didn’t bother turning around. She already knew who it was.

“Y/N,” Bradley said, his voice quiet but rough, the usual edge missing.

“What is it, Bradley?” she asked, her tone sharper than she intended.

“I came to check on you,” he said, stepping into the kitchen with a heavy sigh.

Y/N gritted her teeth and turned to face him, her arms crossed. She looked exhausted—dark circles under her eyes, her face pale and drawn. “You don’t have to keep coming here, you know. I’m not your responsibility.”

Bradley’s jaw tightened. He didn’t like the way she was pushing him away, but he wasn’t about to argue with her. Not now. Not after everything. “I know. But I’m here anyway.”

She let out a bitter laugh, shaking her head. “Right. You’re always here.”

Bradley stared at her, his eyes flicking to the half-empty bottle of whiskey sitting on the counter. “Have you slept at all?”

“Why does it matter?” she snapped. “Sleep doesn’t change anything. Daniel’s still dead. I’m still stuck here raising these boys on my own. You think a nap’s going to fix that?”

Bradley didn’t flinch. He just nodded, the muscles in his jaw working as he tried to keep his emotions in check. “No. It won’t.”

Y/N turned away from him again, her eyes stinging with unshed tears. Keith’s babbling came from the living room, a small reminder that her youngest son needed her, even though she felt like she had nothing left to give. Logan, too, had been withdrawn, watching everything in silent confusion. He was too young to understand why his father wasn’t coming home, but old enough to sense the weight of what had happened.

“What am I supposed to tell them, Bradley?” she asked, her voice breaking slightly. “What do I say to Logan when he asks about his dad? That he died on some mission that went sideways? That he’s never coming back? When I do he asks why. How am I meant to know!?”

Bradley exhaled sharply, running a hand over his face. “I don’t know, Y/N. I wish I had the answers. But Logan’s going to need you to be honest with him. You can’t shield him from it forever.”

She let out a shaky breath, blinking rapidly to fight back the tears. “He’s only seven, Bradley. He shouldn’t have to grow up like this.”

Bradley stepped closer, his voice softening. “You’re right. He shouldn’t. But he’s tough—just like his dad. And you’re tougher than you think.”

Y/N shook her head, her voice barely above a whisper. “It'll ruin the kid. I’m just so damn tired.”

Bradley stood there, not sure what to say. He wasn’t good at this—the comforting, the emotional stuff. That had always been Daniel’s role. But Daniel wasn’t here anymore, and Bradley was all Y/N had left. He stepped forward, cautiously, until he was right next to her.

“You don’t have to do it alone,” he said quietly. “I’m here for you. For Logan. For Keith.”

Y/N didn’t respond at first, just kept staring at the floor, the weight of everything crushing down on her. After a long pause, she finally spoke, her voice tight with suppressed emotion.

“You’re not Daniel, Bradley. You were barely ever here before that either.”

The words cut deep, but Bradley nodded, accepting them for what they were. He wasn’t Daniel. He couldn’t replace his brother, no matter how hard he tried. But he could be there for the family Daniel had left behind.

“I know,” Bradley said quietly. “But I’m still here.”

Y/N finally looked up at him, her eyes red and tired. There was no fight left in her, no anger, just a raw, aching grief that mirrored his own.

“Logan asked me yesterday if his dad was a hero,” she said, her voice barely audible.

Bradley’s throat tightened. “What did you say?”

She swallowed hard, her gaze dropping to the floor. “I didn’t know what to say. Fourteen times in my life I accused pilots of doing something wrong but never Daniel. I just told him… I told him his dad loved him. That was all I could get out.”

Bradley nodded slowly, his chest aching with a familiar sense of loss. “It’s enough. Logan doesn’t need the details. He just needs to know that his dad loved him. That’s what matters.”

Y/N’s eyes met his again, and for the first time since Daniel’s death, there was something other than anger or numbness there. Maybe it was acceptance. Maybe it was just exhaustion. But she didn’t push him away this time.

“I don’t know how to do this,” she admitted quietly.

“You don’t have to figure it all out today,” Bradley replied. “Just take it one day at a time. I’ll be here. For whatever you need.”

Y/N nodded, her shoulders slumping as the weight of it all threatened to overwhelm her again. But this time, Bradley was there, standing beside her, ready to catch her if she fell.

And maybe, just maybe, that was enough for now.

-----

Four years had passed since Daniel’s death, and life had moved on, even if it still carried the scars of that day. Y/N had thrown herself into her work, rising through the ranks until she became a detective, often working with specialized units like CSI. Her job demanded precision, focus, and a cool head under pressure—traits she’d developed while learning to balance being a widow and a mother to two boys.

It was 6:00 AM, and the alarm blared from her phone. Y/N groaned, stretching in her bed before she turned it off and rubbed her eyes. Another day, another case to solve. She threw the covers off and padded to the bathroom.

Standing in front of the mirror, she stared at herself. She turned on the faucet and grabbed her toothbrush, squeezing a small amount of minty toothpaste onto the bristles. The rhythmic motion of brushing her teeth was oddly soothing, a routine that anchored her at the start of each day. She brushed methodically, starting from the back molars, working her way to the front, the fresh taste of mint chasing away the dregs of sleep. After rinsing, she ran her tongue over her teeth, appreciating the smooth, clean feeling.

Next, she grabbed her brush and began working through her hair. Her hair had grown longer than she usually kept it, but she liked the way it looked now—professional but still a little wild. She worked through a few tangles, brushing from the roots to the ends until her hair was soft and smooth. She tied it back into a sleek ponytail, the style that was both functional and neat for her long days on the job.

Returning to the bedroom, Y/N opened her closet. She ran her fingers over the hangers, choosing a black tailored blazer and matching pants. A crisp white blouse underneath kept the look sharp but professional. Sliding the pants on first, she tucked in her blouse and fastened the blazer, making sure everything sat perfectly. She moved over to the full-length mirror by the closet door, adjusting her collar and sleeves. Her badge was clipped to the belt, a constant reminder of the responsibility she carried.

Finally, she walked over to the small safe tucked discreetly in her nightstand drawer. She spun the dial, opening the metal door with a quiet click. Inside sat her standard-issue Glock. The cold metal felt familiar in her hand as she checked it over, ensuring it was loaded and ready. She slipped the gun into its holster at her side, concealed beneath her blazer. One last glance in the mirror—she looked like a detective ready to take on whatever the day threw at her.

But before she could leave the house, there was one more challenge: waking up her boys.

Y/N headed down the hall to Logan’s room. At eleven, Logan was already turning into a miniature version of his father. He had Daniel’s stubbornness, for sure, and waking him up in the morning had become something of a battle over the years.

She knocked gently on the door. “Logan, it’s time to get up.”

There was no response. She sighed, opening the door and stepping into the room. Logan was buried under his blankets, only the top of his messy brown hair visible. His room was a mess, toys and clothes scattered across the floor, his desk cluttered with books and school papers.

“Logan,” Y/N said again, this time with more authority. “Get up. You’ve got school.”

A muffled groan came from beneath the blankets. “Five more minutes,” he mumbled.

Y/N smirked, walking over to the bed and gently pulling the covers down. Logan blinked up at her, his face creased from the pillow, eyes squinting in the early morning light.

“You said that yesterday,” she said, tapping his shoulder. “Come on. You don’t want to miss the bus.”

Logan groaned again, rolling over onto his back. “I’m not a morning person, Mom. You know that.”

“I do know that,” Y/N replied, crossing her arms. “But it doesn’t change the fact that you have to get up. Now.”

With a dramatic sigh, Logan finally sat up, rubbing his eyes. He stretched, his arms reaching above his head, and yawned loudly. “Fine, fine. I’m up.”

“Good,” Y/N said, walking back to the door. “Get dressed. Breakfast is in ten minutes.”

Logan gave a half-hearted nod, already shuffling towards his closet as Y/N left the room, leaving him to his slow morning routine.

Next was Keith. At five years old, he was still small and full of energy, but mornings weren’t his strong suit either. Y/N stepped into his room, where Keith was curled up in his bed, clutching his favourite stuffed animal—a well-worn bear named Buddy.

“Keith, time to wake up,” she said softly, kneeling beside his bed.

Keith stirred, his big brown eyes fluttering open as he looked up at her. He yawned, stretching his tiny arms out as he rubbed at his eyes. “Morning, Mama.”

“Good morning, sweetheart,” Y/N said with a smile. “Let’s get you ready for school, okay?”

Keith nodded sleepily, still half-asleep as Y/N helped him sit up. She pulled out a pair of pants and a T-shirt from his dresser, guiding him through getting dressed. His little fingers fumbled with the shirt buttons, so she crouched down and helped him fasten them.

Once he was dressed, she scooped him up and carried him to the bathroom, setting him down gently on the step stool by the sink. Keith blinked blearily as Y/N handed him his toothbrush, squeezing a bit of kid-friendly toothpaste onto the bristles.

“Here you go, buddy. Let’s brush those teeth.”

Keith obediently brushed, though his movements were slow and clumsy. Y/N kept a watchful eye, making sure he didn’t miss any spots. Once they were done, she wiped his mouth with a washcloth and gave him a quick kiss on the forehead.

“All set, champ. You’re ready for the day.”

Keith smiled, still a little groggy but looking more awake now. He reached for her hand as they left the bathroom, heading downstairs to join Logan for breakfast.

Y/N leaned against the kitchen counter, sipping her coffee and watching as her boys sat at the table. It was a non-uniform day at their school, which always meant a little more chaos in the morning, especially with Keith's boundless energy. The five-year-old was practically vibrating in his seat, bouncing up and down as he eagerly shovelled toast into his mouth.

"Keith, slow down," Logan said in a calm but firm voice, his tone carrying the weight of someone much older. At eleven, Logan had always been the quieter, more serious one—a reflection of his father in so many ways. While his younger brother practically buzzed with energy, Logan was a calm presence, though he often seemed like he was carrying the weight of the world on his small shoulders. she told Bradley everything would ruin him.

Keith barely paid attention, his legs swinging wildly under the table. “But it’s a non-uniform day! We don’t have to wear the stupid ties and stuff! And we’re bringing money to school! Can we buy sweets, Mama?”

Y/N smiled at the contrast between her two boys. Keith was practically bursting with excitement, his eyes wide and full of life. Meanwhile, Logan sat quietly in front of his cereal, poking at the milk with his spoon, his face expressionless.

“I gave Logan a tenner,” Y/N said, looking at her older son. “He’ll pay for both of you.”

Logan sighed and pushed his hair back, not too thrilled about his role as the responsible older brother but accepting it with his usual calm. “I’ll take care of it,” he said in his usual, even tone. “But Keith, you’ve gotta calm down. You’re gonna knock something over.”

Keith, of course, ignored the warning. “Can we buy, like, five packs of candy, Logan? And maybe some chocolate too!”

Logan raised an eyebrow. “No. That’s not what it’s for. We’re paying for the non-uniform day, not having a candy shopping spree.”

Keith pouted dramatically, crossing his arms over his chest, but he didn’t argue back. He knew better. “Fine,” he muttered, but within seconds, he was back to fidgeting in his seat, still brimming with excitement.

Y/N shook her head in amusement. “Logan’s right. The money is for school, not to load up on sweets. But maybe I’ll get you something after school if you both behave, okay?”

Keith perked up immediately. “Okay, Mama!”

Logan merely nodded, his expression unchanging. He took a slow bite of his cereal, clearly not as enthusiastic about the day as his younger brother. Y/N knew it wasn’t just about today—Logan had always been more introspective, more serious. He carried a quiet sadness sometimes, though he didn’t like to talk about it much. She knew he missed his father, even if he didn’t say it aloud. The weight of responsibility that had fallen on his young shoulders wasn’t something a boy his age should have to deal with.

Y/N glanced at the clock on the wall, mentally going through her schedule for the day. “I’ve got to work until four today,” she said, placing her mug down on the counter. “So Penny’s going to pick you both up from school, and you’ll hang out with Amelia until I’m off. That okay with you guys?”

Keith immediately bounced in his seat again. “Yay! I love hanging out with Amelia! She’s gonna let me play her video games, right? She said she would last time!”

Logan just nodded, taking another slow bite of his cereal. “That’s fine,” he said, his tone still calm and measured. “We’ll be okay.”

Y/N walked over and ruffled Logan’s hair, earning a slight frown from him as he smoothed it back down. “I know you will. You’re always a big help with Keith.”

Keith grinned at his brother, clearly not picking up on the subtle tension in Logan’s face. “Logan’s the best!” he shouted, practically bouncing out of his chair now. “He’s gonna let me sit with him at lunch too!”

Logan sighed softly, glancing at his younger brother. “Yeah, sure. Just… calm down, okay?”

Y/N chuckled, finishing the last of her coffee before setting the cup down. She leaned against the counter, watching her boys—so different from each other, but in some ways, inseparable. Keith was a bright light, always full of energy and joy, while Logan had become her steady, serious boy, even though she wished he’d let himself be a kid more often.

“Alright, you two. Finish up your breakfast and get your shoes on. We need to leave in ten minutes,” Y/N said, gently nudging them along.

Keith practically jumped out of his chair, already halfway to the hallway to grab his sneakers, while Logan moved with his usual calm, taking his time to finish his cereal before he stood up.

Y/N glanced at Logan, her heart aching just a little as she watched him. “Logan,” she said softly, causing him to pause and look up at her. “You don’t always have to be the grown-up, you know. It’s okay to just… be a kid.”

Logan shrugged, his eyes dropping to the floor. “I know,” he said, but there was a distance in his voice, like he wasn’t quite convinced.

Y/N sighed softly, resisting the urge to push further. Logan was like that—quiet, introspective. He’d open up when he was ready, and she’d be there when he did.

“Alright, let’s go,” she said with a smile, trying to lighten the mood. “Non-uniform day and no rushing. It’s a good start to the day, don’t you think?”

Logan gave a small, barely noticeable nod, and together they all headed out the door, Keith still chattering excitedly about his plans for the day while Logan walked quietly beside him, always the calm to his little brother’s storm.

---

Y/N had barely finished her second cup of coffee when her phone buzzed with a new case. She was standing in the precinct’s break room, chatting with her rookie partner, Officer Miles Daniels, when her phone went off. Glancing at the screen, her stomach sank as she read the details. A crash at Top Gun—the United States Navy Fighter Weapons School.

“Miles, grab your gear,” Y/N called over her shoulder as she quickly gathered her things. “We’ve got a case. We’re heading to Top Gun.”

Miles raised an eyebrow, still fresh-faced and eager after joining the detective unit, but he moved quickly, following her lead. “Top Gun? Isn’t that, like, military?”

“Yeah, it is,” Y/N responded, slipping her badge and gun into place as they made their way out of the precinct. “But if there’s civilian criminal activity involved, or something suspicious, we get pulled in. Plus, this isn’t just a crash—it’s a potential aircraft destruction case.”

As they made the short drive to the base, Y/N filled Miles in on what they were walking into. The pilot was in stable condition, but there was suspicion that the crash wasn’t just an accident. With a $15 million aircraft destroyed, the stakes were high.

When they arrived at the Naval base, the military security waved them through after checking their credentials. Y/N parked the car outside the main lobby of the base, and the two of them stepped out into the bright morning sun. The sprawling complex of hangars, runways, and state-of-the-art fighter jets stretched out in front of them.

Inside the lobby, they were met by Sergeant Tim Bradford, a stoic and no-nonsense detective who had recently transferred from LAPD to work more closely with specialized cases involving military personnel. Y/N had worked with him on a couple of cases before. He was tough, by the book, and not someone to mess with.

“Bradford,” Y/N greeted him with a nod as she and Miles approached.

“Detective Y/L/N,” Bradford replied, giving her a quick, respectful nod. His sharp blue eyes shifted briefly to Miles, sizing him up. “This your rookie?”

“Yeah, Officer Daniels,” Y/N introduced her partner. Miles nodded politely, though he seemed slightly nervous under Bradford’s scrutinizing gaze.

“Alright,” Bradford said, moving straight to business. “Here’s what we know: A pilot, callsign ‘Raptor,’ nosedived his F/A-18 Super Hornet straight into the runway early this morning. He’s in stable condition at the hospital, but that jet? It’s totalled—$15 million down the drain. The Navy’s doing their own investigation, but we’ve been brought in to determine if this was an intentional act or negligence.”

Y/N’s brow furrowed as she listened. “Any indication so far that it was deliberate?”

Bradford shook his head. “Not yet. The pilot claims he lost control, but there’s speculation he might have been pushed into it—pressure from his CO, maybe. And if we find anything that points to foul play, the Navy’s going to press charges for destruction of government property. That’s where we come in.”

Y/N nodded, exchanging a glance with Miles, who was taking everything in, trying to piece it all together. “Alright,” she said. “Let’s get to the crash site.”

As they made their way across the base toward the crash site, Y/N kept her eyes sharp. The walk was long, but it gave her a chance to mentally prepare. Aircraft crashes weren’t her usual territory, but the stakes were high, and she was used to pressure.

“I read up on the case file on the way here,” Miles said as they walked. “The pilot’s got a clean record—nothing disciplinary, no indication he’d do something like this on purpose.”

“Keep that in mind, but don’t jump to conclusions,” Y/N replied, her tone firm but patient. “We’re here to look at the evidence, not get caught up in speculation.”

As they neared the crash site, the wreckage of the once sleek fighter jet came into view. The front of the aircraft was crumpled, its nose smashed into the runway with debris scattered all around. Military personnel were already on the scene, cordoning off the area, but the sheer destruction was undeniable.

Y/N knelt down near the wreckage, scanning the area. The nose of the plane was completely destroyed, and the force of the impact had created deep cracks in the runway. It was clear that this hadn’t been a controlled landing.

“Jesus,” Miles muttered under his breath, his eyes wide as he looked over the wreckage.

“Yeah,” Y/N agreed grimly, standing up. “This wasn’t a small mistake.”

She turned to Bradford. “Have they ruled out mechanical failure?”

“They’re working on it,” Bradford said, crossing his arms as he surveyed the scene. “But so far, nothing obvious. It’s more likely a pilot error, but the pilot swears he was fully in control before the nosedive.”

Y/N nodded thoughtfully, walking around the wreckage. Her mind worked quickly, analysing the scene, looking for anything that didn’t quite fit. “We’ll need to talk to the ground crew who prepped the plane and the other pilots who were flying with him,” she said, glancing at Miles. “Something doesn’t add up here.”

Bradford nodded. “Already got the names. Ground crew’s being interviewed, and the flight team’s in the ready room waiting for you.”

Y/N exchanged a look with Miles. “Let’s get to it. The faster we figure out what happened here, the better.”

As Y/N and Miles made their way toward the hangar, they passed a group of aviators, all wearing their flight suits and looking equally serious and exhausted. Among them, a familiar face caught Y/N’s eye. The short moustache, the tousled sandy hair, and that unmistakable stance—it was Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw.

Y/N’s breath caught in her throat for a moment. She hadn’t seen Bradley in years, not since Daniel’s funeral. He looked older now, more worn by the weight of life, but still very much the kid brother of her late husband. Her heart squeezed at the sight of him, a wave of memories flooding back.

“Bradley?” she called out, her voice hesitant but filled with recognition.

Bradley turned at the sound of his name, his eyes widening as he saw her. “Y/N?” he said, a mix of surprise and relief crossing his face. “I can’t believe it. What are you doing here?”

They approached each other, and Y/N gave him a warm smile. “Detective now,” she explained, gesturing to her badge. “Working a case on base.”

Rooster gave a small smile, his eyes softening with a mix of nostalgia and respect. “It’s been a while.”

“Too long,” Y/N replied, though the weight of that statement hung between them. The unspoken grief over Daniel was still there, lingering in the air. But this wasn’t the time or place for a deep conversation about the past.

Bradley shook his head, a half-smirk playing on his lips. “I should’ve known you’d end up kicking ass as a detective.”

Y/N chuckled softly. “I try. And you—you’re an instructor now, huh? Flying with the best of the best?”

Bradley nodded. “Yeah, something like that. Let me introduce you to my wingman.” He turned, motioning toward a tall, confident-looking man standing a few feet away. “This is Lieutenant Jake ‘Hangman’ Seresin.”

Jake stepped forward, offering a charming grin that seemed to light up his entire face. “Pleasure to meet you, Detective Y/L/N. Heard a lot about you,” he said smoothly, extending his hand.

Y/N raised an eyebrow, taking his hand and giving it a firm shake. Jake’s grip was strong, but not overbearing. There was something about his demeanour—equal parts charm and arrogance—that made her feel like she needed to stay on her toes around him. He had that aura, the kind of guy who was used to turning heads and getting what he wanted.

“I hope it was all good things,” Y/N replied, her tone lightly teasing.

“All good,” Jake said with a wink, his southern drawl coming through in a way that made his words linger just a little too long. “Rooster’s mentioned how tough you are. Seems like you two go way back.”

“We do,” Y/N confirmed, glancing at Rooster with a fond smile. “Family.”

There was a pause as the moment settled between them, and then Jake spoke up again. “So, what brings you to our little corner of the sky? I assume it’s not just a social visit.”

Y/N shifted back into professional mode, nodding. “We’re investigating the crash. The pilot—‘Raptor,’ I believe—is in stable condition, but there’s a possibility this wasn’t just pilot error. We need to determine if this was deliberate or negligence. My job is to figure out what went wrong and, if necessary, who’s responsible.”

Rooster exchanged a look with Jake, both of them clearly intrigued but also guarded. “We’re the instructors for this group,” Bradley said. “But we don’t know much beyond that. Raptor’s a good pilot—this isn’t something you’d expect from him.”

Jake nodded in agreement. “Yeah, kid’s sharp. Cocky, sure, but we’ve all been there. He’s not the kind to pull a stunt like this unless something went wrong.”

Y/N folded her arms, considering their words. “So no inside information? Nothing unusual in his behaviour or flight patterns before the crash?”

Both men shook their heads. “No,” Rooster replied. “Everything seemed normal during the briefing and take-off. Whatever happened, it must’ve been in the air.”

“Or in his head,” Jake added, his expression thoughtful. “Sometimes it’s hard to tell what’s going on up there, even with the best pilots.”

Y/N nodded, appreciating their input. “Alright, well, here’s what we’ve got so far,” she said, launching into a detailed explanation.

“The crash happened early this morning. Raptor nosedived into the runway, and while he’s alive, the aircraft is totalled. The Navy’s investigating the mechanical side, but they want us to assess whether there was any human interference—either pressure from above, negligence, or if this was intentional. The stakes are high. A $15 million jet destroyed can’t just be written off as an accident without a full inquiry. We’re looking into everything: the ground crew, flight logs, maintenance records, and Raptor’s personal state of mind.”

Bradley listened intently, his arms crossed over his chest, while Jake’s eyes narrowed, taking it all in. “That’s serious,” Rooster finally said, his voice low. “If there’s any suspicion of intentional sabotage or negligence, he’s looking at major charges.”

“Exactly,” Y/N agreed. “We’re trying to avoid that if it’s not warranted, but we need to be thorough.”

Jake leaned against the side of a nearby truck, his expression a mix of intrigue and something close to admiration. “Well, Detective, you’ve got your work cut out for you. Anything we can do to help?”

Y/N smiled at him, though her mind was already racing with the possibilities. “Just stay close in case we need anything. I might need to talk to the other pilots too.”

Rooster nodded. “We’ll be around. And hey, it’s good to see you again, Y/N.”

“You too, Bradley,” she replied softly before glancing back at Jake, who gave her one last charming grin as they walked away.

“Don’t be a stranger, Detective,” Jake called after her with a wink.

---

The four-hour mark at the crash site. The long day was wearing on both of them, but Y/N was no stranger to gruelling hours. She had spent countless days on crime scenes, sifting through endless evidence, and poring over tiny details that could make or break a case. Yet, this one seemed different—something about it felt dead in the water.

They had examined the wreckage from every angle, spoken to the ground crew, double-checked the maintenance logs, and even consulted with the flight team. But nothing substantial had emerged to indicate foul play. It seemed more and more like a tragic case of pilot error, despite the nagging feeling in Y/N’s gut that something wasn’t right.

She straightened up from where she had been crouching near the debris, wiping her hands on her jeans and squinting in the fading light. Miles walked over, notebook in hand, looking exhausted but still eager.

“What do you think, Detective?” Miles asked, his voice quieter than usual, likely from the hours of tension.

Y/N sighed, her eyes scanning the crumpled remains of the jet one last time. “I think this is a dead case for us,” she admitted reluctantly. “There’s no solid evidence of foul play, no suspicious activity leading up to the crash. It’s looking more like a tragic mistake than anything else.”

Miles nodded slowly, clearly taking her lead, though he looked a little deflated. “So, we’re calling it?”

“We’ll let the Navy finish their mechanical investigation, but as far as our end goes, yeah, I’m calling it,” Y/N said, her tone final but not unkind. “You did good today, Miles. I know it’s not the ending we were hoping for, but sometimes cases just don’t pan out the way you think they will.”

“Yeah,” he agreed, scratching the back of his neck. “I get it. But it’s frustrating.”

“It is,” she said, giving him a small smile. “But that’s part of the job. Let’s head back. I’ll debrief with Rooster and Hangman, and we’ll wrap this up.”

Together, they made their way back toward where Rooster and Hangman had been waiting by the hangar. Y/N could see them leaning against the side of a truck, deep in conversation. When they saw her and Miles approaching, Rooster straightened up, his expression expectant.

“How’s it looking?” Rooster asked, his tone hopeful but cautious.

Y/N shook her head. “Not much to go on. I’m calling it a dead case for us. The Navy can finish their investigation, but we haven’t found anything that suggests sabotage or intentional destruction.”

Rooster sighed softly, nodding in understanding. “Alright, thanks for looking into it anyway. I know Raptor’s not going to be thrilled, but it’s better than a criminal charge hanging over his head.”

At that moment, Miles stepped forward, looking a little nervous but determined. “Actually, Lieutenant Bradshaw, I still have a few more questions for you—just to tie up some loose ends.”

Rooster raised an eyebrow but gave a nod, turning his attention fully to Miles. “Sure thing, Officer. What do you need?”

As Rooster and Miles moved off to the side, Y/N turned to see Jake “Hangman” Seresin watching her with that signature grin plastered across his face. His charm seemed almost effortless, like it was second nature to him.

“Well, Detective,” Hangman said, pushing off from the truck and sauntering over to her with a slight swagger. “Since Rooster’s busy, how about I walk you to your car? It’s the least I can do after you’ve been out here all day in the sun.”

Y/N chuckled, feeling the tension in her shoulders begin to ease for the first time in hours. There was something disarming about Hangman’s confidence. Normally, she would’ve felt guarded, maybe even slightly intimidated by a guy like him. But right now? For the first time in a long time, she didn’t feel that way.

“Sure,” she said with a smirk. “I wouldn’t mind the company.”

They began walking across the tarmac together, the gentle evening breeze cooling the hot air from the long day. Hangman kept pace beside her, his hands tucked casually into his flight suit pockets, his easy smile never faltering.

“So,” he began, his tone light, “you’re telling me that after spending four hours out here investigating a crash and coming up empty, you still manage to look this good? I’ve got to say, I’m impressed.”

Y/N rolled her eyes playfully, though she couldn’t help but smile. “Is that your best line, Lieutenant? You’re going to have to try harder than that.”

“Maybe,” Hangman drawled, his Texas accent coming through thick. “But I figure, why mess with what works?”

Y/N shook her head, but she was still smiling. “Is this how you charm all the women you meet?”

He gave her a faux-hurt expression. “Not all the women, Detective. Just the ones who look like they could outsmart me and outshoot me in the same day.”

Y/N laughed, a real laugh, and she realized how rare that had become. Jake was flirty, sure, but in a way that wasn’t overbearing or disrespectful. He wasn’t pushing boundaries—just toeing the line, making her feel lighter after such a long, draining day.

As they reached her car, she stopped, turning to face him. Hangman looked down at her with a playful spark in his eyes, clearly not ready to let the moment end.

“Well, thanks for the escort, Lieutenant Seresin,” Y/N said, her voice softer now. She reached into her pocket and pulled out her work card, handing it to him. “Here. This has my number on it—in case you ever feel like texting. I’m… open to it.”

For a moment, Jake looked surprised, but that charming smile returned quickly as he took the card from her hand. His fingers brushed hers lightly, sending a small spark up her arm. “Now, that’s an offer I won’t pass up,” he said smoothly, tucking the card into his pocket. “You can expect a text soon, Detective. Count on it.”

Y/N felt a strange flutter in her chest as she smiled at him one last time, sliding into her car. As she closed the door and started the engine, Jake stepped back, giving her a two-finger salute before watching her drive away.

For the first time in years, the idea of someone flirting with her didn’t make her feel guarded or anxious. Instead, it felt… nice. Maybe it was Hangman’s easy-going confidence, or maybe it was just time for her to feel something other than the weight of responsibility. Either way, she wasn’t opposed to seeing where things might lead.

As she drove away from the base, Y/N glanced at her phone in the cup holder. And for the first time in a long while, she found herself hoping that a certain charming fighter pilot would follow through on his promise.

[riveranova]

youre headcanons were so funny, could you do more please? there is this trend on tiktok where girlfriends film their boyfriends sleeping positions, can you do that but with the ikemen prince guys?

and female reader please and thank you!💗💗

A/N: I know EXACTLY what you mean! So sorry for the long wait, here you go! <3

I also made this Gender Neutral because there is no mention of any gender. I hope thats fine!

IkePri's Sleeping positions! x GN! Reader - Part 1

Warnings: A teensie bit suggestive, pure crack to be honest, Nokto

Characters: Gilbert, Silvio, Keith, Sariel, Rio, Clavis, Notko, Ikemen Prince

Word Count: 610

Gilbert von Obsidian

- Still - LIke, he doesn't move - He scares the shit out of you because he's literally cold and unmoving - Literally laying there like 🧍🏻 - WILL make fun of you if you panic and wake him up - He's a little shit, obviously he thinks that your crying face is adorable - Do you honestly think that he'd go out like that? - Do you even love him? - It's not that? Ahh, so you doubt him. - ''I'm hurt, little rabbit. I think I need to remind you how alive I truly am, heehee...''

Silvio Ricci

-This man is a prick - If you sleep in the same bed as him, I'm sorry - Will 100% not only steal your blankets and throw them to the floor but will also take up all the space in your bed - I don't think he's completely silent when he sleeps but he doesn't snore either - More like.. really loud breathing - My dog breathes really loud when he's sleeping well - Hold on.. Silvios crest- - I rest my case.

Keith Howell

-I'm pretty sure that he's a silent sleeper - There is one big problem, uh tall problem - Tall. He's very tall. (I'm 181cm, I feel the pain) - I'd imagine that he has trouble sleeping in small beds because of his height - Poor guy is completely folded next to you so that you have some space - His back pain must be horrible, oh dear - Now, his alter is a different story - I think he'd just pull you onto him - He's tall and strong, he can be your bed <3

Sariel Noir

-Does he even sleep - I think the question with him isn't how he sleeps but how you find him sleeping - His job is hard and trying to keep the chaos (Clavis & Nokto, really) in check is a lot - Falls asleep on his desk, mostly - Hunched over his papers, the candle already out and cold for a long time - This man has chronic back pain, that isn't even up for debate - Wakes up easily and decides to follow you into bed

Rio Ortiz

-I think he doesn't sleep much either - For him, I think it's because he just has too much energy - He just loves to get everything ready for you to start your day, he knows you work so, so hard - But even this battery needs some charging sometimes - Can and will sit down on a chair, sleep (sitting straight up) for an hour and wake up as if he slept a week - Has no back pain either - What is his secret? We will never know

Clavis Lelouch

-Okay. - We know that this idiot doesn't even have a bed in his room - When he does sleep, he just throws himself into his couch and sleep like that - Because when he's tired.. He's TIRED - Hangs off of the side of the couch like not quite dried paint - Cyran covers him with a blanket sometimes but doesn't bother most of the time because Clavis just plucks it off in his sleep - Doesn't sleep very long or very deep, he has a tight schedule after all! Haha! Ahaha! Haa.. poor Sariel.

Nokto Klein

-:I - I think we all know where this is going - Look, I know he's not ALL about women and sex - But he's MOSTLY about it and I'm pretty sure he doesn't even care where he falls asleep - Literally falls asleep with his arms in postions that do NOT look comfortable - Don't worry tho, just pluck his arms from under whatever bodypart they are and lay him down normally - Deep sleeper, 100% - Has mastered THE nap. Like the one where you wake up and you have imprints of your clothes

Thank you for reading, requests are always open!

[alluraswifey]

POV:Me after I found out Adam died.

[muzaktomyears]

George Harrison and Paul McCartney interviewed about Bob Dylan and the Beatles by MOJO magazine in 1993, including extracts from John Lennon being interviewed about Dylan in 1979:

GEORGE HARRISON

Do you remember Dylan at The Albert Hall?

Oh yeah, I was there. I remember it a lot. First of all you had him saying, You remember this song? This is how it used to go and this is how it goes now! But the thing I remember most about it was all these people who'd never heard of folk until Bob Dylan came around and two years later they're staunch folk fans and they're walking out on him when he was playing the electric songs. Which is so stupid. But he actually played rock'n'roll before. Nobody knew that at the time, but Bob had been in Bobby Vee's band as the piano player and he'd played rock'n'roll. And then he became Bob Dylan the Folk Singer so, for him, it was just returning back. And maybe The Beatles - well, not just The Beatles but the whole wave of rock'n'roll that happened again in the '60s - spurred him on into wanting to get back into the electric guitar.

Was there a degree of Beatles/Dylan mutual envy at that time?

Well, he got a little bit of pleasure out of us and we got a lot of pleasure out of him. But you know everybody starts out being slightly grungey, rebels against the world, we were like that too. You know the famous Beatles story: we cleaned up our act a bit because Brian Epstein could get us more work if we had suits. By the time Bob came along it was like, Yeah, we all want to be more funky again, and please put a little more balls into the lyric of the song. There's a funny thing that I don't think anybody else has noticed and that is when John wrote Norwegian Wood, it was obviously a very Bob Dylan song, and right after that Bob's album came out and it had a song called 4th Time Around. You want to check out the tune of that - it's the same song going round and round.

You were very consciously listening to each other?

Well I can't speak for him but we were listening. I think it was his second album we heard first in February or January of '64 and we were in Paris at The Olympia Theatre and we got a copy of Freewheelin' and we just played it, just wore it out. The content of the song lyrics and just the attitude - it was just incredibly original and wonderful, you know.

Did you meet him in '66?

I met him every time. I felt a bit sad for him because he was a bit wasted at that time. He'd been on a world tour and he looked like he'd been on a world tour. He looked like he needed a rest and that was the time he went back home and fell off his bike and almost broke his neck. So...

PAUL MCCARTNEY

What sort of shape was he in? He was just winding up a world tour...

He was pretty wasted. There were a couple of times I went to hotels - one was the Mayfair, I can't remember the other one. But he didn't appear much more wasted than anyone else - you know, we kept up with him! We all sort of lay around together; it wasn't the kind of scene where you had to say anything enlightening.

So it was pretty much Dylan holding court.

Oh it was, very much. It was a little bit An Audience with Dylan in those days: you went round to the Mayfair Hotel and waited in an outer room, while Bob was, you know, in the other room, in the bedroom, and we were getting ushered in one by one. I know Keith was there. And Brian.

Didn't you feel you both had to perform?

No, not really. I was just quite happy to pay homage. The only trouble really was that occasionally people would come out and say, you know, Bob's taking a nap or make terrible excuses, and I'd say, It's OK man, I understand, he'd out of it, you know. And they were a bit guarding, like the Pope's men at The Vatican. He can't see you just now...

Didn't he come round and play you an acetate of Blonde On Blonde? Or you played him an acetate of Revolver?

No, I played him some stuff off Pepper later. And I'd brought it on acetate or a tape of Pepper...

It must have been Revolver. This was '66.

I'm pretty sure it was Pepper 'cos I remember him saying, Oh I get it, you don't want to be cute any more. And I was saying, Yeah, that's it. We really admired him. I'd known his stuff as long as I'd known Ray Charles's, so he was a big hero of ours. He was very keen on I Wanna Hold Your hand - he'd thought the middle eight, "I can't hide, I can't hide" was "I get high, I get high" and was rather amused by that. And we were amused that he was amused. Then we eventually met him in New York, one of the big hotels there, he came round with his road manager who was a nice bloke. Al Aronowitz was there, a kind of mate of ours, Dylan, his road manager and a few other people showed up. And they brought along with some illegal substances of which we partook and had... quite a wild night.

What happened?

Well, I was wandering around looking for a pencil because I discovered the meaning of life that evening and I wanted to get it down on a bit of paper. And I went into a little room and wrote it all down, 'cos I figured that, coming from Liverpool, this was all very exotic and i had to let my ordinary people know, you know, what this was all about: like if you find the meaning of life you've got to kind of put it about! Mal handed me the little bit of paper the next morning after the party and on it was written, in very scrawly handwriting: THERE ARE SEVEN LEVELS. Till ten we'd been sort of hard scotch and coke men. It sort of changed that evening.

In '66 it seemed as though you almost wanted to change places: Dylan was the mystic folk prophet who wanted to be a pop star; The Beatles were the pop stars who wanted to go underground. Was there a kind of mutual envy?

None whatsoever, no. I think it was mutual admiration, certainly from our side there was admiration. I mean to this day... I just met him at the airport about a year ago and he just kind of shambles up and says, Hey Paul, y'alright man, and we give each other a big hug. I was in Heathrow and he was. He had an anorak on and had the hood pulled up. He was really like a kind of bagman, you know. And he just kind of shambled up to me, Hey Paul, alright man.

He seemed very attracted at that time by the idea of being a pop star, the suits, the screaming women...

Well I think he found something attractive about that. I don't really think it changed his stuff an awful lot. I don't know, there might have been some feeling that it was time for him to get off the street and into the hotel or something. I don't know.

That was the time when your music had the most in common, Revolver and Blonde On Blonde. You almost crossed over at that point.

Well, he influenced us and a lot of people. He influenced the Stones. Sympathy For The Devil is very Dylan, just the endless lyrics. I remember us being round at John's house at Weybridge, when I went round to write once, and he'd just got Like A Rolling Stone and we put it on and it seemed to go on and on forever. It was just beautiful. I don't know if he aspired to that showbiz thing you were saying but he showed us all that it was possible to go a little further. But the nice thing about Dylan for me was that he brought back poetry. We'd come from that student scene, 'cos we'd all started as students, you know - I was a kind of sixth form layabout, John was at the art school next door - and we'd started out with things rather like poetry readings in Liverpool. Hamburg was a student scene. There were kids in Hamburg who called themselves The Exies - The Existentialists - and wore a lot of black; Astrid and Jorgen and Klaus, they figured they were Exies. That was one of the sad things about The Beatles: we got so huge that that kind of student thing got cut short, but Dylan reintroduced that into all our lives. I always thought of Dylan as a poet first - him and Allen Ginsberg holding up signs, all very hand-held camera from New York, all very enigmatic.

You were never in awe of each other?

Oh he wasn't in awe of us. He just liked "I get high." As the guy who introduced us to smoking dope he just thought it was hilarious! I always like those sort of things, it's like Jake Riviera thinking "living is easy with eyes closed" was "living is easy with nice clothes". They're always better, those adaptations. But John was probably the most influenced. And George is one of those guys who can quote all Dylan's lyrics. There's always a lyric for an apt situation: George goes, Oh well! Remember! The pumps don't work 'cos the vandals took the handles! George knows the whole works of Dylan. But I think John was the most influenced in the vocal style. Certainly You've Got To Hide Your Love Away is a direct Dylan copy, it's like an impression of Dylan, Yeeew've got to hayed... that lerv ay-wayyy. Just saying ay-wayyy, rather than away...

Did John ever mention that car ride with Dylan which was filmed for Eat The Document?

Mmm?

You know, when the two of them got driven around Hyde Park with Pennebaker filming them?

Well he might have but not at length. We didn't really chat about that too much. I know he was very keen on Dylan.

There's a great bit in the film, when he's in the car with Dylan and it's five in the morning, and Dylan's drunk and completely out of it and threatening to throw up and John says: Do you suffer from sore eyes, groovy forehead or curly hair? Take Zimdon!

Zimdon! Ha ha ha. Zimdon! Well that's nice stuff, but he turned on the whole Zimmerman bit and made a lot of fun of Bob later.

When do you mean?

Later, you know. I got a feeling...

He recorded those Dylan parodies in the '70s, didn't he? [There are tapes of three of them - Serve Yourself, an acid response to Dylan's You've Got To Serve Somebody, the equally self-explanatory Mama Take This Make-Up Offa Me, and a spontaneous moulding of the live TV news into Stuck Inside of Lexicon With The Roget's Thesaurus Blues Again.]

He did. He always had a go at people, John. That was really part of his charm. He was ballsy enough to have a go at you, you know, then he'd lower his little glasses, look at you over the top of them and say, It's only me! John was the mouth. He was a lovely boy but he did shoot his mouth off. Quite often.

Why did he have a go at Bob?

I think he was quite disappointed that his name wasn't Dylan. Finding out that it was a Jewish name that he'd changed I think he felt a bit betrayed. I remember him making quite a stink about that.

But he must have known that from the start.

I'm not sure we did. No. I think we sort of found all that out later. He had a go at everyone then. Including, probably most of all himself. That's who the real go was at. You know, to understand John you had to sort of look at his past. The father leaving home when he was three. Being brought up by his aunt. And his mother, you know. It's extraordinary he made it to the age he made it to. So John had a mighty chip on his shoulder - we all did to some extent. John could say to you, Fuck off yer twat. Then he'd just go, Only kidding! You had to accept that he could swing both ways.

Why did he feel so let down by Dylan?

He loved Dylan so much. He did feel a little let down. John was like that. John like gurus. John was always looking for a guru. When he introduced Magic Alex who was just some Greek guy who was a bit of an expert in electronics. And I remember John coming round to my house and saying (mystic voice) This is my new guru, Magic Alex. And you had to sort of smile a little and go, OK well that's cool, Wow, knowing that this may not last. But... John had found a guru.

Was it the same with Dylan? You know, he wanted to sit at his feet?

Yeah. I think he did worship Dylan to some degree. He was certainly the big one. There was Elvis before that... but Elvis was a different kettle of fish. Elvis was going to shop us on the Nixon Tapes. That's another story...

I want to hear it!

You know those Nixon Tapes that he kept rolling all the time? There's a set of tapes were Elvis is trying to shop The Beatles. (Courteous Southern accent) "You know, Sir, They're very un-American! I believe they smoke drugs!" Elvis! Telling Nixon! He's trying to get made a marshal, trying to get made a US marshal.

Have you heard this tape?

No, I've just seen a transcript of it. It's quite wild. 'Cos Elvis is ryng to shop us. No doubt about it. Definite bad move, El!

That's hysterical!

It is, it's wild! You've got to laugh. But as I say, I think to John these people were great heroes and he found out a little later they were only human. Think about the Maharishi. We all went off with this guru and John got very let down and wrote Sexy Sadie. He was always doing that, he was always having an idol and seeing it knocked down. If you think about it it's probably very symbolic of his whole life, the father figure. Yoko in a way was a father figure. Hate to say it. But John always required that. Complex boy. He was a lovely boy but, perhaps, you know... idols with feet of clay. John always wanted people to be magic and, you know, we're all human.

What did he see in Dylan?

Inspiration, maybe. I don't know. Maybe that he allowed us to go further. He allowed the Stones to go further, then we did Pepper and we allowed everyone else to go further, It was like boots walking... we'd take a step, Dylan'd take a step, Stones'd take a step, we'd take another step, John'd take a step. I'd take a step, I'd do Why Don't We Do It In The Road?, John'd go, Fuck, I wish I'd written that...

Which of John's songs would you like to have written?

John's? Oh... if forced on the point I'd have to say, Help, Imagine, Strawberry Fields. But it doesn't matter, all in all, here we are, born, die, and on the way stuff happens. John did some magic stuff, Dylan did, Stones did, all of us have from time to time. I remember Dylan defending one of his loose vocals - some critic somewhere - by saying, (nasal whine) "Listen man there's an A in there somewhere! It goes from A flat to B flat but it goes through an A. Every note's in tune!" You know, there is an A in the middle of it somewhere but he just chooses to go around it. Great! Rules are meant to be broken.

So do you think he's deliberately 'deconstructing the myth'? How many opportunities has he had to reach a larger audience - Farm Aid, he was the final act of Live Aid, The 30 Year Tribute concert? The last two were absolutely appalling.

I think he does it on purpose, you know. He does it on purpose. I know someone played with him in one of his latest bands - G.E. Smith, New York guy - and I said, How is it, man? And he said Oh great! He said, We'd come up to him after a show and say, Fantastic man, Tambourine Man went down so beautifully, and then he wouldn't do it for two weeks! But I can see that...

Keep a good head and always carry a light bulb!

Yeah, it was nice, all that stuff. But the only pity really is that it's all closed up, like Moses passing through the waters, the Red Sea. We all got through it all, it tended to close up when everyone's got through it. Now it's re-opening a little bit. The modern scene's getting a little crazier again, but it's all a little bit corporate now. Very corporate. Sickeningly so. And you know it wasn't that way before. And he was one of the catalysts in the whole movement.

JOHN LENNON

Extracts from interviews broadcast in 1979 on New York's 1027WENW radio in The Lost Lennon Tapes (interviews by Jonathan Cott, David Shepp and Jann Wenner).

You first heard Dylan on a visit to Paris in 1963?

I think that was the first time I heard him at all. I think Paul got the record (Freewheelin') from a French DJ. We were doing a radio thing there and the guy had the record in the studio and we took it back to the hotel and (gauche accent) fell in luv, like!

Do you still see Dylan as a primary influence on your writing?

No, no. I see him as another poet, you know, or as competition. Just read my books which were written before I'd heard of Dylan or read Dylan or even heard of anybody. It's the same, you know. I didn't come after Elvis and Dylan, I've been around always. But it I see or meet a great artist, I love 'em, you know. I just love 'em. I go fanatical about them - for a short period. And then I get over it! And it they wear green socks, I'm liable to wear green socks for a period, you know.

You've Got To Hide Your Love Away and I'm A Loser?

Yeah, that's me in my Dylan period, 'cos that's got the word 'clown' in it. I always objected to the word 'clown' - or clown image that Bowie was using 'cos that was always artsy-fartsy - but Dylan had used it so I thought it was all right and it rhymed with whatever I was doing. So that was my Dylan period.

So you were saying, If Dylan can go it I can do it?

No, I'm just influenced by whatever's going on. It's the same as if Elvis can do it, I can do it. If the Everly Brothers can do it, me and Paul can do it. If Goffin and King can do it, Paul and I can do it. If Buddy Holly can do it, I can do it. Whatever it is, I can do it!

How would you characterise your relationship with Dylan?

Whenever we used to meet it was always under the most nerve-wracking circumstances. And I know I was always uptight, and I know Bobby was. And people like Al Aronowitz would try and bring us together. And we were together and we'd spend some time but I always used to be too paranoid or I'd be aggressive or something and vice versa. He'd come to my house - can you imagine it? This bourgeois home life I was leading? - and I used to go to his hotel. And I loved him, you know, because he wrote beautiful stuff. I used to love those so-called protest things. I loved the sound of him. I didn't have to listen to his words. He used to come with his acetates and say, Listen to this John, did you hear the words? And I'd say, It doesn't matter, you know, the sound if what counts, the overall thing. You don't have to hear what Bob Dylan says, you just have to hear the way he says it. Like, the medium it the message.

Your appearance in Eat The Document was a little edgy.

I've never seen it! I'm in it, you know! Frightened as hell, you know! I was always so paranoid. He said, I want you to be in this film and I thought, Why? What? He's going to put me down! It's gonna be... you know and I went all through this terrible thing. So in the film I'm just blabbin' off, just commenting all the time like you do when you're very high and stoned. But it was his scene, you know, that was the problem for me. It was his movie. I was on his territory. That's why I was nervous, you know. I was on his session.

MOJO (November 1993)

[aquagirl1978]

Hello, aqua! May I please have chevalier and "cupping his cheeks and calling him cute"? I want to see his reaction :)

Thanks!

Hi anon - thank you for this request. I am always happy to write my favorite

The Exchange

A/N: Part of my Naughty or Nice event Pairing: Chevalier Michel x Reader Prompt: cupping his cheeks and calling him cute Word count: 1071 Tags: fluff

It was just another day in the office of the foreign affairs faction – Chevalier was seated regally at his desk, quill in hand, while Nokto, who was seated nearby, was reviewing trade agreements. Clavis was off somewhere, presumably the garden with Cyran digging traps. Luke was likely napping in the gardens, a menagerie gathering on his sleeping body.

You had just returned after visiting Sariel’s office, arms ladened with papers the king needed to sign. Chevalier looked up, his gaze softening upon seeing you, his smile gentle as you approached his desk. His eyes never left yours as you placed the stack of papers on his desk, waiting for you to take your seat next to him at his desk.

You worked seamlessly as a pair, barely a word needed as you pointed with a fingertip where he needed to sign. He quickly scanned the documents placed before him, pleased with your diligence in reviewing them. He’d then silently pass the documents back to you, his gloved thumb barely grazing the back of your hand.

“King Highness, the Jadean delegation will be here in a few days. Prince Keith will be arriving with them.”

“I’m aware,” Chevalier replied, his gaze fixed on the paperwork before him. Nokto sauntered over, winking at you as he leaned against his brother’s desk. 

“Then you know they will be looking for…”

“Yes, I know,” he said with a sigh, setting down his quill. His eyes flicked up, blue meeting red. “If they want me to entertain their demands…” he added with a wicked smirk.

“How’s three?” Nokto asked with a tilt of his head.

For all his frivolity, Nokto was quite adept not only at his job but handling Chevalier. While the king of Rhodolite was notoriously stubborn, known for not doing a single thing he didn’t want to, it was a poorly kept secret that he could be bribed – with books – to do those things he didn’t particularly want to do.

You watched your love, waiting with bated breath for his reaction.

“Four,” he replied, his gaze averted. “They still owe me one from the last time Prince Keith was here.”

*******

A few days later….

It was already dark when there was a knock at the door to the office. You glanced at Chevalier, the only other person in the room with you, wondering who it could be at this hour.

Rising from your seat, you walked around the desk and opened the heavy door. “Prince Keith, what a pleasant surprise,” you greeted, inviting him to enter.

The tall man bowed his head. “Forgive the intrusion, Your Majesty,” Keith said, “but I just ran into Prince Nokto who reminded me of something.”

“Yes?” Chevalier asked, resting his chin in his hand.

Keith approached his desk, his long legs swiftly taking him there; the moment Chevalier saw the books Keith was carrying, a soft smile spread on his lips as his gaze lingered on the treasure Keith was holding.

Leaning against the wall, you quietly observed Chevalier, your gaze never leaving his.

“On behalf of Jade, I’d like to request an audience with Your Majesty…” Keith stood tall before the king, a slight tremor in his hands as he gently held the books. 

Chevalier waved a hand, his gaze fixed on the leather-bound volumes cradled in Keith’s hands.

“There’s five,” the king said softly.

“My sincerest apologies, Your Majesty. I brought an extra since I was so delinquent in getting you that book you requested on my last visit here. I am so sorry,” Keith replied. “May I?” he asked, seeking permission to place the books on the desk. Chevalier nodded, his gaze still on the books. “This one,” Keith said, proudly pointing to the book on top, “was recommended to me by my friend, Maeve. I hope you like it as much as we did.”

Chevalier steepled his fingers, silent in thought. “The others, they’re all by the same author.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Sonia is my friend, she is quite the popular author in Jade and I thought –.”

“Your friend?” Chevalier interrupted, eyes widening.

“Yes, I feel like I’ve known Sonia forever. She’s always wanted to visit Rhodolite. If she ever does get to travel here, I could arrange for you to meet her.” Keith stopped, and shook his head. “I’m sorry, Your Majesty. I’m being far too presumptive…”

“I’d like that,” Chevalier said simply. “I’ll meet with you and your delegation tomorrow afternoon.”

“Thank you,” Keith mumbled while bowing his head, somewhat stunned things worked out as easily as Nokto had told him. “Thank you again for your graciousness.” Keith, head still bowed, bumped into a chair behind him. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered to the chair before escorting himself from the office.

As soon as the door closed, and with a bright smile, you made your way over to Chevalier’s desk. You didn’t wait to be invited; you took it upon yourself to sit on the king’s lap. Cupping his cheeks, you tilted his face towards yours.

“You’re so cute when you get excited. Like when you see books.”

Chevalier scoffed,  his eyes gleaming with mischief. “I get excited with you.”

Your cheeks flushed with warmth. “That’s not the same,” you said softly, slowly stroking his cheek with the pad of your thumb. “ It’s different when you see new books. Your eyes sparkle and your face lights up like a child on Christmas morning.” 

“It’s a rare joy I don’t often see you express,” you continued, tracing his lips with your fingertip, “but one that I carve into my heart every time I bear witness to it.”

“Are you done yet?” he asked with a laugh. The corners of his lips twitched, curling into a smile, while his gaze drifted towards the pile of books lying on his desk. Your hands fell from his face and settled on his shoulders, his quickened pulse easily felt by your fingertips grazing his neck. 

Leaning closer, you tilted your face so you could whisper into his ear. “I know you’re itching to read those books. Let’s retire to your room.”

Your words – or perhaps it was your warm breath on his skin – caught his attention. He wrapped a clumsy hand in your hair, pulling you close for a kiss. 

“After I’ve had my fill of my books,” he whispered between kisses, “I’m devouring you next.”

His ice blue eyes warming as he gazed into your eyes. 

Tagging: @redheadkittys @alixennial @rhodolitesroseforclavis @chaosangel767 @queengiuliettafirstlady

@queen-dahlia @ikehoe @ikemen-writer @talfollowingstuff @kpop-and-otome

@drachonia @ranhanabi777 @silver-dahlia @keithsandwich @lunaaka

@kisara-16 @altairring @lucyw260 @lordsisterxotome @umi-adxhira

@crypticbibliophile @lancelotscloak @scorchieart @tele86 @nightfoxqueen

@nightghoul381 @maries-gallery @xbalayage @xenokiryu @alydra

@melodiousramblings @wendolrea @aceuuuu @randonauticrap @aria-chikage

@portrait-ninja @sh0jun @ikesenwritings @kalims-pessimist-bestie

[alluraswifey]

Wow Keith…

James: So, Keith, what do you want to do tonight?

Keith: You, probably.

James: You know you said that out loud, right?

Keith: Yup, no regrets.

[autisticlancemcclain]

“—Lance isn’t even paying attention!”

Lance looks up from his phone, noticing Pidge whining to Coran for the first time.

“I’m paying attention,” he lies.

Pidge ignores him. “It’s not fair! He should forfeit his movie vote! He’s not even gonna watch, anyway.” She turns to Lance, glaring. “He’s gonna be too busy texting Keith and making ga-ga eyes at his phone.”

“I will not!” he says, rapidly trying and failing to delete the ‘wish you were here, Dropout’ text he just sent. “I don’t — I wasn’t even texting Keith! I haven’t talked to him in days!”

Not a single person is fooled. Even Coran, who can regularly be counted upon to be on Lance’s side, is raising an eyebrow.

“Honest!” Lance insists.

“Ugh,” Pidge complains, glaring at him before flopping back on the couch. “I still think your vote shouldn’t count.”

Regardless of her petulance, Lance does get a vote, thank you very much. Unfortunately it comes with an abundance of teasing and wiggling eyebrows from the rest of the team, but whatever. At least his point was made, and he doesn’t have to watch whatever nerd documentary Pidge was gunning for.

To his credit, he does actually try to pay attention to the movie. It seems mildly interesting, at least, some kind of Altean classic, and usually he’d be able to at least appreciate the costumes. He really does try.

Fifteen minutes in, his phone buzzes slightly.

Absolutely not, he tells himself. Do not Pavlov yourself to his ringtone, because that would be humiliating. You can go two hours without talking to him. You’re basically a grown-up, for fuck’s sake. You barely even like him mostly. Plus, if Hunk reads over your shoulder and sees the messages you’re sending to him you will never recover.

Nodding resolutely to himself, he shoves his phone deeper in his pocket and returns his attention to the movie. There’s some kind of conflict happening, maybe between the two romantic leads?

Whatever. Lance is paying attention. The movie is just…unclear.

The second time the phone rings, reasoning with himself is much harder. After all, Shiro isn’t even trying to pretend he’s not falling asleep into his popcorn — he’s not paying attention. And Hunk is intently braiding Allura’s hair, so he’s not paying attention either. The point of family movie night is to spend a few hours in each other’s presence outside of training or missions or meals, so it totally counts even if Lance is on his phone, right?

He has to physically sit on his hands to keep himself from checking his messages. Pidge will needle you about it for eternity, he reminds himself, increasingly desperate.

The third time it buzzes, he gives up. His hands fly to his phone so fast he cringes at himself.

How embarrassing.

Fully aware his ears are bright red, he clicks on the notification, opening his and Keith’s communication line.

mullet-head:

lance? you there?

mullet-head:

did you fall asleep during movie night

mullet-head:

are you pulling an old man shiro

Lance smiles to himself, glancing over at the snoring leader of Voltron, drooling on Coran’s shoulder. Keith never misses a chance to clown on his brother, even if Shiro can’t even see it.

loverboy:

i did not fall asleep u butthead

loverboy:

i’m not shiro

loverboy:

i’m not six i don’t need naps

Keith doesn’t respond for a second, and Lance pictures him with his head thrown back, eyes squinted shut and mouth open wide in the startled way he laughs when he unintentionally finds Lance funny. It makes something warm and simultaneously bitter churn in his belly, thinking of how many lightyears away he is from that brighter-than-the-sun laughter.

mullet-head:

stop making me laugh i’m going to get caught

mullet-head:

i’m on some boring patrol i’m not supposed to be on my phone

Lance narrows his eyes in alarm. If that dumbass is texting him instead of paying attention on a mission, he swears —

loverboy:

patrol where??

loverboy:

please don’t tell me ur dicking around on ur phone on a GALRA BASE

mullet-head:

no no no it’s some supply centre

mullet-head:

look

The texting bubble spins for a moment, loading, then a video comes through. Lance glances around the room surreptitiously, but no one is paying any attention to him. Pidge is chatting quietly with Allura, Coran is totally wrapped up in the film, Shiro’s still sleeping, and Hunk has moved to Allura’s other side to braid the hair on that half of her head. Still, he turns the volume as low as he can, angling the phone away from the others.

The video footage is shaky at first, eventually settling on Keith’s face. He looks good — well fed, healthy.

Handsome.

Embarrassed, Lance pauses the video, taking a moment to observe Keith’s face. It’s stupid and gay and sentimental, but — Lance has been looking for a reason to ask Keith to send him a picture, a video, hell, a voice message. Something to confirm, aside from texts, that he’s alive and well, something for Lance to hold on to, a glimpse of the face he’s missed so dearly (not that he’ll admit it). He’s been too embarrassed to ask, but wanting to feel like he’s in the same room as Keith again.

“I thought the Arizona desert was boring,” video Keith says, exasperated. “But at least it has cool lizards. This place has nothing but rocks, sand, and more rocks. Look.”

The video flips around, showing off Keith’s view. He slowly moves the camera to the side, presumably so Lance can see just how boring the rocks and sand and more rocks is.

Lance squints.

Hang on a second.

Is that flurexonomite?

He rewinds the video slightly, pausing it when he sees it again. He brings the phone close to his face, looking as closely as he can, and lets out a delighted little laugh when he sees it.

It is! It’s flurexonomite!

loverboy:

GET ME THAT ROCK

loverboy:

PLEASE

He screenshots the frame with the rock in it, circling it and sending it back.

loverboy:

THIS ONE

mullet-head:

are you serious

mullet-head:

i send you a video of this boring ass desert that i’m stuck in

mullet-head:

and you focus

mullet-head:

on a rock

mullet-head:

you massive nerd

Lance pouts, even though Keith can’t see it and feel properly guilty. That’s not fair. He’s not a nerd. Rocks are just cool! And he hasn’t been able to find flurexonomite, possibly the coolest of all space rocks that Coran has ever told him about, anywhere!

loverboy:

PLEASE JUST GET ME THE ROCK I WILL LOVE YOU FOREVER

mullet-head:

i cannot believe what i am reading with my own two eyeballs

mullet-head:

you

mullet-head:

who calls hunk and pidge a nerd every single day for any reason

Lance can’t help his defensive scoff.

“Everything okay, buddy?” Hunk asks, beyond amused. Lance shoves his phone in his pocket, or tries to, but he’s flustered, so somehow in his panic the phone goes flying out of his hand and onto the floor, face-up, messages clearly displayed.

Lance has never moved so quickly in his life.

He scrambles to the floor faster than he can even register he’s doing it, rolling right off the couch and throwing himself at the device. Unfortunately, Pidge reaches it first, scooping it up with a cackle and tossing it to Hunk.

“Read it out loud!”

“No!” Lance screeches, lunging after the device. Hunk is quick, though, standing on top of the cushions and holding the phone far out of his reach.

“‘Wish you were here, Dropout —’” he starts, gleeful.

“Stop! Shut up! That was a typo!” He attempts to climb Hunk to no avail; the man simply holding him away with one big arm. He’s not even struggling.

Lance knows how embarrassing some of those messages are. He cannot let them see the light of day. The time has come for drastic measure.

Somehow anticipating Lance’s impending violence, Hunk tosses the phone to Allura, who catches it easily and runs to the other couch.

“‘Saw someone dressed in all black on our last diplomatic mission and thought of your emo ass,’” Allura recites.

Lance screams, collapsing to the floor. He won’t be able to wrestle his phone away from her. She could kill him with a toothpick, probably.

He is doomed.

Allura clicks a few buttons and then laughs particularly evilly, making something ice cold shoots through Lance’s veins.

She hasn’t found his notes app, has she?

He can’t risk it. If anyone finds out what he’s written on there — oh, God, there are angsty song lyrics. About Keith. He is going to die. He is going to melt into a puddle of humiliated goo. This cannot happen.

With an ear-splitting war cry, he jumps to his feet, sprinting at her at tops speeds and tackling her to the ground. Before she can react, he yanks the phone from her hand and scrambles away at the speed of light. He dashes out of the common room before anyone can stop him, speeding to his room and locking the door behind him. He walks over to his bed and flops onto it, screaming into his pillow as loudly as he can, face the colour of a red star going supernova and just as hot.

“Every part of being alive is a prison,” he laments to no one. He vows to wallow in his own self-pity for all of eternity.

His phone buzzes.

He gets up to check it so fast he honestly has to take a moment to consider if being this gay is truly worth it.

mullet-head:

video.attachment

He brightens. Two videos in one day?!

Being this gay is worth it, apparently!

“You are truly the biggest nerd I know,” video Keith tells him solemnly. His indigo eyes are bright in amusement — soft, even. He takes two steps and then bends down — Lance keeps his eyes firmly on his friend’s face, he does, he does — and picks up the brown, dusty rock.

Lance heart skips a beat when he realizes it’s the exact right rock, the first time. Keith must have looked very carefully at the photo to get the right rock, for all his teasing. The rock is as tiny as a pinky nail, and it doesn’t exactly stand out.

God, Lance loves him so fucking much.

Video Keith slips the rock into his pocket. “You’re lucky you have me, you goober.”

The familiar banter makes Lance smile wider. It took he and Keith a long time and a lot of understanding to come to the point where they are now, the familiarity, the comfort he knows Keith must feel around him to let his guard down so blatantly, to be so transparently teasing and playful.

It makes his heart hurt, a little. He wishes there wasn’t a screen and a bajillion miles between them.

———

The worst part about the Blades, Keith thinks, is that there’s absolutely zero in between. He’s either bored out of his mind, polishing his sword while patrolling some random supply station, or he’s running for his life, barely making it out of an exploding Galra warship in time to keep all his limbs. There are no middle moments, no time for him to be anything but praying for death to at least put him out of his mind-numbing misery or praying to make it out of a situation alive. No family meals, no strange space mall supply runs, no training with Altean superhumans.

He misses his family.

But he knows he can’t go back. At least not permanently. He made this decision for a reason, and that reason is more important to him than a little bit of boredom or some measly mortal peril.

(Lance is more important to him than a little bit of boredom or some measly mortal peril.)

He sighs as he stares at the bunk above him, tracing the shadows of the bed for the zillionth time. He’s not tired at all, but there’s fuck else for him to do in between now and his next mission. He’s already trained all day today, and there’s only so much he can do with a sword before he wants to put it through his own head.

He misses training with a partner.

He shifts around, looking for his phone. It’s late, and he can’t text Lance — the dumbass is in a healing pod right now because he pulled a Keith and tried to fight a nine foot tall Galran commander with his own two hands to cover for someone — but maybe he can send him a couple messages, anyway. Just for when he wakes up.

It’s not like he has anything better to do.

He leans over as far as he feasibly can in his bunk, trying to reach his uniform. He manages to hook his finger around the sleeve, pulling it closer until he can reach his pocket. He thinks he left his phone in the right one, if he can just pinch the corner —

His hand runs over something small and rough, and he stills.

He pulls out a rock, and for a minute he’s confused — he just washed this thing and he’s been on base for three days, how the hell did a rock get in there — then it hits him.

He smiles. This is Lance’s dorky rock.

He leans back onto the mattress, holding the rock out in front of him. It sparkles slightly in the low light of the barracks, it’s many minerals catching the glow of the Balmeran crystals. It looks like a tiny little jewel in his hands, like a sparkling piece of amber.

Like Lance’s eyes.

Immediately he’s embarrassed with himself for thinking it. It’s so — it’s such a fucking gooey thing to think, to compare this sparking crystal to the deep brown of his teammate’s eyes. It’s not even the right brown, anyway. This rock is on the lighter side — Lance eyes aren’t as ambery orange. In the right shadowy lighting, they’re more of a black, so endlessly dark that you could lose yourself in them, that you could be swallowed right up in the look.

Not always, though. Keith lifts the rock up a little higher, holding it right in front of one of the crystals, and squints, letting his eyesight go blurry.

Once, when they were on a planet startlingly like Earth, Keith and Lance snuck off from a gala and ran to the beach to watch the sunset. Lance has smiled so wide, then, squishing his whole face, and when the golden rays of the settling sun had hit his eyes, they melted into a honeyed amber the exact same shade of the crystal. Keith remembers his mouth going dry, his mind going completely blank. He’d been so starstruck by the sight that he hadn’t even dared to breathe.

Lance had thrown sand at him for staring, and cackled as Keith cussed him out.

Keith pulls his blanket up to his chin, smiling. He closes his eyes, rhythmically rubbing the roughened crystal.

He falls asleep faster than he ever has before.

———

The castle is buzzing with excitement.

Most of its resident are too excited even for words. Breakfast is a mess, everyone bouncing in their seats, grinning so wide they can barely eat. Pidge inhales her food so fast she chokes. Hunk sporks himself in the nose, not paying attention.

It’s visiting day.

In less than two vargas, Keith is going to land a pod in the hangar, here to stay for two full days. One of those days will be a mission, sure, but after that they’ll have several hours to just hang out with their friend for a while, catch up, remember how much they miss him. It’s exhilarating.

They all gather in the hangar when he messages to say he’s close, practically vibrating in place. None of them speak, too pumped for words. They all watch the doors with wide eyes, reading to sprint the moment they open and Keith lands safely.

Only, one of them is too impatient to wait that long.

“Keith!” Lance cries, sprinting forward when the pod is a foot from the ground. Before the pod even lands, the hatch is thrown open, and Keith comes tumbling out, half falling to the floor.

“Lance!”

They crash into each other so hard it’s a miracle they manage to stay standing, embracing so tightly it has to be painful.

“You know, I was once married,” Coran remarks. “I went on a two-decaphoebe exploratory mission in that time. When I returned, I was not embraced that tightly.”

“That’s because you didn’t have an intensely homoerotic rivalry and then a weird half-friendship half-romantic relationship you refuse to acknowledge as such that racketed up your sexual tension to levels that cannot be recorded,” Shiro explains.

Four pairs of eyes blink at him.

“Nobody is as gay as they are,” he simplifies.

“Well, gay or not, I’ve lost patience. Lance does not get to hog all the Keith time, not on my watch.” Hunk marches towards the couple (couple of besties) and lifts them both off the ground in a hug that looks to have rearranged their spinal cords. “Keith! Buddy! We missed you!”

The rest of the team rushes in soon after, hugging and holding and generally just piling Keith with all the love they’ve pent up in his absence. Keith is bright red by the end of it, but visibly pleased, obviously flattered.

“I missed y’all too,” he says. “Seriously. Blades aren’t the same.”

With a herculean amount of strength, they manage to pull away to give Keith some space, heading towards the briefing room to prepare for their mission. They have a fleet to destroy, after all, and an Empire to cripple.

And, of course, the faster they complete their mission, the more time they can spend together with no obligations looming over their heads.

They debrief quickly, making sure not to miss any important information but determined not to dilly dally. They split up to suit up, then run off to their respective hangars, ready and rearing to go. Keith lingers for a second next to Lance.

“Good luck, Sharpshooter.”

Lance grins. “I don’t need it, Samurai. I’m going to kick your ass.”

“Wrong ass to be kicking, dontcha think?”

“Oh, shut up.”

“Keith, you’re with me,” Shiro reminds him, when neither fool looks to be focusing on the impending mission, gently knocking his brother’s shoulders.

Keith nods. “Yeah, coming.” He jogs away from Lance, flashing him one last smile. As he turns to corner, he pulls out the crystal from his pocket, gently pressing it to his lips before slipping it back where he got it.

“What’s that?” Shiro asks, gesturing to the pocket.

Keith looks shifty, like he was caught doing something he shouldn’t. “Uh, just a good luck charm.”

“Since when do you believe in luck?”

Keith shrugs. “Since I started feeling lucky, I guess.”

Far behind them, stopped to tie his bootlace, Lance stares at where the brothers disappeared into the Black Lion’s hangar, wide-eyed.

He recognises that rock.

———

Several hours later, six paladins dock back on the castle, exhausted but satisfied.

“Man, I missed having a full team. That mission was way less horrible than usual,” Pidge says.

“Indeed,” Allura agrees tiredly.

“Almost like we had a good luck charm,” Lance whispers to himself, too quiet for anyone else to hear.

Shiro smiles at them all. “You did great, team. This was by far the most successful mission we’ve had in months.” He turns his smile to Keith in particular, who grins right back. “We missed you, buddy.”

“Missed you too,” Keith murmurs.

“We’ll have plenty of time to catch up tomorrow,” Coran says. “Right now we are all exhausted. Off to bed, my dears.”

They all comply without protest, stumbling out of the bridge and down the halls to their rooms. Keith and Lance walk together. It makes Lance smile, remembering when they used to walk each other to bed, everyone else long asleep, stupid tired after a late night of planning. He doesn’t miss the stress, but he does miss leading with Keith, more than he’d like to admit.

“Hey, wait,” Keith says as they approach their bedroom doors, hand on Lance bicep to stop him.

“What’s up?”

“I, uh, have something for you.” He digs around in his pockets, looking panicked for a moment when he can’t find whatever it is he’s looking for, then visibly relieved when his fist encloses around it. He holds it out to Lance, who accepts it without question. Onto Lance’s palm he drops a sparking brown crystal.

“The flurexonomite,” Lance says, grinning.

Keith rocks back on his heels. “Yeah. I’ve been keeping it safe, you nerd.”

Lance looks up at him softly, unable to summon any playful exasperation at the tease. “Thank you, Keith.”

Keith smiles softly at him. “‘Course.” He puts his hand on his lockpad, opening the sliding door. “Night, Bluebell.”

“Goodnight, Willie Nelson.”

———

The next day is as crowded and energy-filled as expected. To avoid fights over Keith-time, the paladins had made a schedule: most of the day will be spent all together, but each person gets one designated hour of one-on-one time to do as they please. Keith gets dragged from person to person, blushing every time someone grumbles about not having enough time, from sparring with Shiro, swimming with Lance, and painting his nails with Allura.

He cries four separate times. It’s nice to remember how loved he truly is.

As days tend to do, however, it eventually comes to an end. Supper is a somewhat bittersweet affair, everyone knowing that once it’s over, Keith has to head back to his pod, and they won’t see him again for weeks, even months.

They try to make the most of it.

Hunk and Lance cook up something to honour the occasion, Pidge at the kitchen door with Lance’s gun to prevent Shiro, Coran, and Keith himself from so much as looking at the food so they don’t fuck it up somehow. Allura serves her solemn duty as taste-tester, ensuring all food is fit for a royal feast.

It’s amazingly thoughtful, even though Pidge is way too trigger happy. Keith cries again halfway through supper, and half the table joins him.

By the time the team walks him to his pod, they’re all pretty cried out, and determined to put on a happy face. They all hug Keith for way too long and with way too much force, each making him swear to call and text frequently, and to not do stupid things or get himself killed. Keith promises to do one of those things.

Eventually they all, with very knowing and smug looks, wave goodbye and head out, leaving Lance and Keith alone. Both pointedly pretend that they’re not embarrassed about it.

“I have something for you,” Lance says, when Shiro finally exits.

Keith glances at his gigantic care package of collective gifts from the rest of the team, raising an amused eyebrow. “Will I have space for it? The barracks at the Blade are small as shit, you know.”

Lance huffs a laugh, nervous smile pulling at his lips. “It’s, uh, pretty small. Promise.”

He takes a deep breath, steeling himself, then grabs something out of his pocket, holding his fist out to Keith. In his outstretched palm, a mirror of the night before, he drops a silver chain, attached onto a small —

A small, brown stone.

The flurexonomite.

“Good luck charm,” Lance explains quietly. He hesitates for a moment, then powers on. “And a piece of me to carry with you. If you want it.”

For a moment Keith gapes at the precious thing in his palm, the chain Lance must have made by hand sometime when Keith was hanging out with the rest of the team today. It’s simple, just the chain and the rock, but to Keith it’s more valuable than all the universe’ riches put together. To him it’s everything. To him it’s a message.

It is, without even a sliver of a doubt, a manifestation of Lance’s feelings for him. Of his feelings for Lance, too, having picked up the stone at all.

Keith decides to hell with the waiting. To hell with the war, with the consequences, with the long-distance. He grabs Lance’s face in his hands and kisses him as hard and fast as he has been wanting to for longer than he’s willing to admit.

“I fucking love you so much,” he mutters against soft, ful lips. He feels Lance’s smile.

“Yeah no shit, stupid. I gathered that when you kissed the rick I begged you to pick up for me before a mission, like it was a picture of your sweetheart in World War Two.”

Keith huffs, but can’t resist kissing him again. “Are you physically incapable of saying I love you back like a normal person, you dickhead?”

Lance laughs loudly enough to disrupt the kiss. “Yes.” A beat. “I love you too, mulletbrain. If that wasn’t abundantly clear.”

Keith smiles, kissing him one last time before pulling away. “It was.”

He lets Lance clasp the necklace around his neck, relishing in the touch of Lance’s cold fingers on his skin, committing the feeling to memory.

“I’ll miss you,” he says from the pilot seat. “I’ll call you.”

“If you don’t, I’ll fly Red to the Blades and kick your ass,” Lance informs him.

Keith feels like his heart is going to burst. “I don’t doubt it.”

When he finally takes off, castle shrinking to a dot behind him, the weight of his good luck charm around his neck makes leaving feel like less of a goodbye.

[damthosefandoms]

Jumbled

(ao3 link)

Summary:

RIP Sodapop Curtis, you would’ve loved having an IEP/504 Plan.

(AKA, Soda struggles in school his whole life, and doesn’t understand why, because it’s the 1950s and 60s and getting a diagnosis for a learning disability isn’t exactly on the table. Neither is the scaffolding and support he really needs.)

Sodapop Curtis was the type of kid who sat at the kitchen table for hours on end crying over math homework until his dad got home from work and struggled to explain it to him. All that effort, and then he’d always inevitably lose it somewhere between the kitchen table that night and his teacher’s hand the next morning and all that effort would be for nothing.

Soda was five years old when he started kindergarten, at the tail-end of the summer of ‘56. He remembers his mom comforting him the night before, when he cried because he was going to miss Ponyboy who wasn’t old enough for school yet and because Darry was going into fourth grade and would be on the other side of the school all day, and Soda would never get to see him. He remembers pouting because Keith Mathews, his and his brothers’ collective best friend from down the street was going into first grade after promising Soda last year that he’d get in a lot of trouble so he could stay and do kindergarten with him (he lied).

And then Soda was just plain miserable, sitting there on the bus sandwiched between Keith and a boy a little younger than Sodapop named Johnny Cade (who lives two doors down from the Mathews’ house and Soda never sees because his parents are mean and keep him inside all day), because Darry decided he was “too cool” to sit with his horse-crazy kid brother in favor of the big kids whose mommies don’t make them wash their hair when it’s dirty and greasy and walk around with those little black switch-combs and pretend they’re the coolest kids on planet earth, ‘cause one day those combs will swap out for blades and they will be.

Probably because they are, but Sodapop doesn’t know that yet—right now he doesn’t really know or care about grease or what side of town he lives on. He is six years old and the only thing on Soda’s radar right now is that Mama promised they’d save up for him to go to horseback riding camp next summer, and that’s his biggest dream. He wants to be a rodeo legend or win the Kentucky Derby or something. He hasn’t quite decided yet. He figures he has time to parse out the specifics—he just wants to ride a horse.

They get to school, and after a particularly pushy reminder that Mama told him at the bus stop this morning to make sure Soda gets to his classroom alright, Darry points his little brother toward the Kindergarten wing. Soda takes Johnny Cade’s hand in his because he found out on the bus that Johnny is going to have the same teacher as him, and they push through the hallway of their elementary school to find Mrs. Moran’s Room Four.

Soda very quickly learns that not every kid goes into kindergarten equally. Johnny is the smallest and the youngest kid in their grade, and Soda’s the second-youngest and it only takes a few weeks for Soda to think to himself that maybe that’s why he can’t read yet. He’ll be six soon, and that’s how old Evie is. Most of the kids who live on his side of town started kindergarten when they were six, he realizes. She sits next to Soda and she’s a good reader, but she’s one of the oldest kids in their grade and so of course she’s smarter than him. Then again, Sherri Valance, who is also in his class, isn’t going to be six until next spring—kind of like Johnny, and according to the birthday chart on the wall—he asked Mrs. Moran to read it to him one day when he couldn’t sleep during nap time and she very begrudgingly agreed, so he memorized everyone’s birthdays and how old they’d be turning because why not, right?—but Sodapop finds out that she went to preschool.

He didn’t go to preschool. He doesn’t know anyone who did. He remembers Mama talking to Dad about preschool for Ponyboy this year, but Dad said something about “expensive” and Soda stopped listening ‘cause they always get sad or angry when that word comes up.

Sherri Valance can read and she’s got pretty red hair and a backpack that’s not even a hand-me-down, and she went to preschool. So did all her friends in Room Three. Soda doesn’t know anybody in Room Three but he knows that the kids his friends know in there didn’t go to preschool. Timmy Shepard was in Room Three last year with Keith. He didn’t go to preschool either; heck, neither did Keith. But they can both read now, and they went to first grade, so Sodapop figures he didn’t miss out on too much.

Until it’s the end of the year and he still can’t read. Well, you don’t need to read to go to horse camp. Soda doesn’t nap a single time that year, either. He spends his precious kindergarten naptime not-reading the book Mrs. Moran gives him to keep him busy and picking at his cot when she snaps at him to be quiet. Mrs. Moran decided the day she read his first name off the attendance sheet that she didn’t like him, and Sodapop Curtis did not like her either.

First grade is so much better and yet so, so much worse.

Soda has a very hard time on his first day, because he misses his mom, and his dad, and Ponyboy, who begged to go to school too this year but he’s still too little at only four years old and Mama’s doing her best to get him reading now. Darry is in fifth grade and seems even farther away, and Soda doesn't have recess with Keith and Tim’s grade this year, and Johnny’s in Room Seven making new friends. Evie’s in Room Eight, and Soda’s trapped alone in Room Nine. Sherri’s still in his class. On the third day of school, Soda decides her hair reminds him of cherries. She laughs, and it sticks.

The best and brightest part of first grade is his teachers. He was put in Mrs. Larkin’s room, and she’s amazing; but when he gets there on the first day, there are two teachers in the room. Miss Luft, it’s explained, is a student teacher, which means she’s learning about first grade just like they are. She’s learning how to teach and they’re learning how to learn.

Sodapop still doesn’t even know the alphabet. He doesn’t know his sounds and he can’t keep his letters straight. Mrs. Larkin has him sit with Miss Luft when he tries to write a small moment story. She draws lines in marker on his paper for him to write each word on. Every line she has to make longer than the last because he can barely fit two letters on it, and he’s pretty sure she can’t read what he wrote any more than he can.

But Miss Luft always calls him capable. She has to explain to Sodapop once a week what that word means. He does his best to remember, but he has a lot of things to remember and it gets lost in the jumble somewhere.

He hears Mrs. Larkin and Miss Luft talking, sometimes. They hide their words behind stacks of paper and turned heads but he can hear them anyway.

Reversals. Attention span. Off the wall.

“And he’s low,” he hears Mrs. Larkin say one morning. “Mrs. Bolan’s got one that low too, but at least hers is quiet.”

He has no clue what any of it means. It’s all teacher talk, he isn’t supposed to get it, and he knows they aren’t trying to hurt his feelings, but hearing it makes him feel bad anyway because they don’t talk about other kids like they do him. They don’t get those sad looks on their faces about other kids, either.

“Does your brain get jumbled sometimes, Soda?” Miss Luft asks him one day when he’s sitting at his desk, eyes red and puffy from crying because he wasn’t allowed to go to gym class unless he finished his spelling worksheet. But he can’t. He’s been sitting here for forty-five minutes, ever since they got back from recess, and he can’t. Do. It. He tries to write his letters how his teachers have shown him but they just won’t appear in the place he wanted them to, like his pencil won’t obey him when he writes. He tries to start at the top line and somehow his pencil puts itself at the bottom.

He tries to write the letters anyway, but they don’t look like he thinks they’re supposed to, and he doesn’t even know what that means because every time he looks at a b or d, or m or n or h, or—god forbid someone tells him to write the letter k. It just looks like a stick.

His numbers are just as bad. Someone’s always reminding him to put the one before the seven instead of the other way around, but he doesn’t remember writing seventy-one, he can’t even count that high!

“Jumbled?” He says in a shaky voice, still trying to calm down.

“Like mixed up. Like it’s hard to think ‘cause you got too much going on in there?” She taps his forehead and he half-heartedly giggles.

“Yeah, it gets real jumbled. All the time,” Soda says.

“I feel like that sometimes too,” Miss Luft says, and she sighs. “Like I can’t think at all some days. Like my brain shuts off without me tellin’ it to because there’s too much goin’ on and I can’t focus, and just answering one question gets overwhelming. It’s too much. But it’ll be okay, Soda, I know you got it in you. I believe in you, you hear? If I could do it, so can you.”

She doesn’t say much else, but Sodapop has never felt more seen. He cries and clings to her on her last day at their school, hating that she only got to stay for ten weeks. Mrs. Larkin is amazing and he loves being in her class, but the year just drags on and on, and towards the end of the year Soda can’t decide if school is getting harder or he’s getting dumber. Maybe it’s both.

He gets to go to horseback riding camp that summer, and he meets a kid named Dallas who he thinks was in Room Seven with Johnny. Dallas is mean. Soda finds out he’s a whole year older than him, which confuses him because Dallas is in his same grade at school.

“An’ how come I never seen you at recess or nothin’?” Soda says one day at lunch. He’s got a bologna sandwich, because his mom swears by cold cuts. Dally stole an apple out of their counselor’s lunch and doesn’t seem to have anything to eat otherwise.

“They don’t let me out much,” Dallas says. “S’what happens when you spend all your time in the principal’s office.”

“Why?”

“I dunno. Just feels good to get in trouble sometimes.”

Soda doesn’t get him, but he likes horses, and so they become friends anyway. He and Dally start getting into trouble together, and Soda kind of starts to feel like he belongs somewhere. It takes his mind off the upcoming school year, which is great, because whenever he thinks about school, he gets butterflies in his stomach.

Dallas is in Room Twelve with Johnny when they get to second grade. Usually Soda keeps track of what classes all his friends end up in, but this year, it doesn’t matter anymore. Because second grade changes everything.

Mrs. Foster is ancient. She taught Soda’s mom once upon a time, and she had Darry in her class a few years earlier. Soda thought she’d be a great teacher because Darry loved her, but Soda can’t bring himself to even pretend to like her. She asks him what his parents were on when they named him.

“On what?”

Mrs. Foster just rolls her eyes and tells him to take a seat in the back where he clearly belongs. She lets him know that she’ll be calling him by his middle name this year. At least “Patrick” is “dignified.” Whatever that means.

Later, Soda can’t keep his words from erupting out of his mouth like a volcano during morning meeting, and she sends him back to his seat with a glare.

Five minutes later Steve Randle gets sent back to his seat for shouting out, too. He sits next to Soda in the back. He’s hiding a little red toy car in his desk and they play together. Mrs. Foster doesn’t seem to notice or care. She doesn’t call on Soda a single time that year, even when he does know the answer.

She also doesn’t like that Sodapop writes with his left hand. By the time he gets to third grade, he flinches and corrects himself every time he goes to pick up his pencil. He hopes this’ll solve the problem, but it never does.

Soda struggles the whole year. Steve doesn’t, and when Soda asks when his birthday is—he always needs to know, he needs to be able to sing happy birthday to all of his friends—Steve tells him he was born in April, the same year as Soda. Soda tells him how he can’t find a single pattern proving why he’s dumb, ‘cause age doesn’t seem to matter. Sherri aka Cherry is younger than him but smarter. She went to preschool. Johnny’s younger too, but he didn’t. Steve’s older and smarter but he tells Soda that he didn’t do preschool either.

“I did kindergarten twice, though,” Steve tells him. “Well, the first couple weeks anyway. Mom and Dad wanted me to start school when I was five but then I had to not do the whole year ‘cause my mom got sick and we were too busy and then she died so I stayed home with Dad. I did kindergarten the next year when I was six. Now I got friends in third grade and in second grade.”

They agree that Soda’s going to be Steve’s best second-grade friend. They trade that little red car back and forth and Soda still can’t read very well but he’s better at it now—Mrs. Larkin worked extra hard with him after Miss Luft left to make sure he knew his letters and sounds.

Mrs. Foster doesn’t seem to care, because she pretends he doesn’t exist. It’s a miracle Sodapop gets to third grade.

But it doesn’t matter. School doesn’t matter. Over time Soda just starts to remind himself that he has Steve, and Steve is smart, he’ll help him. Soda will get through this. Sure, after third grade Johnny gets held back, and it’s only a matter of time until Sodapop has to repeat a grade too, but… but he’ll be okay. He will. Someday a switch will go off and his brain will work right and he’ll be able to do it. He hasn’t failed yet, that has to mean something, right?

He hasn’t failed yet but no one has noticed he struggles, not his teachers, not his friends, no one. Maybe Miss Luft, but he’ll never see her again. He hopes she still thinks he’s capable. He had written in the book their class made for her that his favorite thing about her was that she believed in him.

As he gets older, he wonders if she even remembers his name.

But then again, he spends every weeknight crying at the kitchen table, physically unable to get past the first question on his homework sheets. In fourth grade Mama starts clearing everything off the table to help him focus, but he picks at the crumbs left behind from last night’s dinner, peels up the dried finger-paint Pony splattered everywhere, sits and rocks back and forth with each tick of the clock.

And every day after about an hour of making up little songs and fiddling on his paper until it’s spotted with holes, he starts crying, because he can’t bring himself to do his homework. And then Pony’s in school, finishing his homework before him, and Pony is just as much of a daydreamer, so that kind of stings. Darry has seven different classes to do homework for, on top of football practice, but he gets all his work done before Soda’s even started. His mom tries to help but it makes him cry even harder, ‘cause she doesn’t get it, it’s not about the homework it’s about his brain. It’s about Soda’s brain not working like everyone thinks it should.

It’s about his big, dumb, broken brain.

Johnny can’t read either, but he can focus, he can control his emotions and not cry or scream or stomp his feet at every little sound or touch, or overreact to things that aren’t a big deal at all, he doesn’t start throwing throngs off his desk when he’s mad, and he always has a reason why he does things. Steve can’t control his mouth or pay attention, but he can read and always turns in his homework on time. Keith never does his homework ever but he’s practically a genius compared to Sodapop.

Ponyboy brings home his first-ever spelling test and their mom sticks it on the fridge with a magnet.

That bright-red 100% is going to haunt Soda’s dreams.

Every night Dad gets home at 6:00 to find Soda still sitting at the table, eyes red and puffy, and tears staining his homework and the table. He chides him for the new mark Soda’s left in the table’s surface from digging the eraser-end of his pencil into it. Soda deflates, he didn’t mean to do that, it’s just—what else is he supposed to do? He’s not allowed to get up until his homework’s done.

Darrel Curtis Sr. is a loving father and a very easy-going guy, until he’s standing there over Soda’s shoulder holding his hand—his left hand, which Soda’s grateful for but also it feels so wrong after his experience in third grade—forcing him to write in the answers because he just doesn’t get that writing it is only part of the problem. His dad loves him, he’s gentle with his touch but every inch of Soda’s skin feels like it’s on fire when his dad makes him write.

It’s not his dad’s fault, but Darrel Sr. is only human, and he hates yelling at his kids, but he has to raise his voice to try to get Sodapop to hear him above his scream-crying because it’s the only way to help him learn.

Sometime when Soda’s in seventh grade, Ponyboy asks him what his problem is. Homework’s not that bad.

“I don’t like it anymore than you do, Soda, but I just don’t think it’s worth crying over, you dig?”

Soda throws his pencil at his brother, slams his history book shut, and walks out the back door. Ponyboy watches in confusion. When their mom comes in to check on them, he tells her Sodapop’s overreacting again.

Dally, who had moved away after third grade to New York but came back just in time to start seventh grade with Soda, finds him at the Pershing Park playground sitting on the swings. It’s where Soda ends up when he’s hopelessly overwhelmed by homework, or when the thought of school looms over him like a cartoon anvil. Something about pumping his legs and willing the swing to take him higher and higher takes away the sick feeling that the idea of popcorn reading Shakespeare in his fifth period English class gives him. Dally asks him if he wants to find something better to do, and a few hours later they wind up back at the Curtis house with busted knuckles and the beginnings of black eyes and they pour grease into Soda’s hair and grin at each other.

When Sodapop is sixteen years old, a sophomore in high school, his father finds him sitting at that same kitchen table, staring down over an assignment that’s asking him to write a thousand-word essay and Soda turns to his dad wordlessly, his throat is closing up, and his dad tells him to breathe.

But he can’t. He can’t. He’s going to be sick, he might actually throw up. He feels like he’s being stabbed in the chest. One thousand words. Sodapop can’t even count that high. He can’t even read Dr. Seuss. He can’t do this anymore.

“Dad, I want to drop out.”

“Aw, Pepsi-Cola,” his dad says gently that night, brushing Soda’s hair back and then pulling him into a hug, “I know you do. I’ve been talkin’ to your mother about it. We got the paperwork from the school. But I think you should think about it a little longer, alright?”

Soda agrees to try and finish out the year. His dad gets it.

His dad spent ten years listening to Soda cry over homework. His dad never called him dumb. His mom did what she could. But the only person in all his years of school who Soda ever knew really believed in him was Miss Luft, and she never came back.

He thinks maybe if he had more teachers like her, who believed in him and gave him extra help and supported him along the way, if there was something—something that made it so they had to listen to him, had to help him, had to accept that it wasn’t his fault he couldn’t read right, couldn’t focus, couldn’t control his mood swings or emotions or his volcano of a mouth… maybe he could’ve done better. Maybe if Mrs. Foster had let him write with his left hand, he could’ve figured it out.

Soda hopes one day they figure out what makes kids like him tick. What makes them struggle. He hopes one day that their schools will decide to help.

A few months after he talks to his dad, Sodapop finds the signed paperwork in his dad’s desk drawer. His parents have just been buried, and Soda can’t stop crying at the drop of a pin. He’s been skipping all his classes, but none of his teachers seem to care. It’s fine. He’s dumb anyway, a lost cause. They’ll just keep passing him up to the next grade without batting an eye at the fact that he never gets higher than a D+, no matter how hard he tries.

Sodapop will always be that one student who slips through the cracks.

He looks over the form to drop out. He figures the school will take it, if he pitches it to them as a last-will kind of situation. He doesn’t even need to ask Darry to give the okay, because Dad signed it months ago, like he had already known the decision Sodapop would make.

And he did. It’s dated that same night Soda sat at the kitchen table feeling like the world was ending and like he was dying because of a goddamn required word count.

But he knows Miss Luft believes in him, and he knows what his dad wanted, so he finishes out the school year—passes Gym and Auto Shop, too.

Soda hopes he made them proud. And now, he’ll never have to worry about explaining the dried tears on his spelling homework ever again.

[only-lonely-star]

I loved Karol so much!!!! Could I request a fic where she does get to go with Keith to the Curtis house and she's so excited so she doesn't tell him she's not feeling well but as the night goes on she feels more and more sick until she's getting sick in the bathroom and Keith is panicking while the Curtis brothers help her out and try and take care of her?

⁠♡⁠ ੈ✩‧₊˚ ੈ✩ Unexpected Illness ੈ✩‧₊˚ ੈ✩ ♡

Warnings - Vomiting (I didn’t describe it IN DETAIL but it’s mentioned!)

Summary - Karol couldn’t risk missing out on movie night ☹️

Author’s Note - Karol is Two-Bit’s little sister! I’m not quite sure if I could classify as her being an OC. She’s mentioned in the novel, but she was never given any background information on. I sort of shifted her into this adorable little girl the gang all has a soft spot for <3. Thank you for the request lovely! Enjoy 😇

Word Count - 3.1k.

‧₊˚ ੈ✩ ੈ✩‧₊˚ ੈ✩ ੈ✩‧₊˚ ੈ✩ ੈ✩‧₊˚ ੈ✩ ੈ✩‧₊˚ ੈ✩ ੈ✩‧₊˚

Keith extended his hand out for Karol, her smile lopsided and unsure as she latched onto him. Her hand wrapped around his pinky as she held on tight. She was silent. It was unusual. Just last night she was jumping up and down with excitement when Keith allowed her to tag along with him to the Curtis’ place.

Keith walked with her at a slow pace as they headed for his car. The chilly breeze intensified as the sun began to set. Leaves crinkled underneath the heel of his boots. His feet came to a halt as he stood on the chipped pavement beside it. Keith unlocked the backseat door and glanced down at Karol. She looked completely off. “You okay, kid? Thought you were excited.”

Karol nodded and brushed his question off. Her face was pale, and her eyes looked drained from all the energy she typically had. Karol swayed from side to side. “I am, I still wanna go,” she assured in a lifeless voice - a stark contrast from her usual high-pitched squeak.

Keith’s gaze lingered on her for a moment, dismissing her seemingly tired energy as nothing but a need for a nap. He scooped Karol up from her underarms and hoisted her onto the torn leather behind the driver’s seat. “You seem out of it, you sure you wanna go?”

Karol nodded vigorously as she struggled to shove the seatbelt into the slit. “Yes! I wanna go!”

Keith sighed and closed the door before heading to sit behind the wheel. He started the engine and tilted the rearview mirror to look at Karol. Her head rested against the seatbelt as if she were lounging on some hammock. Her pigtails fell loose at the top of her head, her eyebrows furrowed as she clutched her stomach. He shook his head subtly and drove off towards the Curtis household. He let the windows down and cruised along the street with the wind rustling the dried, brown leaves that scattered everywhere atop the hood of his car. Karol was eerily silent the entire way there.

“I miss Darry,” she whined, her voice a low croak. Karol shifted around and nervously licked her lips.

“He misses you too. You’ll see him and you’ll be all happy and energetic again, I know you,” Keith replied knowingly, a hint of sarcasm in his voice. Taking another quick glance at Karol, she was curled up in the backseat with an expression of worry. She looked almost like she was in pain. Keith cocked a brow. “Karol. What’s wrong?” he demanded as he pulled over onto the side of the street beside the wired fence of the Curtis residence.

She looked pale as ever. Karol lifted her head with annoyance, “Nothing! I just want Darry!”

It was a sweet thing to witness, but it was stressful for Keith to try and navigate what the root of her strange behavior was. “Kid, I don’t know what I’m going to do with you,” he teased as he opened the door to help Karol out of the car. He placed her back down on the pavement, his hands prying apart two strands of her pigtails to tighten them. “There. Now smile.” Keith demonstrated a cheesy grin for Karol, hoping she’d lighten up.

Karol grinned, mirroring Keith’s expression with genuine emotion. Her cheeks rose as color flushed her skin once again. She was back to her usual grinning self.

Keith slowly twisted open the doorknob, ushering Karol to keep quiet beside him. The hinges creaked ever so slightly. “Come on in!” a voice called out, sending a grin straight to Karol’s lips.

“Darry! Darry, it’s me!” she squealed, running straight for the voice. She sprinted past Ponyboy and Sodapop’s shared bedroom until she saw Darry standing with his hands on his hips. She clung to his leg, her face pressed against his dark-wash denim which somehow smelled familiar and comforting.

Darrel chuckled, his hand patting the top of her head, just between her pigtails. “Hey, Karol,” he smiled downwards. “Where’s your brother at?”

Karol used her free hand to point to the door, Keith stepping forward with a pleased smile. “Boy, I never seen her light up like that,” he pointed out with an affectionate laugh.

Karol reluctantly let go of Darrel, her hands now clutching her tiny body close once again. She forced a smile, her eyes fixated on the ceiling as she exhaled deeply. Darrel glanced down at her movement and frowned softly. “Hey, Karol… Soda should be comin’ back with Ponyboy any minute now. You hungry?”

She nodded. Keith took a step closer to Darrel and leaned close to his ear as he spoke through a whisper. “I dunno what the hell happened, she was actin’ funny in the car.”

Darrel chewed the inside of his cheek in deep thought of how he could attempt to help the little girl. “She’s probably hungry, Two-Bit.” Darrel sighed in mild frustration. He ran his hand over Karol’s back as she seemingly held herself tighter. “Grab somethin’ from the kitchen and offer it to her.”

Keith took a step back and watched as Karol stifled a groan. “Come on,” he guided her towards the tiled floors of the kitchen. He opened a cabinet hanging above the off-white-colored counter. It creaked wide open and out fell a half-eaten box of saltine crackers. “If you’re hungry enough you’ll eat these,” he handed her the box dismissively.

Karol stood with the crackers in hand and grimaced. “I ain’t hungry for crackers,” she groaned.

“Then you ain’t really hungry.”

“Am too.”

“Are not.”

“Hey, Two-Bit, I didn’t know you were stoppin’ by,” Ponyboy broke in, scaring the daylights out of both the Matthew siblings. He greeted them with a smile.

Keith turned around and smiled. He reached out a hair to ruffle Ponyboy’s greased back tufts, but Ponyboy swerved him in the nick of time. “Shoot, kid. I figured Karol missed you guys. I brought her over and now look - she’s bein’ picky.” He pointed to the crackers in her hands.

She quickly set the box down on the floor. Karol shot a glare at Keith before tip-toeing over to Ponyboy. “Hi, Pony!” she beamed. She tugged on the hem of his t-shirt relentlessly.

“Hey,” he greeted back, resting his hand on her shoulder. She was quite smaller than him, the top of her head only reaching his thigh.

Sodapop hauled a bag of snacks on the dining table nearby. “Two-Bit, how you been, man?” Soda raised his hand and curled his fingers around Keith’s once they made contact. He shook his hand affectionately. He placed his hands on his knees and bent down to say hello to Karol.

Karol, wide-eyed and smiling, practically tried to climb her way up Sodapop’s legs like a tree. “Sody!” she yelped excitedly. Her cheeks flushed a bright hue of pink.

“Say, Two-Bit brought you over for movie night?” he asked with a smug grin as he tilted his head to face Keith.

Keith nodded and stuffed his hands into the pockets of his jeans. He clicked the heel of his boot against the floor. “Sure. She could use the quality time with y’all.”

“Pony, get some bowls for us,” Sodapop directed as he pointed to the overhead cabinets. He directed his attention to Karol once more. “Come on, you want a ride?”

Karol nodded excitedly. She waited for Sodapop to turn around until his hands were open by the side of his legs. “Up!” she hollered, jumping on his back and cradling his neck against her body. Sodapop’s wrists tucked under her knees and steadied her. She was beyond ecstatic to be on his back again. It had been a good minute since she had seen him, let alone receive a piggyback ride from him. Sodapop paced around the room, swerving and jumping just a few inches off the wooden floorboards. Karol shut her eyes as a swarm of despair took her over. “Stop! Put me down!” she pleaded as she squeezed his neck tighter.

Her discomfort alarmed Sodapop well enough to cause him to stop immediately. He set her down on the couch cushion gently. “I’m sorry, I thought you wanted a ride,” he spoke solemnly and apologetically.

Karol sat on the edge of the cushion with a displeased look. Her voice came out in a whiny moan, “I did…”

Sodapop tilted her chin up with his index finger, scanning her now pale face. He moved his hand to rest against her forehead, moving her wisps of baby hair aside. “You feel a bit hot, you sick or somethin’?” He flipped his hand over and pressed it against her forehead again.

Karol shook her head vigorously. No way she would admit the nagging churning in her stomach and get sent home. She would watch this damned movie with Keith and his friends if it meant she had to withstand it the rest of the evening. “No, I feel fine,” she exaggerated in hopes he would take her word for it.

“You runnin’ a fever, Karol?” Sodapop asked, an underlying tone of concern in his voice.

“Mm mm,” Karol shook her head, “I’m fine.” She assured him again to hopefully alter his opinion.

Sodapop sighed, heading for the doorway to his bedroom with a few strides. “Well here, if you get the chills just wrap yourself in it,” he directed as he handed her a quilted throw with different designs sewn together.

Karol looked up at him guiltily. “Don’t tell Keith. Please? I wanted to come see you… and now he won’t let me stay if you go tattle,” she pouted.

“No, I won’t say nothin’. You just ain’t feeling too good. Besides, we’re only watchin’ a movie.”

Ponyboy walked to the couch, each footstep swift and noiseless. “Popcorn…salted, butter,” he listed off as he set two big bowls down on the coffee table.

The buttered popcorn had heightened Karol’s nausea to a new level. She looked at the salted popcorn. “Can I have that one?”

Keith merrily sipped on his bottle of beer, making himself present in the conversation. “You love buttered popcorn, what the hell is the matter with you today?” He narrowed his eyes at his little sister. He sensed it now. Something was fishy.

Darrel followed behind Keith hurriedly with an arm full of plastic cups filled to the brim with Pepsi. He stopped once he reached the coffee table and set the cups down. “What’s wrong?” he asked as soon as he saw the worried looks and frowns on everyone’s faces.

“Something’s the matter with Karol,” Keith placed her on the spot as he pointed to her on the couch.

Soda’s eyes couldn’t stay locked with theirs. He cleared his throat nervously. Darrel shifted his gaze to land upon each boy, sizing them up suspiciously. “Spit it out. You know something,” he accused Sodapop.

He was right, his big-brother instincts were no match for Sodapop. He couldn’t keep a secret to save his life. “She just doesn’t feel good. She’ll be alright, watchin’ a movie ain’t gonna make her feel worse. Just let her be.”

Keith groaned. He took his kid sister’s health seriously. She was his responsibility whenever he took her out of the house, and right now he couldn’t help but feel frustrated she hadn’t notified him of her illness beforehand. “Karol, you serious right now?”

She sank into the cushion and attempted to hide underneath the blanket. “Didn’t mean to cause trouble,” she whimpered from underneath the quilt.

Darrel rested his hands on his hips. “Soda’s right, let the kid be.”

Keith’s lips straightened as he set the beer on the coffee table beside the popcorn bowls. “Karol, this is the one time you’re gettin’ let off the hook.”

She uncovered her face from the quilt, her hair now wild and frizzed up. “I know,” she sighed.

———————————————————————————

Snuggled beneath the quilt that she and Ponyboy had shared, her stomach began to churn. She could feel the bubbly sensation linger in the pit of her stomach, an unpleasant feeling if anything. She clutched her body closely. Ponyboy glanced down at her, a weighing feeling of dread nagging at him. He could sense something was terribly off now that she had curled herself back up into a ball.

Laughter erupted as the comedic relief character on the static screen cracked a joke. The boys’ deep chuckles rattled in Karol’s brain. She wasn’t feeling great in the first place, but now she was overstimulated and nauseous. The combination was a recipe for disaster. The saliva ran down her cheeks, and her throat tightened. She felt a similar sensation to eating sour candy which disturbed her deeply since she hadn’t eaten anything but popcorn. She sprung off of the couch, the quilt trapping her foot down. Karol kicked it off and stumbled for the bathroom.

The boys all twisted their heads in her direction. A collective gasp could be heard as she retched from down the hallway. The door was wide open. Darrel was first to go after her, peeling the blankets off his legs the second she ran off. He stood in the doorway of the bathroom and winced.

Karol was bent over the toilet, her eyes filled with anguish. Just as the other boys had come to assess the situation, the fluid made its way into the toilet bowl. They all turned their heads away in disgust as their initial reactions. Somebody had to help her whether they wanted to or not - Karol was just a kid, after all.

Keith stood with his eyes shut in utter shock. It was his fault she’d come along whilst still suffering from a stomach bug, even if he didn’t quite know that until now. He took the initiative and helped her over the toilet to ensure no mess was made. “Alright, let it out…it’s alright,” he reassured her softly. His hand soothingly caressed her back as she emptied herself entirely.

Ponyboy exhaled deeply to relax his nerves. He grabbed a spare washcloth from underneath the sink and dampened the corner. “Here, Karol let me…” he began gently, gesturing the towel for her lips as she came to a stopping point.

The poor girl was crying. Not only was she embarrassed, but she felt gross and belittled by the fluid the boys could all see. She allowed Ponyboy to wipe the skin around her mouth in gentle strokes.

Darrel had come back to see his kid brother tending to Karol in a way that settled his nerves. He had gone to the kitchen to fetch her some water. Panting from the quick trip to and from the kitchen sink, Darrel eased the cup into her hands. “Two hands… there you go…” he smiled softly as her grasp tightened around the cup.

Sodapop stood awkwardly, unsure of how to help. Keith shot him a glare as if he should be doing something to help out. He forced a cheesy grin as he then slowly walked to sit on the edge of the tub, just beside the toilet. “Karol…it’s okay. Everybody gets sick once in a while, you know. Me, Pony, Darry, your brother…everyone,” he tried to comfort her with a soft tone.

Keith pressed the handle on the toilet down to rinse away the mess remaining on the edges of the bowl. Karol had stopped her crying. She looked at the cup expectantly.

“Go on, rinse,” Darrel tried to instruct her, his tone coming off a bit harsher than expected.

Karol tilted the cup upwards and slipped some into her mouth. Her cheeks became full of it. She spit it back out into the clean water of the toilet. “It still feels gross,” she whined.

Soda changed glances with the others as he stood up authoritatively. “Look here,” he gestured for her, gently tapping her shoulder. Sodapop turned the sink on and scooped some into his hands. He sucked it into his mouth and demonstrated how to properly rinse her cheeks out. His eyes could be seen displaying the amusement his smile usually did. He transported the water from one cheek to the other before spewing it out in the sink. “Try it,” he nodded, pointing to the cup.

The other boys stepped back to allow her space to rinse. Karol let a giggle slip from her lips, sucking the water from the plastic cup. She kept eye contact with Sodapop as she remembered each movement his cheeks made. She swished it around, relief clear as day on her face as the gross feeling began to disappear. She spit it out into the sink and giggled with pleasure. “Like that?”

Sodapop nodded, extending both hands out for a hug. “Exactly! Feel better now? Or are you gonna get sick on me again?”

Karol shook her head, graciously accepting the hug. “Yes! I feel better now, my tummy don’t hurt anymore,” she grinned.

Keith sighed in relief. “I swear, Karol, you scared the life right out of me. Why didn’t you say you were feelin’ sick?”

“I just didn’t want to…to…” she paused as she felt all eyes on her. She nervously fidgeted with her fingers. “To stay home and not see anybody.”

A small ‘aw’ fell from Darrel’s lips as he squatted down to Karol’s level. “We could’ve rescheduled or somethin’, movie night could be any night.”

Ponyboy set the towel into the sink and filled it up with warm water. “Well, who’s to say you gotta go home? The worst already happened. You got sick, but it’s over now.”

Sodapop smiled at Ponyboy’s epiphany. “Yeah. Karol, you are more than welcome to stay, ain’t that right, Two-Bit?”

Keith couldn’t resist the pleading look in Karol’s eyes. He empathized with her and the traumatic events neither one of them had anticipated. Saying no would make her all the more upset. He sighed, “‘Course you can stay, Karol.”

Darrel grinned, reaching over to tickle her sides. “You should sit next to me in case you feel sick again, sound like a plan?”

Karol nodded, pushing his hands away as she uncontrollably giggled. Darrel tickled harder, teasing her affectionately. “Say it, come on,” he dragged on purposefully to catch a glimpse of the happy little girl he’d grown so fond of.

“Okay! I’ll sit with you!” Karol laughed as she squirmed around from the relentless tickling.

The boys helped her back to the sofa, resuming their attention back to the screen of the little black box. Huddled up against one another, the night became a memorable experience for both the Matthews siblings and Curtis brothers.

THANK YOU ALL FOR READING! 🤍

[alluraswifey]

Why he kinda…🫦😍

silly evil galra keith doodle ⭐️ !!!!!

:: close up + sketch ::

[beth--b]

The day started out normal enough.

Steve drove Robin to school, then went and did the open shift at Family Video.

Keith was a dick, the morning dragged on and Steve was counting down the minutes until he could clock out.

At least it was Friday.

As the day minutes and hours slowly crept by, Steve began to feel off.

He wasn't quite sure what was wrong exactly, he just knew he didn't feel quite right.

Nevertheless he continued on with his shift, watching the minutes tick by on the clock.

Finally he was done.

Pushing his sweaty hair off his face Steve clocked out, waved absently to Keith, and walked out into the warm Summer air.

Maybe that was the issue, he was too warm. Wouldn't be that surprising if Keith had turned down the air conditioning in the store just to be an asshole. That would explain why he was so warm, would explain the weird feeling in his stomach too.

Deciding that was the problem Steve headed to his car so he could go pick Robin up from school.

The drive to the high school was uneventful and Steve pulled into the parking lot just as the bell rang and students starting pouring out.

He rubbed at his eyes, he was wrecked but he had Robin, Eddie and the rest of the party coming over for movie night so after he picked Robin up they had to run past the store to grab snacks.

"Hey dingus, I see you survived the day at work without me,” Robin said as she practically threw herself into the passenger seat, throwing her bag onto the backseat.

"Hey Robs, sure did. I wasn't even mean to Keith once.”

"Holy shit that is impressive. Eddie wanted me to tell you he'd be ‘round with the kids about 5. We getting snacks now or later?”

"Now. Once I'm home I'd rather not go out again.”

"Sure thing, Melvad's it is then.”

Steve just nodded, putting the car in drive and pulling out of the school parking lot.

Robin started chatting away about what happened at school that day while Steve mostly just hummed every now and then and nodded when it seemed appropriate.

Honestly as long as people were leaving Robin, Eddie and the kids alone, Steve couldn’t care less about who was dating who and who was going to what college. Robin and Eddie, not to mention Nancy, were all about to graduate in a few short weeks. Eddie had been granted an exception on his absences while healing in the hospital and would finally graduate as the ‘hero of Hawkins’ after the feds spun a story that painted Eddie as the good guy who rescued Max from a serial killer.

He’d only been back at school a week and thankfully nobody had bothered him. After all the shit that had happened just a few short months ago Steve was nothing but happy for the guy. Their newfound relationship status might have something to do with that happiness as well.

Right now he wasn’t feeling very happy. Honestly that weird off feeling he had earlier was getting worse. His stomach was aching, nothing too terrible just enough to be uncomfortable, and he still felt too warm. Not to mention the fact he felt like he could happily pull over and have a nap in the middle of the afternoon. He didn’t know what was wrong with him today but he couldn’t let it ruin the night.

They all needed a night to just hang out and relax and he wasn’t going to let that fact that he was feeling a little out of sorts stop ruin the night.

He let Robin steer them through Melvad’s when they made it there, followed her lead on snacks and threw in just a few of the others favourite things, Max’s favourite chips and Eddie’s favourite chocolate bar.

Before he was really aware of it they were getting back in the car, Steve wincing as he sat back down.

Of course Robin would notice.

“You alright there dingus?” The words seemed normal enough, but he could see the concern in her eyes when he turned to look at her. He hated to see Robin worry, so Steve decided he needed to reassure her.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m alright, just moved wrong I guess.”

She looked doubtful for a brief moment before rolling her eyes. “Turning into an old man before my very eyes.”

“Hardy har har. Laugh it up. You’ll be a high school graduate soon too, and then you’ll be seen as a boring old adult just like me.”

She smacked his shoulder, “You take that back! I will not be boring or old! Anyway I’ll always be younger than you!”

The drive back to his place was short enough and soon they were getting out of the car and taking the snacks into the house. He’d already stocked up on beer for him and Eddie, Robin too if she wanted and grabbed some soda for the kids. They just needed to order some pizzas later and they’d be set.

They settled on the couch and turned on the TV, Robin rifling through the movie selection and picking one at random. She put it into the VRC and pressed play before moving back to sit on the couch.

By this point Seve was feeling quite sore. His side was hurting in a dull but persistent way and he would honestly have gone and climbed into bed if he could.

He needed to wake himself up before Eddie and the kids arrived.

“Hey Robbie, I’m gonna go take a shower before everyone else gets here. You good here?”

She nodded absently, caught up in whatever movie she’d put on. Steve honestly had no idea what they were even watching. He’d been paying no attention at all.

Standing up proved to be a bigger chore than it should have been and he found himself holding his side as he hauled himself off the couch.

Robin glanced at him, but before she could say anything Steve managed to get himself up and quickly headed out of the room and upstairs. He wasn't sure what was wrong but he was starting to wonder if there was more to it than he first thought.

xxxx

Steve took his time in the shower. By the time he'd made it up the stairs and to his room he felt nauseous and his side was throbbing. He really hoped he wasn't getting a stomach bug.

So in hopes that a nice long shower would help ease the pain he stayed under the warm spray far longer than he normally would if Robin was over. He was tempted to sit down on the floor but he was just a little worried he wouldn't be able to get back up again.

Eventually he convinced himself to turn the water off. Eddie would be there soon, which meant the kids would also be there soon. He needed to get the snacks organised, and grab some extra pillows and blankets so everyone could get comfortable while they watched movies.

He stepped out of the shower, wincing as he bent down to dry his lower body.

Seriously, what the hell was wrong with him today?

He threw on the easiest to manage sweatpants he could find, pairing it with a worn out shirt of Eddie's that had been left behind at some point in the past. Dressed, though still feeling like shit, he made his way back downstairs.

As he reached the last step he had to pause, holding his side trying to ease the pain, he stood for a moment just trying to breathe through the pain.

"Finally!” Robin called. I was starting to think I'd need to send out a search party. What took you so long? Actually, on second thought, don't answer that.”

He couldn't bring himself to answer, instead focusing on walking to the living room while his side ached and throbbed.

As soon as he made it to the couch he all but collapsed onto the seat.

Robin had looked ready to make another joke about how long he had taken until she actually looked at him.

"Ok Steve, what the fuck is going on with you? I thought you'd just had a bad day, but there's something else. Spill.”

Knowing there was no point lying, and feeling too awful to even try, he settled for a version of the truth.

"Just feeling a bit off. Maybe I should just go to bed and then you, Eds and the kids can watch movies without me. I don't want to get anyone sick”

Robin frowned before leaning closer and pressing the back of her hand to his forehead.

"Hmm, you do feel kinda warm.”

Before she could say anything else they heard the front door opening, followed immediately by Dustin loudly arguing with Mike about whether or not pineapple belonged on pizza.

Momentarily given an out, Steve stood and headed to the front door.

At least he tried.

The pain when he stood was enough to take his breath away, leaving him gasping as he pushed a hand against his right side. Robin quickly stood as well hovering nearby, hands out as though she wanted to touch but was too scared to do so.

Dustin, Mike, Lucas and Will all walked in to see Steve pale and grasping his right side while Robin looked ready to burst into tears.

The four younger teens all stopped in their tracks causing Eddie, who had been the last through the door, to run into Will's back.

"What the hell baby Byers? Why'd you-”

"Steve!” Dustin cried out, cutting Eddie off.

"Steve? Shit, Steve!” Eddie shoved the kids out of the way, rushing to Steve's side and wrapping an arm around him. Eddie helped Steve back onto the lounge before kneeling in front of him. With Steve still trying to get his breathing under control he turned to Robin for answers. "Robin. What the fuck is wrong with Steve?”

Robin bit her bottom lip, glancing between Eddie and Steve.

"I don't know. He said he was feeling a little off and he felt like he might have had a temperature, but I don't really know anything more.”

"Ok. Ok, Steve? Stevie? You with me now?”

Steve gave a low groan, looking up at Eddie through the hair that fallen over his face.

Eddie took in Steve's flushed cheeks and otherwise pale face. He took note of where Steve was clutching at his right side. He was pretty sure he knew the problem, had his own scar to remind him, faded and pink years after the surgery. But he remembered how he felt before Wayne had taken him to the hospital. Before he had his appendix out. Decision made he pressed a kiss to Steve's clammy forehead before standing back up and heading to the house phone in the kitchen.

He ignored the kids' worried chattering and called the only adult he really trusted.

The phone rang once, twice before Wayne's familiar voice answered.

"Hey Wayne, I gotta be quick but I think Steve has appendicitis. I just want to check I'm remembering right.”

Wayne cursed before telling Eddie to list the symptoms.

"I just got here, but he's holding his right side and can hardly move from the pain, he's feverish and Robin said he mentioned he wasn't feeling well.”

"Yep son, sounds about right. You gonna be alright to get 'im to the hospital? I can meet you there.”

Eddie nodded before remembering Wayne couldn't see him. "Yeah, yeah. I'll get him there. We'll leave soon. Thanks Wayne.”

Eddie put the phone back in its cradle, pushed past the gaggle of worried teenage boys, plus Robin, and went straight back to Steve's side.

"Steve, baby, I'm about 99% sure you have appendicitis. We gotta get you to the hospital alright?”

Steve moaned and shook his head but Eddie just sat beside him and wrapped an arm around his waist, careful to avoid the area Steve was still holding.

"Sorry sweetheart, not up for negotiation.” Without looking away from Steve, Eddie called out to the kids. "Dustin, call your Mom. let her know I'm taking Steve to the hospital and ask her to come take you lot home. Robin, I assume you're coming with me?”

"Of course,” she replied as Dustin rushed from the room.

He appeared moments later and confirmed his Mom was on her way and he'd lock up so Eddie could leave. “Just look after Steve please Eddie.”

"Thanks Dustin. Children listen to Mrs Henderson and be good. I gotta go get your babysitter seen to.”

With much coaxing Eddie and Robin managed to get Steve to his feet and slowly made their way to Eddie's van, Lucas running ahead to open doors for them.

By the time they got Steve into the van, with a pit stop to throw up in the bushes on the way, Steve was sweaty and struggling to stay upright.

Robin jumped in the back and Eddie into the driver's seat and they were off. They passed Mrs Henderson on the way down the street and Eddie idly wondered how long until Dustin was waiting at the hospital with them.

By the time they reached Hawkins General, Steve was quietly crying while holding on to Eddie's hand whenever he didn't need it for driving. It seemed that Wayne had made it there first because he'd only just jumped out of the driver’s side door when a nurse came out with a wheelchair.

"Eddie Munson with Steve Harrington?” she questioned.

"Yes, thank you.”

She turned and opened the passenger door, asking Steve some questions and probing at his abdomen. He cried out as she reached his right side and she nodded to herself.

"Alright Eddie, we need to get your friend out of the car. Can you help?”

"Of course, just tell me what to do.”

Between the two of them they get Steve out of the car and into the wheelchair. The nurse had sent Robin inside to start to help Wayne with the paperwork and then once Steve was situated they followed her inside.

Thankfully it wasn't too busy and Steve was taken straight to triage.

They got him into a bed quickly and gave him some morphine for the pain. A cannula was put into the back of Steve's hand and then he was briefly taken away for an ultrasound. Eddie paced nervously the whole time and wondered if Robin knew what was going on out in the waiting room.

Finally a doctor came and confirmed that Steve did have appendicitis and would be headed to surgery shortly.

Once the doctor was gone Eddie pulled the curtain closed and pulled Steve into a careful hug.

"See you after surgery sweetheart. I love you.”

With the morphine working to relieve the pain Steve was able to hug Eddie back, pressing slightly uncoordinated kisses to Eddie's cheek.

"Hmm love you too Eds. Will you be here when I wake up?”

"Course I will. Me and Robbie. I'll let her know what's happening and we will see you a little later.”

Eddie pressed a soft kiss to Steve's lips, then another, before he pulled away.

Then somebody came to transfer Steve to another bed, Eddie gave him a wave goodbye and went out to the waiting room.

"Is Steve ok? What's happening?” Robin grabbed his arm and pulled him over to where she’d been sitting as soon as he had walked through the door.

"He will be. He's gone for surgery. We'll see him in a few hours. Just one rogue organ down.”

Robin practically collapsed back into one of the hard plastic chairs that seemed to grace every hospital in the country. “Oh holy shit I was so scared. How did you know what was wrong?”

Eddie just pulled his shirt up, revealing his own appendectomy scar. “Been there and done that Rob.” Eddie sat down beside Robin and she lay her head on his shoulder. The two of them settled in for a long wait.

XXX

The next few hours passed fairly uneventfully. Wayne called Claudia Henderson and gave her an update, letting her know Eddie would call when Steve was out of surgery and could have visitors. They bought a few snacks from the vending machine but mostly they just sat and waited.

When Steve was finally out of recovery and in a room Eddie and Robin were allowed to sit in there and wait for him to wake properly. He had apparently woken once in recovery but had fallen asleep again soon after.

Trading in one set of uncomfortable chairs for another, the pair settled in to wait for Steve to wake up.

After what felt like an age, but had probably only bene another half hour or so, Steve’s eyes blinked open.

“Hey sleepy head,” Eddie said, moving to Steve’s side and kissing his cheek.

“Eds? Hi,” Steve still sounded half asleep but Eddie was honestly just happy to see him awake.

Robin moved around to Steve’s other side and gave him a light punch on the arm, ignoring Steve’s ‘ow’ and instead leaning over to hug him. “Don’t scare me like that again dingus!”

“Ok Robs. I’ll try.”

Robin rolled her eyes and hugged him again before pulling back.

“Ok I’ll go update Henderson and your other children. Behave while I’m gone!” She turned and left the room leaving Steve and Eddie alone.

“Hey baby how are you feeling?” Eddie brushed Steve’s hair back off his forehead, before bringing his hand back down and clutching at Steve’s own.

“Not sure. Sore I think, can't really tell yet. Mm tired still.”

“Ok Stevie, get some sleep. Love you.”

“Love you too Eds.”