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tgmsunmontue · 2 months

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Online & Anonymous 14/16

Hangster. Explicit. Years before they meet in person Bradley and Jake strike up a friends-with-benefits relationship online. And then something more like an actual relationship.

>>Bradley chatting (bold and italics)

>>Jake chatting (italics)

2005/2006 2007 2008 2009 2010 2011 2012 2013 2014 2015 2016 2017 2018

2019 – Bradley

Reconnecting with Jas after nearly a year and a half of no contact feels like a fragile glass butterfly in his hands, one he’s scared to hold too firmly in his hands, terrified it will shatter if he moves wrong. He continues sending pictures of his morning cup of coffee, although it’s just with a heart emoji now; no daily apology. Simply an acknowledgement that he thinks of him pretty much as soon as he wakes up. He doesn’t always get one back immediately, but their time zones are very different right now. Jas has admitted that sometimes he takes the photo and saves it to send, so he can pretend they’re sharing, existing at the same time. Bradley admits to wanting to be able to make him coffee every morning. Knows exactly how he takes it.

His leave has been approved for December, and he’s put in a cushion of an additional week either side to allow for missed flights and natural disasters and he’ll fucking go AWOL if he has to. He hasn’t shared his little contingency plan with Jas, but he will if worst comes to worst. He doesn’t let himself think about it too much, or look forward to it. Doesn’t want to build it all up for it to crumble down around him again. And he’s working very hard to ensure he doesn’t sabotage himself. Not this time. His therapist has given him a lot to think about and sometimes he really hates how right they are.

Right now though he’s in Ramstein working with the Airforce, some cooperative training gig and he’s trying to use it as a cultural thing, but he feels like he could just be on a base somewhere, anywhere, back home. For some reason it makes him feel homesick for what he thinks must be the first time in his life. Last Christmas he’d spent it with Ice and his family for the first time since he was a teenager. Their relationship healed enough now for him to realize and regret how many years he’s lost. He guesses the maturity and therapy have probably helped, although he sometimes feels like a little kid again, seeking out attention and approval. One of Ice’s kids has kids themselves, and that is wild to him. Ice can’t talk very well, but considering how expressive his face can be when he chooses it to be he’d had entire silent conversation with Bradley while he’d been staying.

… … …

>>I’m in Germany.

>>Huh. I’m in Japan.

>>Oh. I like Japan.

>>We’ll have to go together sometime.

>>Wait.

>>What are you doing in Germany?

>>What do you mean?

>>I’m deployed here?

>>Uh. I know you’re Navy. I mean. Yeah.

>>You let it slip years ago.

>>Oh. Shit. Did I?

>>I didn’t realize.

>>Yeah.

>>So. Only seems fair to tell you I’m Navy too.

>>Shit. Really? God. What are the chances?

>>Well, I crunched the numbers few years ago, and they’re not that farfetched.

>>Of course you did.

>>And I’m in Germany helping out with a cooperative training exercise. Just a short four month stint and then back home in June.

>>You sure you don’t want more details?

>>Positive. I like the idea of us having some topics of conversation we haven’t covered.

He desperately just wants to blurt it out, has in fact tapped out his name and exactly what he does, only to delete it all. He’ll respect Jas’s wishes, even if he doesn’t like them. Even now, knowing they’re both in the Navy and Bradley could, if he wasn’t respecting Jas’s personal boundaries, call Ice and ask him to pull every active-duty man with the initials JAS and born in 1986. Surely there aren’t that many.

>>Talking has never been something we’ve struggled with.

>>Have you seen the new How to Train your Dragon movie?

>>Weirdly, I have. Why?

>>Well, I’ve only been able to watch it in German. I think I understand what is happening, but can you run me through what exactly they were looking for? I didn’t get why it was so important.

He wants to ask why Jas has seen a movie for kids, but he doesn’t, instead waits for Jas to fill in all the bits of plot Bradley missed due to watching the film in the nearby town with a German dub rather than watching it on base.

… … …

“Bradshaw. The CO would like to see you.”

He nods his head to acknowledge the words and heads off immediately. He doesn’t know why he’s being summoned but he’s not going to start disobeying orders or summons. He knocks on the door and waits to be called in.

“Lieutenant. You’ve been called in for a special detachment. You leave for North Island at seventeen-hundred.”

“Today sir?”

“Yes. A matter of urgency it seems. A shame, you’re a damned good instructor and flier. I’ll be sure to have you back.”

“Thank you sir.”

He’s handed the papers, a mere formality now, he’ll have electronic ones sitting in his HR account. He’s got a few hours to pack, say some goodbyes. North Island. Of all places. Okay. He’s heading back stateside.

… … …

He manages to get some sleep on the flight, then rest and report in. North Island is home and it also isn’t. He always feels mixed up emotionally when he’s here, too close to his parents and all his memories with Maverick growing up. He goes and collects the Bronco from storage, unsurprised to find a note telling him it’s been serviced and run, and he swings by to visit Ice, who doesn’t seem surprised to see him at all. He looks tired though, wearing a thick jacket and scarf despite the warm spring day. Bradley knows better to mention anything, Sarah having warned him. He stays for lunch, plays with the grandkids and then, because Ice is an angel amongst men, heads to the Hard Deck where he’s just been told his best friend probably is. The fact that she’s also been called to whatever this mission is fills him with pride, she’s a damned fine aviator, definitely better than him in some respects; and definitely able to make the most of having a back seater.

Of course she’s pissed off with him for not telling him that he was going to be here, and he can’t exactly tell her he only knows because the COMPACFLT dropped him a message. He does mutter about being in a different country less than twenty-four hours ago but she just pulls a face at him and he knows she doesn’t accept it as a reason or an excuse. It hurts a little to see Seresin again. To think about the potential they had. He looks good though. Happy and confident, the little smirk always there just on the corner of his lips. He always wants to kiss it off, but it's not his place. Has never been his place. He plays it off, tries to anyway, and his mouth still takes off without him, brain distracted by looking and he really has to practice better self-control.

“Hangman. You look… good.”

There’s a flash of annoyance and Bradley winces. He’s glad he went with something as mundane as good, except him saying that has always been a lead into hooking up. He’d told himself he wasn’t going to do this. Not with anyone, but especially not with Seresin. They aren’t anything to each other, never were, never will be. He’ll apologize as soon as he can for the slip up.

“I am good Rooster. I’m very good. In fact, I am too good to be true.”

He rolls his eyes, but he deserves the sharp look, the slight meaness, although he also can’t ignore it, because Seresin is still an arrogant shit, for all his beautiful flying. Natasha is muttering under her breath, talking about not caring about dick sizes, and he has to stop himself from laughing as she blatantly and obviously changes the subject, the others grabbing the lifeline like drowning men. He focuses back in on the conversation just in time to hear Seresin again.

“And which one of y’all has what it takes to follow me?”

He snorts.

“Hangman, the only place you’ll lead anyone is an early grave.”

Fuck. He hadn’t meant that. Not like that. God. Another thing to apologize for. He’s opening a fucking tab.

“Well, anyone who follows you is just gonna run out of fuel. But that’s just you, ain’t it, Rooster? You’re snug on that perch, waiting for just the right moment… That never comes.”

He knows it’s a jibe about his fucking inability to commit to his relationship, and he’d like to prove him wrong by telling him that he’s very firmly back with his guy, but it feels empty when he flirted with him not even five minutes ago. What the hell is it with Seresin that always brings out the worst in him. He’s going to have to apologize but he’s going to hate every fucking second of it.

“I love this song!”

Right.

He’ll apologize as soon as he no longer wants to punch him.

… … …

Fortunately Natasha’s presence, the piano playing and singing force him to unwind and it shifts his mood considerably, exactly what his therapist has told him to do. Not that a piano is frequently available, but he’s working on it. He sees Seresin head out and he follows him quickly, ignores Natasha’s hissed warning to not get into a fight.

“Hey! Seresin! Wait up!”

“What do you want Rooster?”

He sucks in a big breath. He can do this.

“I just wanted to apologize. For flirting. I shouldn’t have done that. For several reasons, but it was shitty of me and I’ll work on it not happening again.”

Seresin looks at him, expression tense and he’s worrying a toothpick which Bradley does his best to ignore.

“Anything else you want to apologize for Bradshaw?”

Bradley pauses, thinks back to what he said and pulls a face.

“Fuck. Yeah. You won’t lead anyone into an early grave either. I didn’t mean that. It was a shitty thing to say. I’m sorry.”

“Anything else?”

Bradley blinks.

“Uh. No… not that I can think of? Why?”

The look Seresin is giving him is calculating, like he’s trying to figure something out; then Seresin is reaching out and tugging on his shirt.

“Thought you might like to apologize for crimes against fashion. This is one godawful shirt you’re wearing…”

“I like this shirt.”

“Of course you do. Hmm.”

“Are you going to apologize to me?”

“For what?”

“For calling me slow?”

“Nothing wrong with slow Rooster…”

The look on his face, the way he juts out his hip and licks his lips around the fucking toothpick… Bradley feels the flush hit his cheeks, can tell his neck and chest are also going warm and he steps back. He can’t and won’t engage with this. With him.

“Was good seeing you Seresin. Have a good night.”

… … …

He gets back inside the Hard Deck and he spies Natasha talking with Bob, knows she’s starting the process of getting to know her new back seater, which is usually to beat them soundly in whatever macho game they think they’re better at, and then to show them that she can and will fly, and fly well. Then she usually forces them into a self-care night of face masks and nails, for which Bradley is usually invited along to if he’s around, although he knows Coyote has been seconded into the roll a couple of times.

“You look… whole,” Natasha says, and she reaches for his hand, inspects his knuckles and Bradley huffs in annoyance, pulling his hand back when he realizes what she’s doing.

“I didn’t punch him.”

“No. You just stalked out of here looking like you wanted to.”

“I actually went and apologized to him.”

Both her and Bob blink.

“Seriously?”

“What can I say, I’m the bigger man, admitting when I’m wrong and apologizing.”

“I still feel like I should go outside and check for a body…”

“It’s fine. I’m going to try and be nice.”

“Yeah. Okay. Good luck with that.”

“What she said,” Bob says.

… … …

The thing is he does try, but he’s also completely thrown by the fact that Maverick is there and is apparently the one teaching them. His anger is bubbling fresh, like he never took it off the boil and he’s angry again with Ice for not fucking warning him. Maverick doesn’t look at all surprised to see him and that makes him feel even angrier. He desperately needs to either run, punch some pillows or angrily play out his feelings on a piano until he calms down. None of which he can do while he watches his godfather stand at the front of a makeshift classroom and tell them all that the mission success will come down to the pilot in the box.

… … …

“So, Rooster, mind if I ask you a personal question?”

Jesus Christ, one apology and the man is going to ask about his whole life history. Now is not the fucking time, not to mention the line is open and everyone can hear them. He scans the skies and screens for any sign of Maverick.

“Would it matter if I did?”

“What’s the story with you and Maverick?” Speak of the fucking devil… “It seems like he’s got you rattled.”

“That’s none of your business. Now where the hell is he?”

“Been here the whole time.”

“Holy shit,” Seresin breathes and Bradley pulls a face, because that tone is also far too similar to what he sounds like in bed and he can not be thinking about that right now.

He get’s shot down for a second time, knows he’s toeing the line of being an idiot, doesn’t need Natasha railing at him, or the four-hundred push-ups he insists on doing which leave his arms feeling like jelly and Hondo looking at him like he pities him. He goes back to his accommodation on base and stares at the key to his family home, wonders if he should do anything about it, ignores Natasha’s messages and falls into a fitful sleep without even changing out of his clothes.

… … …

He wakes later, and his first instinct is to make coffee, except it’s late and he needs to get used to the time difference. So he makes himself a hot cocoa from the supplies, although the fat he has to chip away at the solid mass tells him it likely won’t be worth the effort. Still, it gives him something to do. He snaps a picture and sends it, just adds a jet lag is real over it and sends it. Jas has been unnaturally quiet the last couple of days and Bradley desperately wants to just pick up his phone and call him. Except he doesn’t have his number and he won’t ask for it.

Calling was never an option in the beginning, not with the lack of service out on carriers, and the fact that exchanging numbers also meant exchanging names. Bradley has never not answered the phone with his whole name, so he’d never offered. He’s got so many regrets on so many fronts he feels like a twenty-sided dice.

>>Everything okay?

>>You’ve been kind of quiet these last couple of days.

>>You ever bump into someone and think that it was maybe me you were talking to?

>>Um. Actually yeah.

>>Once. Years ago.

>>But there just ended up being all these little facts that didn’t line up so I figured it wasn’t you.

>>Was he hot?

>>He was alright. Easy enough on the eyes.

>>Nothing happened. I was his instructor at the time.

>>You and your moral compass.

>>I’m rolling my eyes at you.

>>I’m not a saint.

>>Never accused you of that. Not sleeping with someone because you’re in a position of power. That’s pretty decent of you.

>>Got to try being a decent human right?

>>I guess.

>>Sometimes I fuck up but got to keep on trying.

>>Yeah. I guess you do.

… … …

Internally he’s a mess. The fact that the mission seems impossible, has been called a suicide mission, he’s having to see Maverick everyday, and Seresin keeps looking at him like he’s trying to puzzle something out. Like how big the body bag needs to be maybe. Now he’s being told he isn’t flying fast enough, he’s going to get shot down and he’s going to be responsible for the death of his friends. Like any of them won’t suffer the exact same fate.

“It’s not the plane, sir, it’s the pilot.”

“Exactly!”

“There’s more than one way to fly this mission.”

“You really don’t get it. On this mission, a man flies like Maverick here, or a man does not come back. No offense intended.”

“Yet somehow you always manage,” Bob murmurs and normally Bradley would smile at the comeback, but he can’t right now. His frustration and anger are carefully balanced and he doesn’t want either of them to tip over.

“Look, I don’t mean to criticize. You’re conservative, that’s all.”

“Lieutenant.”

“We’re going into combat, son, on a level no living pilot’s ever seen. Not even him. That’s no time to be thinking about the past.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Rooster.”

“I can’t be the only one that knows that Maverick flew with his old man.”

“That’s enough.”

“Or that Maverick was flying when his old man…”

“Lieutenant, that’s enough!”

“That’s enough.“

“You son of a bitch!”

“Hey, come on!”

“I’m cool, I’m cool. Hey, hey.”

“That’s enough.”

… … …

>>I have had an awful fucking day.

>>Tell me something to cheer me up?

He doesn’t get an answer.

… … …

He still doesn’t have an answer the next morning and he sends off his usual morning picture of his coffee, feels his entre body unclench when he gets a picture in response. There still isn’t any messages but it’s not complete radio silence. There is a message from his Captain, telling him to report to the Hard Deck in civvies appropriate for the beach and he lets out a long sigh. Sends a screen shot to Ice with a what the fuck is he thinking now? To which he gets back a line of laughing-crying emojis and your guess is as good as mine.

Well. He has no idea where the hell Maverick dreamed up dog-fight football, but at least they’re not all getting drunk together. That would have been a recipe for several disasters. It’s not that warm, but once they’re all running around it heats them up enough and it feels good to simply run around and play, forget, even for a little while, that one or more of them might be dead in a couple of weeks.

… … …

As if they needed reminders about just how dangerous their jobs are without the added aspects of the mission in front of them they have the day from hell and Bradley feels responsible. Thinking his verbal sparring with Hangman somehow made it a bad day he somehow jinxed them all. Having Coyote come so close to burning in because of g-Loc, and then Natasha… his best friend. Listening to Maverick yell eject at them over and over is going to be added nightmare fodder he’s sure will enter rotation, something he can look forward to. He sits in the quiet of the room, turning when he hears footsteps.

Maverick.

And no-one else around to act as a buffer.

Well shit.

He’s tired and already emotionally raw, doesn’t want to talk to him right now.

“They’ll keep Phoenix and Bob in the hospital overnight for observation. They’re gonna be okay.”

“That’s good. I’ve never lost a wing man.”

“You’re lucky. Fly long enough, it’ll happen. There will be others.”

“Easy for you to say,” Bradley bites out. “No wife. No kids. Nobody to mourn you when you burn in.”

He feels detached from what he’s saying, but the anger is all still there, and he feels justified in that at least, although he’s also lying. As much as he might be angry, he’d still grieve Maverick if he died. Of course Maverick tries to be calm and rational and instead of calming him down it has the opposite effect, and he’s snapping out words again, and Maverick is snapping back and god, it’s a wonder Ice didn’t bang their heads together earlier.

“Maverick,” Warlock says, stopping them from screaming more hurtful things in each other’s faces.

Then he learns that Ice has died and of course bad things come in threes.

He leaves Maverick with Warlock and heads off into the dark for his base housing.

… … …

>>You know how I told you about my uncle?

>>The one with cancer?

>>Yeah?

>>He died. His funeral will be in a couple of days and I’m going to have to somehow not cry in front of everyone.

>>Would you give me your mobile number?

>>Why?

>>Because I’d really like to hear your voice. Talk to you properly.

>>I wouldn’t call until you gave me the go ahead.

>>I just… I don’t want to be alone right now.

>>I feel very alone.

>>I thought the other day was bad, but today has been so much worse.

He wanders around aimlessly, wonders if maybe he should bite the bullet and either go to the rec room and play the piano there, or see if the piano at his closed-up parent’s house is even playable. He’s half-dressed for bed, mind so far away he doesn’t register the knocking until it’s louder and more insistent and he heads to the door, opening it and half-expecting to find Maverick there.

“Hangman?”

“Rooster.”

“Uh. What are doing here?”

The look on Seresin’s face tells him he’s not exactly sure either, and the fact that he’s not certain is something he’s even more annoyed about.

“I just… I know your dad flew with Admiral Kazansky. I... I thought that maybe you might know him more than just as the COMPACFLT and be... I thought you might want company.”

“I...” Bradley starts, because he really does want the company right now, Natasha is in hospital, Coyote is with her because sometimes things like near-misses force you to reevaluate. Not that she can come, but he wouldn’t call her anyway, doesn’t want to rain on her happiness. Not when there is no guarantee of any future right now, the bird strike and g-Loc incidents both really driving home how dangerous their jobs are.

“Not anything else, by the way… just company.”

“No. I... Yeah. Company would be good. Thanks.”

“Also I figured I should take a leaf out of your book and apologize. I’m sorry. About bringing up your dad. That was a dick move.”

Bradley blinks.

“Um. Okay.”

“Right. Sleeping right? You want me to cuddle you?”

“Actually yeah, since you offered,” Bradley replies, giving Seresin a disparaging look but then takes in the fact that he’s dressed in sweats and a worn t-shirt, like he maybe come over after he’d already gotten ready for bed.

“Come on then, finish getting ready. Always waiting for you to catch up Bradshaw…”

“Yeah yeah, give me a minute.”

He shuffles around, puts on a t-shirt in deference to the fact that Seresin seems seriously intent on hopping into bed with him, and not for sex. He brushes his teeth and washes his face, unable to bring himself to do any more. His mind is thinking about Sarah and the kids and grandkids. Funerals, oh which he feels like he’s been to too many. He folds himself into the bed, his head and body already feel heavy and weighed down and he cannot believe he’s watching Seresin of all people turn off the lights and then slide into bed beside him, his arm settling over his waist like a drag sail.

“Go to sleep Bradshaw, I’m not planning on going anywhere.”

… … …

Despite everything he has one of the best nights’ sleep he’s had in a long time, and he can’t put it down to the sheer emotional exhaustion of the last couple of days. He woke up several times during the night, not used to having someone else in the bed, but each time Seresin had been there, arm settled around Bradley like he was holding him together. He’s not there now though, but Bradley can hear someone in the kitchen and it can’t be anyone else but Seresin. He stands and stretches, feels his back and neck click and reaches for his phone, feels a little swoop of happiness when he sees he has a message.

>>I don’t want you to be alone right now either.

He grins and quickly types out a response as he heads to the kitchen.

“Hey, morning.”

“Morning. How are you feeling?”

“Uh. Better. Thanks,” Bradley offers, because he’s a little unsettled by this softer and more accommodating version of Seresin.

“Here,” Seresin says, and he slides a mug of coffee across to him. It’s not his usual mug, but that’s okay. The mug isn’t the important part, and he snaps a quick picture.

“What are you doing?”

“Um. Just taking a photo of my coffee,” Bradley states, looking up as Seresin makes a slight choking sound. “Thanks by the way, for the coffee and for staying last night. I really needed the company.”

“Yeah. Uh. Anytime. I’ve got to go. Glad you’re feeling better Bradshaw.”

“Uh, yeah. Thanks… see you later…” Bradley says, voice trailing off as Hangman flees like he’s on fire.

Weird.

He takes a sip of his coffee and blinks in surprise.

It’s perfect.

… … …

He drags himself through his morning routine and heads to Ice’s house, needs to see Sarah and the others, the only family he has. Or at least that he’s currently talking to in civil tones. He lets himself get hugged as he hugs them all in return, they’re all talking in soft mumbles with empty platitudes he knows don’t ease the grief. But being with others who are also grieving helps. He’s allowed to feel sad and miss him when he’s surrounded by people who feel exactly the same way.

Sarah is poised and calm, her red eyes the only thing belying the fact that she’s been crying plenty. He’s sitting down talking to Samantha, Ice’s eldest daughter, when Sarah finds him and presses an envelope into his hands.

“He wanted me to give this to you as quickly as possible after his passing. I think he was adding it to it just yesterday…”

His throat goes tight and he runs his fingers along the crisp edge of the envelope, swallows and then gives up, lets the tears fall and hugs her back tightly as she presses a kiss to the top of his head, feels Samantha hug him from the side. He guesses he has some reading to do.

… … …

Dear Bradley,

If you are reading this it’s because I’m dead. Now, as outcomes go, this isn’t what either of us wanted, I’m sure. I’m glad I only had one rule with you as a teenager, and that you listened to me. This is the natural progression of things, children having to bury their parents. I am sorry that you have had to do this so often though, your life has not often been fair to you. There is one silver lining of being a dead man, and that’s getting a dying wish. Your mother had a dying wish you see, and I didn’t agree with what she wanted, but I had to respect it. It was her dying wish after all. And now this is mine, so if I meet her in the afterlife, then I know she’s not going to be able to hold it over me.

I want you to know that she never wanted you to fly.

She asked Maverick to pull your papers.

I tried to convince both of them that it was a terrible idea. But your mother became very difficult to argue with, being dead and all, and well, Maverick is one of the most stubborn and pig-headed men I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing. I’m glad I’ve been able to count him as being a friend, because having him as an enemy would be ten times worse (and it was already pretty trying some days, as you can imagine). Anyway, I could already envision what would happen, you get your own stubborn and pig-headedness honestly at least, and it was then polished by being raised by Maverick after your mom passed.

Now, I am not asking you to forgive Maverick. However I am asking you to try. He loves you and cares for you, but what he is most terrified about is failing both of your parents. He thinks they’d be perfect parents, so holds himself up to that ideal. He thinks he needs to be perfect. Being a parent myself I know that’s impossible, I’ve just tried my best to make decisions based from a place of love and support. Maverick has always tried to make his decisions based on what he thinks your parents would want for you. Your mom didn’t want you to fly and yet here you are. And Maverick has to see that and know he failed her. And he failed you. And he will always believe he failed your father.

I never had to second guess my parenting decisions, even if I would later make a different decision with hindsight. I knew I made the best decision I could at the time with the information I had, making it from a place of love, then I couldn’t really regret it. Maverick second guesses everything when it comes to you. For all his don’t think, just do bullshit, he overthinks everything when it comes to you.

One of your parents gave you anything and everything you wanted, because he only saw you for a few months of your entire life. In between all the training and deployments, it just wasn’t enough. He loved you, do not ever doubt that, and he’d be so proud of the man you are today. I believe he would have supported you going to USNA with his whole heart. He’d be proud of you being a naval aviator. He would love that you were a pilot.

Your mother had to become both parents and then manage your early teen years and at the same time she wanted to protect you from everything bad in the world. She couldn’t protect you from losing your father, or then losing her, and I am sure she thought she was protecting you by asking Maverick to pull your USNA papers. However neither of your parents knew you as well as Maverick knew you, and yet he tasked himself with an impossible task.

So you have had a parent who only knew you really as a baby, another as a child, then another as a young man and now you’re an adult with a life and career of his own. You might have a better chance of getting Maverick into therapy than I ever did, simply by asking him. I am proud that you go. That you listened and took my advice. It’s always nice to be right. It’s been a pleasure watching you grow into the man you are today, and I know you will continue to grow.

Having you back in my life has been one of my joys. Getting to know you again, share stories with you. I’ve written a lot more down for you, and there’s a box with your name on it. Lots of photos because I’m old and we had film cameras. Make all the old jokes you want, I’m dead and I don’t care. Growing old is a luxury for some, and I am glad I got as far as I did. Anyway, I think Samantha might be digitizing the photos. Ask her. Please stay in touch with them all. You are a part of our family, even if it didn’t feel that way for you for some years. You are always welcome, never forget that. I want you to be in each other’s lives again. Maverick’s as well. You need him even if you think you don’t. And he needs you too. You’re both going to get invitations to Kazansky family gatherings, and it’s going to be awkward if you’re not talking to each other. At least give it a try. That’s all I’m asking.

Never forget how loved you are Bradley.

By all of your parents.

Ice

Saw you flying today. Made me so proud. Also made me wish I could have flown with you. Watching you fly is like watching the best of myself and Maverick. He is very unhappy with me about the mission. Doesn’t want to have to make the choice. He views it as lose-lose all round, which might be true. I hope it isn’t, for both your sakes. If I have any say in it you’ll all return safely home. I’m tired, so I’m going to go to bed now. Love you kid.

… … …

They’ve been given the day off, which seems a little ridiculous considering how close the mission is. He’s immeasurably glad though, he feels shaky and emotionally raw, and he still has to get through the funeral and somehow process the whole shifting worldview that his mom made Maverick promise. That Maverick wouldn’t just tell him that confuses him, what would he do? Hate his mom for wanting to keep him safe? He just doesn’t get it. He opens his phone, not really having had a chance to look at it since the morning after he’d sent his coffee picture. Jas hadn’t replied by the time he left to go to Ice’s house, but when he opens his phone now he can see he has a couple of new notifications. The coffee cup in reply looks familiar and he realizes it’s his coffee cup. The one he usually uses except this morning… What the hell?

He opens up Grindr and clicks on the new message, is pretty sure he knows what to expect when it displays and there it is.

>>I’m in the Dagger Squad.

Just like that his world tilts on its axis again and he stares at the five words. Closes it and then reopens the app. Reads the words again. Actually turns off his phone and forces it to re-start. The words stay the same.

JAS.

Born in 1986.

Texan.

God he’s an idiot.

Not just in the navy, he’s a Naval aviator.

A photo of his own coffee cup sent back to him from this morning.

He’s laughing at his own stupidity and he’s already cried so much today but he feels like he might just burst into tears again, his emotions all too exposed and he needs to find out where Jas-Jake-Seresin, (what the hell does he call him now?), lives. He rings Natasha, knows she’s still with Coyote. Coyote will know where Jake, (Jake feels right? Maybe?), lives. Because it’s not on base. Of course Coyote won’t give him the address and Bradley feels like screaming. Tells him to ask Jake, then to text it through to him when he gives it to him. He’s that certain Jake will give it to him. He could just ask himself, but he also doesn’t want to give Jake an opportunity to ignore him. Not that he thinks he will.

Last night suddenly makes a lot more sense, now that he thinks about it. No one else would have known about Ice passing, and yet Jake turned up, because he’d figured it out. God. When did he figure it out? He’s trying to reconcile Jas and Jake Seresin in his head. The brash confident and arrogant naval aviator he knows and has had plenty of sex with, and Jas, the open, vulnerable and sweetly-sassy man that he’s… also had plenty of sex with. Well. At least he knows they can handle the long-distance aspect of any relationship. God he really wants to see him now.

The address comes through and he taps it into his phone, following the directions as he drives, wishes it was closer. He doesn’t bother telling Jake he’s on his way, he already knows because Coyote has given Bradley his address. With permission. He pulls up and it’s a newly built block of condos, and he has to look for a carpark for too long before he finds one. He lets himself feel annoyed at the poor planning, grateful that it pushes the grief and shocked-joy just to the side for a moment, no matter how brief. It allows him to gather his bearings as he walks up the pavement and knocks on the door. While he waits for an answer, he wonders if he should send a message. Why the hell not.

>>Answer the door Jas.

>>Give me one good reason.

>>I love you.

>>Now please answer the door.

“Hi.”

He stands there and just… looks. Jake’s wearing exactly the same clothes as when he left Bradley’s place earlier today, and he looks soft. A little scared and Bradley realizes that he’s maybe worried that Bradley might be disappointed somehow. He reaches out, slow enough that Jake can stop him, or step away; cups his cheek in his hand, runs a thumb over the apple of his cheek. Wants to enfold him in a hug and be hugged in return.

“Thank you.”

“Uh. You’re welcome?”

“You want to know what I’m thanking you for?”

“Sure.”

“My second chance. Always planned on thanking you in person.”

“Um. Yeah.”

Bradley bites his lip, won’t mention aloud the groveling and body worship that Jas had mentioned, is sure that Jake might not yet be in a place to hear him say words out loud. Written word is something completely different. He wants to kiss him, definitely wants to carry out the body worship, but he feels like they’re all the way at the beginning, needing to feel each other out a little bit, emotionally that is.

“Can I hug you?”

“Yeah, of course. Come in and close the door.”

Of all the hugs he’s had today this one feels the best, firm, grounding and warm. Both of Jake’s arms around him, head resting against Bradley’s shoulder while his nose and mouth press against the side of his head. He presses a kiss to the top of his head.

“When did you figure it out?” Bradley asks.

“When did I suspect, or when did I know? Because there’s kind of different stages I went through…”

“Yeah? Want to share? Because I… needed you to point it out apparently.”

“Always a little slow Bradshaw…”

“Oh my god I’m never going to live this down am I?”

“Nope. Probably not.”

“Okay. I’m okay with that. Come on. Blow me away with your superior intellect…”

“You want to have this conversation while we hug in my entryway?”

“I don’t want to let you go.”

“Oh. I have a sofa? Or a, uh, bed?”

“How about we start on the sofa. Can we both fit?”

“Worth a try…”

He makes himself comfortable in the corner and then holds out his arms, silently inviting Jake to curl up in them, to settle himself in the v of his legs. He desperately wants to be holding him again and hopes he equally wants to be held. Fortunately Jake seems to, relaxes against him and Bradley feels a sense of contentedness well up inside him. They’re both facing the same direction and part of him is glad; feels like it might be a little too overwhelming to have this coming conversation face-to-face. It’s like a compromise between being online versus facing each other.

“So… what was your first clue?”

“Uh, your shirt at the Hard Deck. Payback made a comment about how it wouldn’t be possible to miss seeing you arrive and it pinged something in my mind, about when we were meant to met up. You said I wouldn’t miss you…”

“Ugh. You mean the time I stood you up to sleep with… you. I’m still very sorry about that by the way.”

“Well, I’ve sort of made my peace with it. I mean, I can stop being jealous about the other guy at least…”

Bradley huffs in amusement, tightens his arms around him a little.

“Oh… When you asked whether I was going to apologize about fashion crimes. That was you sounding me out.”

“Trying at least. You blanked me so I figured it was just a coincidence.”

“Okay… then what?”

“Um. I saw a photo of your dad. Nicholas Bradshaw.”

“Nick.”

“And Bradley Bradshaw. NickNick. Stupid double-barreled names. Then I remembered your first username, and you hating the name Pete… And how you really don’t like Maverick. Lots of coincidences that just suddenly were too many to just ignore and they made sense.”

“Yeah…” Bradley breathes, smiling against Jake’s hair. He likes that Jake has been paying such close attention, would never have thought it of Seresin or Hangman, but it’s definitely Jake through and through.

“So… Uh. I suspected and then seeing that photo kind of confirmed it. Your moustache and how you said you look like him. Your dad I mean. You do look a lot like him. Anyway, I thought you knew who I was, and you were making fun of me.”

“What? Never...”

Jake twists to give him a look, eyebrow raised in disbelief and Bradley shakes his head.

“Not about this,” Bradley stresses.

“So, I suspected, and then I thought you knew and hadn't told me and I got so angry...”

“You picked a fight,” Bradley says with dawning realization, because he’s fucking been there and done the same thing, like picking at a wound.

“I wanted to hurt you. I'm sorry.”

“I swear I had no idea.”

“Oh yeah, I know that now. Last night when I turned up... I almost asked you. Last night was when I started to realize that you really had no idea.”

“Gorgeous and smart…” Bradley says, and he’s never seen Jake blush before, but he’s doing it now, his face going pink from the corner of Bradley’s eye. “And then my coffee cup picture from this morning... Shit. That’s when you really realized I was truly fucking clueless.”

“Yeah. And I needed to figure out a way of telling you but I had no idea how…”

“Well, you did a good job telling me. You made my coffee perfectly and I still didn’t put it all together.”

“Still took you long enough to get here though.”

“Oh, I didn’t check the messages until about an hour ago. I messaged Coyote pretty much immediately. Did you think it took me that long to figure it out after you told me you were in the Dagger Squad?”

“Well, it has been about four hours.”

“No! I’ve been at Ice’s all morning. Spending time with the family.”

Jake makes a choking sound.

“You’re actually… family?”

“Yeah,” Bradley says with a quiet sigh. “After my mom died and when Mav was deployed I lived with Ice and his family. When I left Mav I pretty much left Ice too. I made up with him a few years ago. Here. Read this…”

He shifts awkwardly and pulls the letter out of his pocket, pulling Jake back into his arms and handing it to him.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah. I have literally no secrets from you.”

He reads it again over Jake’s shoulder, let’s himself cry again and tries to not feel self-conscious about the fact that he’s holding Jake and crying. He’s allowed to feel emotions. He’s not an automaton.

“Jesus Bradley…”

It’s the first time Jake has said his name and he lets out another little hiccupping cry, but it has happiness behind it this time, not that Jake can tell and he lets out a little laugh of just how ridiculous the whole situation is.

“Yeah. Ever had emotional whiplash? I think that’s what I’m experiencing today. It’s pretty fucking rough.”

“Stay here tonight. Hell. Did you sleep okay last night? You said you didn’t want to be alone…”

“Last night was great. Exactly what I needed thank you. And yeah, I’ll stay here. Might need to borrow some clothes.”

“Or we can just… go to bed.”

“Are you sure?”

“Ni-, Ro, Bradley… I do not want to waste any more time, especially considering how much time we might not have.”

Fuck. Now there’s a depressing thought. Although it also seems like Jake is having the same internal battle about what to call him as he’s been having.

“What’s your middle name?”

“What?”

“I’ve been calling you Jas in my head for so long, when I get angry with you I’m going to need to full name you…”

“Jacob Andrew Seresin.”

“Bradley Peter Bradshaw. Nice to meet you.”

“You’re an idiot,” Jake says, but he’s turning, shifting to face him and Bradley smiles, knows he probably looks messy with fresh tear tracks, but he’s smiling at him and Jake is smiling back.

“We were so close so many times weren’t we…”

“Yep. Think it had some silver linings though.”

“Yeah? Like what?” Bradley asks, because he’s curious.

“Don’t want to think about some of them right now. Want to take you to bed.”

“Yeah. Lead the way…”

… … … Every touch is reverent, and he hasn’t slept with anyone in a long while, not since he last slept with Jake in fact, which has him realizing that he hasn’t done anything sexual with anyone but Jake for… nearly three years. Huh. He’ll share that little tidbit of information later, when he’s not sliding his hands under Jake’s t-shirt and working it up off his body. Jake’s working Bradley’s clothes off, and he doesn’t usually feel the need to check in, not when it’s the middle of the day, both completely sober, but he still needs to, the emotions of everything making it a necessity.

“Okay?”

“Yeah, yeah. It's okay. This isn’t our first fucking time…”

Bradley grins, lets himself press his body against Jake’s, letting them both lower their bodies into Jake’s bed. He’ll pay more attention to Jake’s room and bed when he no longer wants to give absolutely every bit of his attention to the man under his hands and mouth.

“Sorry if I want to cater to my body worshipping kink…”

“Selfish,” Jake says, his voice breathy and Bradley bites at his collarbone lightly.

“Yeah. Very selfish. You should totally kick me to the curb.”

“Mmm. See if you can convince me otherwise…”

He feels a happy and excited swoop of pleasure that Jake seems playful, happy in himself to have Bradley in his bed, to stay in his bed for more than just sex.

“I love you,” Bradley murmurs, and he kisses a trail down Jake's neck, then back up. Lets his fingers touch everywhere he can reach, captures Jake’s mouth in a kiss as he grinds his hips down, feels Jake’s mouth gasp open and he licks into it. They’ve had sex with each other a lot, but it’s never quite felt this heavy. Like every touch, every shift of their bodies against each other, carries with it a little bit extra weight, extra meaning.

“I love you.”

There are definite benefits to already being familiar with Jake’s body, knowing how he responds, what he likes. It’s been long enough since they last slept together than it’s all novel and new, while also having the deep-rooted feeling of familiarity and sense of homecoming. He wants to worship every inch of him, Jake seems more than willing to let him. The fact he can pepper his actions with I love you is exhilarating, being able to both show Jake and tell him in equal measure.

He knows he can make Jake come twice, wants to take him apart and hold him together, give him absolutely everything. God, all the things he’s fantasized about are now potential things they can explore together and he grins into the jut of Jake’s hips, sucks little kisses as he teases along the band of his underwear.

“Off off, get them off…”

“It’s been months, or years, depending on how you count. What’s a few more minutes? You know I like the anticipation and building up.”

“Fuck off, you can edge me another time. I know you want to. Right now I want you to make me come.”

“Demanding.”

“Damn right.”

He pulls Jake’s underwear down and sucks the head of his cock into his mouth as he continues to work the underwear down his thighs. It’s a little uncoordinated, Jake trying to help by thrusting his hips up, his cock hitting the back of Bradley’s throat so suddenly he gags, unprepared, digs his fingers into his hip to stop him from doing it again as he pulls the underwear off and throws it elsewhere. He feels Jake’s fingers running through his hair, deliberately ignores the subtle direction to go faster, slows down and grins when he hears Jake groan and mumble asshole under his breath. Jake groans again, his whole body tensing then relaxing under him and Bradley lets himself finally speed up.

He shifts, kneels between Jake’s spread legs so he can get an unobstructed view up his torso, can watch his face as Bradley gets his hands and mouth all over him. His fingers encircle Jake’s cock and he works fast, mouth and tongue licking over his balls before sucking the head back into his mouth. Jake is watching him, mouth open, chest shuddering with broken breaths and Bradley feels a swell of sudden and immense gratitude that he gets to have this. That Jake is allowing him to have it.

“I love you,” he says, his eyes not leaving Jake’s as he opens his mouth and sucks Jake down again, lets Jake’s hips thrust up, ready for it this time and shivers at how gorgeous Jake sounds saying his name. He works his hand faster, presses a knuckle against his perinium, licks and sucks his balls and it’s a tight fit but Jake just stretches his legs wider to give him more space to work. He sees the muscles in Jake’s stomach clench, loves that he knows that that’s one of Jake’s tells, that he’s close to coming. Then he is, shooting up over Bradley’s fist, hitting his chest and stomach.

“I love you,” Bradley says again, it becomes like a prayer as he runs his hands over his calves and thighs, presses kisses up his inner thigh and his balls again. His eyes haven’t left Jake’s. He licks up Jake’s stomach, cleaning up Jake’s come as he goes, smirks at the little broken sound Jake makes. Wonders if he should have said something about the lack of condom this time, but hopes that Jake simply trusts him. Three fucking years.

“God I love you…” Bradley whisper, wants, needs, Jake to know the truth of him. Jake kisses him, tongue seeking out every groove between his teeth, moaning against him and he realizes he’s maybe getting off on the taste of himself in Bradley’s mouth. God they’re going to be able to explore and try so much more now that they have the trust that exists between them. Something he knew he wanted, and to have it, he feels so damn lucky.

Both of Jake’s hands are in his hair, he’s being kissed so thoroughly, Jake’s grinding his hips up against him where he’s partially holding himself above him. Then one of Jake’s hands is on his ass, gripping and pulling and oh. He grinds down, presses his erection against Jake and grins into his mouth.

“Why are you still wearing underwear?” Jake complains.

“Mmm… was too busy getting reacquainted with your body.”

He loves the torn expression on Jake’s face, clearly wants to argue some point, but also can’t think of anything that he can argue about. Instead he digs his fingers into Bradley’s ass cheek and rolls his hips and Bradley moans, much closer than he thought he was. He wants to drag this out, continue re-learning every inch of Jake’s body with all his years of knowledge he’s acquired.

“Come on, want to get my mouth on you… take you fucking underwear off.”

Oh. This isn’t quite going the way he had planned in his head, but he stands and quickly strips off the garment which Jake has been scowling at. He’s more than okay doing what Jake wants as well. He follows Jake’s annoyed muttering directions until he’s straddling his chest, head of his cock a mere inch above Jake’s mouth. It’s a fucking gorgeous sight and his mouth is dry as he watches Jake, eyes dark, and then the tight warm heat of Jake’s mouth takes him in and he groans, his hips twitching reflexively. Then Jake’s hands are on his hips, encouraging him and his eyes fall shut as he lets himself start rolling his hips, the suction around his cock tight and warm. He opens his eyes to look at Jake, to give himself a visual to what he’s feeling and experiencing and –

“Oh god… Jake. Fuck.”

He pulls out sharply, not able to give any warning before he’s coming. Not that coming all over Jake’s face and neck is any better than coming in his mouth, but he’s not going to assume. His breath is coming in panting gasps, his body shaking and he puts a hand down to hold himself up, stares and Jake’s eyes carefully open and Bradley shifts down, needs to be kissing him again. He cleans up his own come this time, peppers his licks with kisses and murmured I love yous against the shell of Jake’s ear. It’s not what he had planned maybe, but it’s no less perfect. They’re going to need a shower, and he can’t wait to introduce that new level of intimacy into their relationship. He settles beside him, pulls up the sheet and reaches out to place a hand on his waist, fingers brushing softly.

“So… It’s nice to finally meet you. Properly I mean…” Bradley says, eyes searching Jake’s face and he’s smiling and feeling fond and content. Soft, he realizes, thinking about Natasha’s word she uses to describe him sometimes, especially the last couple of years when he’s been working at getting better at being more in touch with his emotions.

“I love you,” Jake says, and like hearing his name for the first time Bradley feels like he’s going to burst. At the same time it’s like Jake Hangman Seresin melts away and Jas is there, eyes wet with unshed tears and he kisses him again, feels the wetness slide over the pad of his thumb.

“I love you so much.”

“Can’t believe it took us this long.”

“You know we could have avoided all this if we'd just told each other our names...” Bradley says, because he’s definitely going to dig a little. He’s still him.

“Names? We could have sent each other photos of our faces…”

“Neither of which you wanted by the way. So I’m making you take the blame for just how long it took. But you also get the credit for figuring it out…”

“Damn right I do.”

“Love you Jake…”

“God you’re a sap…”

“Only with you.”

Jake blushes and Bradley smirks, because genuine sincerity is apparently the way to make him a complete mess.

… … …

Their day back at training after Ice’s funeral he feels more settled and is immediately thrown off balance again by the fact that Maverick isn’t there. He sits there in disbelief as he hears Admiral Simpson outline new parameters and agrees with every muttered and under-the-breath comment. A little distracted by the noise coming in over the radio.

“Uh, Maverick, range control, uh, green range is confirmed. I don’t see an event scheduled for you, sir.”

“Well, I’m going anyway.”

“Nice,” Natasha murmurs and Bradley rolls his eyes. Of fucking course everyone is already impressed with him. He hasn’t even fucking done anything yet.

“Setting time to target: Two minutes fifteen seconds.”

“Two-fifteen? That’s impossible.”

Bradley agrees in principle, however he also knows that Maverick knows himself. He wouldn’t set a time like that if he didn’t truly believe he could fly it. Jake turns around and smirks at him, as if to say this is your fucked up family and Bradley subtly gives him the finger, although inwardly he feels thrilled that he has someone with him, that knows him so well and his whole bullshit relationship with Mav. It’s such a relief, especially now that Ice is gone.

“Final attack point. Maverick’s inbound.”

He looks around the room, and he understands why everyone is so invested. If Maverick can do this then it proves it’s actually possible. He already knows it is, Maverick wouldn’t be trying to teach them if he didn’t think it wasn’t possible. But the others need to know it. Know it like he does.

“Popping in three, two, one.”

He leans forward, can feel the tension in the room mounting.

“Bombs away.”

Seconds tick by.

“Bull’s-eye!” “Holy shit!” “Yes.”

“Damn.”

Damn indeed.

He knows then, looking at Cyclone and Warlock’s faces that they’re probably going to send Maverick. Make him team lead. Which means either he's going, or Jake is going. There aren’t any guarantees and he can't believe their actual time together may only be counted in days.

… … …

By mutual agreement they don’t talk about it. They also don’t mention anything to anyone else, instead sequestering themselves away at his family home that no-one knows about except Mav, who definitely won’t be looking. They have to air it out, and deal with the dust and cobwebs, but’s it’s not as bad as it could be and he wonders if he has something else to retroactively thank Ice for, even if he can’t anymore. They buy new sheets and pillows and the entire house soon smells of them and sex and takeout food, neither of them wanting to waste time cooking when they can just be holding each other.

He keeps up his morning cup of coffee picture, tells Jake he doesn’t ever want him to doubt how he feels about him, even when he’s lying in bed and the cup of coffee in question is brought to him by a nearly naked Jake. Tells him the view that comes with his morning cup of coffee is much improved. The time they have together might be short but he’s going to make the most of every moment they have together.

… … …

“It has been an honor flying with you. Each one of you represents the best of the best. This is a very specific mission. My choice is a reflection of that and nothing more.”

He feels sick. He doesn’t care about flying and proving Mav wrong. Not anymore. He just doesn’t want Jake to go and then not come back. He has no idea who Mav will choose, and he knows Jake feels the same about him going. They’re both good. But there are so many things that can go wrong. There’s a reason why Mav has been listing off fucking miracles.

“Choose your two foxtrot teams.”

“Payback and Fanboy. Phoenix and Bob.”

“And your wing man?”

“Rooster.”

The relief he feels is immediate, knowing that Jake is going to be safe. Is going to live. It’s immense. The look of on Jake’s makes him feel sick though, because he knows it’s exactly what he’d be feeling if Jake had just been named Maverick’s wingman instead. They find a quiet spot and Jake kisses him like he’s trying to climb inside his body, Bradley presses them together like he’d let him climb inside if he could. Then they’re having to head up on deck.

“Give em hell,” Jake says, and he doesn’t need to say any more, he can see the unspoken words in his eyes and tense line of his jaw. You come back to me, you have to come back to me. He nods in understanding, an unspoken promise.

… … …

He can’t lose his last parent, not now.

God.

If he survives this Jake is definitely going to kill him.

And he’s probably going to get kicked out of the Navy.

He hopes Jake will be okay with him being unemployed.

… … …

“You all right?”

“Yeah, I’m good. You all right?”

Then he’s being pushed to the ground and he winces at the pain in his ribs, his head swimming a bit. Fuck. He thinks he has a concussion.

“What the hell?”

“What are you doing here?”

“What am I doing here?

“You think I took that missile so you could be down here with me? You should be back on the carrier by now!”

“I saved your life!”

“I saved your life! That’s the whole point! What the hell were you even thinking?”

“You told me not to think!” Bradley snaps, because he’s got tone on him now, the fucking self-righteous asshole. They both pant, catching their breath and just stare at each other for a few moments, and he still doesn’t really know how he’s going to relearn how to not be constantly angry or upset with Maverick.

“Well, it’s good to see you.”

“It’s good to see you too,” Bradley states, because he’s meant to be building bridges, not yelling, no matter how much of an idiot he thinks Maverick is.

“So what’s the plan?”

Maverick is insane.

That’s the plan.

No sane person would think this was somehow feasible.

“You’re not serious.”

He’s thinking about Ice’s letter, talking about how he was always glad to have Maverick on his side, because it beat having Maverick as an enemy and god he hopes that still remains true. That Maverick has some infinite well of good luck. Or a guardian angel. Hopefully both.

“You’ve got to be shitting me. An F-14?”

“I shot down three migs in one of those.”

“We don’t even know if that bag of ass can fly.”

“Let’s find out.”

“Mav!” Bradley calls out, but he’s already hustling away. “Oh for fucks’ sake…” Bradley mutters under his breath as he heaves his aching body up and convinces himself that he has to follow Mav. Does he not have pain receptors? Surely he’s aching at least half as badly as Bradley is.

“There’s guys up there, Mav.”

“Yeah.”

“There’s more over there.”

“Okay. Let’s start running.”

“Yeah, run. Run.”

He feels like he’s stepped back in time, the hangar holding the enemy F14 rusty. His body coursing with adrenaline and Maverick is looking crazy-eyed. Bradley knows the feeling.

“Once… once I give you the signal for air, you’re gonna flip this switch until the needle gets to 120. When the engine starts, you got to pull out the pins and disconnect everything. You understand?”

“Yeah.”

Then Maverick is running around and Bradley’s glad that he apparently knows what he’s doing. He thinks of Ice and how he’d always said how crazy Maverick was. He’d always sort of thought he was exaggerating for the sake of telling a good story but is starting to think he downplayed some of the more dangerous shit that Mav has taken part of. It’s a little terrifying to think about. He hops into the back of the F-14 and stares at all the dials and little screens, only vaguely familiar. Maybe from a visit to a fucking museum. He’s starting to really believe that Mav lives the not thinking aspect of his motto, because when he questions the wings coming out, raises entirely valid concerns about it being a taxiway he is just plain ignored. No. He gets told to hang on, like he has another option or any say in the matter.

“Holy shit!”

Holy shit seems to be his inner and outer mantra for the next few moments, Maverick intent on having a one-sided conversation that he doesn’t need to contribute to, which is just as well because he has nothing of value to add. The way Maverick asks him to get in touch with the boat is infuriating, like it’s a simple press of a button like a kid’s walkie-talkie. Nothing is fucking working, and he doesn’t know enough to get it working. He has to ask, feels like Mav is teaching him how to drive all over again, and that was an unmitigated disaster until Ice and Sarah took over.

“Throw the, uh… The uhf-2 circuit breaker. Try that.”

“There’s 300 breakers back here. Anything more specific?”

“I don’t know. That was your dad’s department.”

“I’ll figure it out,” Bradley mutters, and he continues looking, only to see something out of the corner of his eye and he freezes for a micro-second. “Mav, tally two, five o’clock low. What do we do?”

No one is ever going to believe him that Mav’s plan here is wave and smile. He follows the instructions though, can hardly believe that it somehow buys enough time for Mav’s brain to speed through however many options he thinks he has. Bradley doesn’t know how many he’s got, he can’t get past the idea that he’s going to die. Again. The idea of dying. Not actual dying. Maybe it’s just a day where he’s going to constantly think he’s going to die, but never actually does. Fuck he really really hopes so. He will live with the nightmares if he doesn’t actually have to die.

“All right, listen up. When I tell you, you grab those rings above your head. That’s the ejection handle.”

“Mav, can we outrun these guys?”

“Not their missiles and guns.”

“Then it’s a dogfight.”

“An F-14 against fifth-gen fighters?”

“It’s not the plane, it’s the pilot. You’d go after them if I wasn’t here,” Bradley states, absolutely certain of the fact. The taxiway was apparently easy and not risky at all. Holy shit his mind supplies.

“But you are here,” Mav counters.

“Come on, Mav. Don’t think. Just do.”

God he hopes he doesn’t die. Then Mav has shot one of them down and he can’t believe it, warns him about the next one, feels helpless without the option to fire his own missiles. Watching the fifth-gen fighter in action is unreal and god he wants to fly one. Then they’re getting low and heading back into the canyon area, heading out toward the sea, so at least in the general direction of the boat at least. He’s grateful that the terrain does seem to confuse the targeting system, that they still haven’t been shot down and he knows if he lives through this he will need to thank Mav every day. Fuck. If Ice is somehow watching he’ll make sure it happens just to ensure they make up. It would be a power move from him for sure.

When the second fifth-gen plane goes down, the pilot ejecting just before it smashes into the side of the canyon walls Bradley feels his heart start beating again, like his entire body has been in stasis for however long that all took. It probably wasn’t longer than a couple of minutes, but it feels like a lifetime and the briefest moment in time all at once. Through some miracle he gets the radio working, and if anyone asks him what he did he won’t be able to tell them. He attempts to get in touch with the boat, but he’s not sure if it’s working two-way, too distracted by the sudden beeping indicating the location of a bogey and he looks for it, knows he needs to be another set of eyes. Why can they not catch a fucking break? The fifth generation fighter appearing on their nose is a blow, as is them running out ammo, then flares. Nothing left to offer even the smallest splinter of hope. The plane is taking hits and he’s glad they built them to withstand hits because they would be dead by now. Then Mav is talking about gaining altitude and ejecting and he listens this time, pulls the handles desperately, his stomach sinking when nothing happens, the ejection function clearly broken.

“I’m sorry, Goose.”

Oh shit. He can almost feel the waves of Mav’s guilt, that his death is going to be as his back seater just like his dad. He feels like throwing up, not advisable and he’s not going to be alive to have to do anything about it –

BOOM.

The explosion, cloud of black smoke, vibrations and then the new jet appearing all happen simultaneously. Then the most beautiful sound he’s ever heard.

“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. This is your savior speaking. Please fasten your seat belts, return your tray tables to their locked and upright positions… And prepare for landing.”

“Hey, Hangman, you look good.”

“I am good, Rooster. I’m very good. I’ll see you back on deck.”

He’s pretty sure there’s a threat in there but he could cry he’s so relieved and happy. Soon the adrenaline coursing through his body is going to stop and he’s going to hit a wall but Jake will be there. Mav will be there.

He’s alive.

Nothing else matters.

… … …

Having working engines to land matter.

He’s once again very glad that Mav is the one flying.

Fuck this shit.

… … …

He’s never crash landed on a deck before and he never wants to do it again. He wonders if people have bucket lists of things they don’t want to have happen, but which have happened anyway. Sounds like it might make for depressing lists.

“You good?”

“Yeah. I’m good,” Bradley says, but he’s already thinking about saying similar words to Jake. Searches for him as he steps down from the F-14, his legs wobbly, body aching and head starting to pitch like he’s in a storm. He spies Jake, can’t help but smile at him goofily. He looks so good and he wants to kiss him. It’s probably not a good idea.

“Chalked yourself another kill.”

“That makes two,” Jake says, and Bradley will save the fact that he now technically has three for a day when he needs to bring Jake down a peg. Or when he needs to remind him that he had no choice, because taking life is not a thrill either of them particularly want.

“Mav has five. Makes him an ace.”

Bradley shakes his head, because he’s pretty sure Mav doesn’t like the idea that he’s killed people either, although again he expects similar sage advice to don’t think if he ever asks him about it. Maybe he might surprise him though. He calls out to him, glad they’re at least going to have a chance of mending their relationship and he smiles, starting to feel the world tilt again.

“Thank you for saving my life.

“It’s what my dad would’ve done,” Bradley says, and he knows it’s the truth. The hug he gets has him wincing and Jake hasn’t stepped further away than a couple of feet, has clearly been watching him carefully, is pushing his way towards him, his hands running over Bradley's face and torso in concern and he presses his face into his hand, suddenly feeling like sleep would be a really good thing to do right now.

“You need to go to the fucking sickbay.”

“Uh… Something you want to share with the class Hangman?” Natasha asks.

“Yeah. I just saved his life, don't want him to fall off the fucking carrier and waste all my hard work.”

“Come on, take me to sickbay.”

“Okay, that’s weird... Maybe he's concussed,” Natasha says.

“Oh, he’s definitely concussed,” Maverick says, and Bradley wants to argue, but Jake’s arm is around his waist and supporting him, leading him away from the noise.

Then they’re going down some steps, Jake turns at the bottom and reaches for him, kisses him and Bradley smiles and hums appreciatively, even with his brain feeling like it’s swimming in soup he’ll never turn down being kissed by Jake.

“I thought you were taking me to sickbay?”

“I am, but first I’m going to kiss you because I am so happy to see you alive. And I won’t yell at you, because I’m pretty sure you’ve got a concussion –”

“And broken ribs,” Bradley adds, because he’s pretty that where the pain is coming from.

“Jesus Rooster. I am so angry with you. How dare you risk yourself like that. You’re an idiot!”

“Your idiot though. I hope?”

“Yes you’re mine. Damn it. Come on, sickbay.”

“Thought you were going to kiss me?”

“I did, but then you mentioned broken ribs. And I’m thinking we’re going to have to get creative for a little bit while you mend… come on.”

… … …

Of course Mav ends up in the sick bay too, being forced to be looked over by an exasperated Cyclone and amused looking Warlock. Both clearly relieved that everyone is back alive, even if not well.

“So, how long have you two been together then?” Mav asks, and Bradley follows his gaze to his and Jake’s linked fingers. The fact that Jake hasn’t left his side. Yeah. That’s not subtle at all. He guesses they’re done with keeping it from everyone then. He’s more than okay with that.

“Couple of days.”

“Over a decade.”

They look at each other and both pull a face.

“It's complicated.”

Maverick looks between them and simply nods his head.

… … …

Jake doesn’t leave him alone, only when Natasha arrives and tells Jake to go and eat and have a shower does he actually go, kissing him quickly and throwing Natasha a wink as he leaves. She looks a bit worried and confused and he’d laugh if it didn’t hurt so much.

“So… you finally giving up on your penpal huh? Settling with Hangman?”

“What?”

“Your online boyfriend. You giving the thing with Hangman a go instead now? I thought you were… going with the guy online.”

“Uh. Not exactly. Jake is my online boyfriend.”

“What?”

“Yeah.”

“The guy you’ve been… holy shit. You’ve been together for years and you’ve only just figured it out?”

Oh fuck, he realizes his mistake then, realizes he’s never going to hear the end of it. From both her and Jake both. And probably fucking Coyote too.

“Haven’t the two of you been fucking each other for like, the last three years?”

“Natasha!”

“Oh no, I have heard too many drunken ramblings about his ass to let this go. You owe me so many foot massages if you want me to keep this quiet.”

“Fuck.”

… … …

>>I need to tell you something.

>>Through Grindr?

>>Yeah well, it’s relevant I guess.

>>Wanted to tell you before I delete it off my phone.

>>I haven’t hooked up with anyone but you since 2016.

>>I mean, it’s either been you in person, or you on here. So no one but you.

“Really?” Jake asks, voice loud in the quiet of the room.

“Yeah, really.”

“Oh.”

“Mmm. You’re my first choice online and you’re my first choice in person so pretty much makes you my only choice…”

“Good. Just the way I like it.”

“Me too.”

2019 - Jake's POV

#online and anonymous #Hangster #Sereshaw #hangman x rooster #Top Gun Maverick fanfic

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copperbadge · 1 year

Photo

[ID: Three photographs of the famous Pompeii “body casts”, plaster casts of those who died in the eruption and were preserved in the ash. Top, a man lies on his back, the bump of a belt visible around his waist; the top of his head has not been cast, and through his mouth and the top of his head you can see his teeth and skull. Lower left, a small dog, similar to a whippet, lies on its side, feet stretched above it, head tucked in near its haunches. Lower right, a cast of a child lying on their side, with an unusually expressive and visible face, deep-set eyes, a wide nose, and a slightly-open mouth.]

The second half of the Pompeii exhibit at the MSI is not exclusively given over to “body casts” but that’s clearly the heart of it; one of the larger rooms is a series of platforms lined in red with plaster casts of those who died in the eruption.

The first body you see is the one in the top image -- “Mold of a man with teeth”. One of the most moving and strange aspects of the Pompeii body casts, I’ve always thought, is that because of the way the casts were made -- into voids where a human body once lay before decomposing -- many of the original casts have the skeleton inside of them. With this body, you can see the skull, teeth, toe bones, and finger bones emerging from the plaster. It comes across as rather nightmarish in person, but it’s also an intense reminder that these are casts of the bodies of once-living beings.

To my mind, the most touching and awful cast is of the dog; they theorize that his family left him behind to guard their home as they fled. The two rings you see below his ear are the studs of his collar. I know that the death of a dog shouldn’t be more tragic than the death of a human, but at least most humans understand what’s happening to them, and dogs don’t know. Poor beastie. You were a good dog.

I was also struck by the cast of a child, one I’d never seen before and one with the most expressive face I’ve seen among the Pompeii casts. Most either don’t show faces or show very incomplete ones, but you can almost see the hair on that kid’s head.

The tagline of the exhibit is something like “What it destroyed, it preserved,” because you have to reckon with Pompeii as a site of immense historical significance and a learning experience while at the same time being the record of a terrifying natural disaster and the thousands of deaths it caused. I think it’s for the best that the “learning about history” portion came first; it both made the deaths more poignant and also allowed you to enjoy that part without the shadow of destructions hanging quite so low.

#pompeii #classical history #msi #death #animal death #bodies

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olympeline · 26 days

Text

(Third part of what I’ve decided to call my Catch the Queen omegaverse/cardverse USUK AU. Enjoy!)

Okay! Arthur is very knocked out so we are switching to Alfred’s POV for a bit. Our mysterious sunshine knight won his challenge with little effort thanks to his super strength and Arthur’s magic refusing to harm Alfred once he revealed himself to him. And - while Alfred was hugely disappointed that Arthur didn’t seem to remember him - that strange, magical reaction gave him hope. You see while Arthur had seemingly forgotten him, it’s not a mutual thing: Arthur is the one person Alfred could never forget.

Alfred was born into House Jones: a minor noble family of the Kingdom of Spades. His father died in battle, his mother in childbirth, and growing up Alfred only had his servants, tutors, and twin brother Matthew for company. While Mattie wanted to be a mage, Alfred always knew he was going to be a knight like his dad. Strong, athletic, and a natural leader: Alfred showed much early promise and his tutors were preparing him to become a squire when he was old enough. Life was good for Alfred despite not having parents. He had his twin, he had plenty of friends at school, and he was going to be the best Knight of Spades in the whole kingdom! A knight was a hero who defended the weak and saved them from bad things. Once Alfred learnt this, he never wanted to be anything else. At age seven he was a sunny, cheerful boy full of promise. Then disaster struck: Alfred became ill. A wasting, breathing sickness that soon left the formally strong, hearty boy white, wheezing and confined to bed. Whether it was always in him or he caught something, no one knew. Nobody could cure it - the healers and doctors left baffled - and Alfred’s life was officially ruined. Left bedbound to waste away while Matthew was sent away to mage school. His twin cried and begged to be allowed to stay, but the arrangements had already been made before Alfred got sick. Plus they wanted the Spare quickly sent away to safety now the Heir had a potentially infectious illness. Alfred was left alone too weak to do even the boring grammar and history lessons he used to hate.

Alfred spent months this way with no improvement and grew to despair. Putting on a brave face during the day but crying himself to sleep at night until his useless lungs choked. There seemed to be no hope left for Alfred of House Jones. Then, one day, a second bolt from the blue. Only this one was much more welcome than a mystery sickness: a thief broke into Alfred’s house. Specifically into Alfred’s bedroom. It was the middle of the day and Alfred was dozing after failing to eat his lunch. His newest pills made him feel too sick to eat, so the maid left a tray by his bedside in case he wanted it later. Alfred awoke to a sound and was stupified to see a stranger - frozen like a deer in headlights at being caught red handed - in the middle of stuffing bread, cheese, and meat into the ragged cloak he wore. The stranger was a boy about Alfred’s age or a little older. Blonde, green-eyed, filthy and thin, and smelling like he hadn’t bathed in a week. Alfred had no idea at the time but the runaway Spade Queen-in-Waiting had just tried to steal his lunch. Arthur was nine and had fled the palace after finding out what the future had in store for him as Queen. Yeah, the Royal Talk didn’t go well, lol. Arthur was terrified and determined not to let it happen. So he stole a set of servants’ clothes and ran away. Leaving the palace in chaos in his wake as the court officials tried to simultaneously mount a search whilst keeping Arthur’s flight a secret and avert a kingdom-wide panic. But life on the road was hard, particularly for a pampered royal, and it wasn’t long before Arthur was desperate enough for food to scramble up some vines to a second storey window, chasing the scent of fresh cooked meat.

Alfred would have yelled, pounced on the thief, and tried to wrestle him to the ground in the past. As he was post-illness, it was all he could do to try and yell at him to put his lunch down. Even that left him doubled over and wheezing till tears ran down his face. The sound summoned the maids and Alfred’s live in nurse and by the time Alfred could see again, the thief had vanished. The nurse got him settled and the maids shut and locked the window, promising to call the constable. Alfred was left alone to ponder all that happened. He found himself strangely disappointed after the adrenaline faded. Excitement was hard to come by and he wished the encounter hadn’t ended so fast. Even if he couldn’t duel a wicked thief and catch him like a good, heroic knight. Just something that wasn’t his endless, normal routine was enough. Then Alfred’s nose caught that unwashed scent again and his heart skipped a beat. He called out as best he could for the thief to come out and show himself, or else! And the bed juddered as someone jumped and banged their head underneath, swore a word Alfred had once been switched for using, and then scrambled out gracelessly. The lunch thief stood before him and he and Alfred stared at each other for a long moment. Then the thief’s gaze drifted to the fresh plate of food the maid brought and Alfred heard his stomach rumble. The thief blushed scarlet under the dirt and glowered at Alfred as if daring him to comment. Alfred said he could have the food if he wanted. The thief stared at him and Alfred promised he wouldn’t tell. The boy looked hungry. The way he fell on the food told Alfred he was wrong: the thief wasn’t hungry, he was starving.

Afterwards, Alfred told the boy his name and then asked him his. When the boy answered it was in a funny accent that Alfred could tell he was trying to conceal without success. He said his name was “Oliver” but stumbled over the three syllables in such a weird way that Alfred was immediately sure he was lying. He told the boy so and the boy snapped back that Alfred was wrong. Alfred called him a liar-liar-pants-on-fire. The boy called him stupid and a little kid. They devolved into arguing until the maid came back to scold Alfred for getting worked up, and the boy had to dive under the bed again. Once she left, the boy emerged and asked Alfred why he hadn’t told. Alfred shrugged and said he didn’t care about the food so it would be unfair if the boy was hanged for taking it. He asked the boy where he was from but the boy wouldn’t answer. He changed the subject by asking Alfred what was wrong with him. Alfred shrugged and muttered something noncommittal. He didn’t like talking about his sickness and a real life thief (even just a lunch one) was much more interesting. He said so and the boy blushed again and retorted haughtily that he wasn’t a thief. Alfred pointed out he was just caught stealing and the boy went even redder. It was cute so Alfred showed mercy and agreed when the boy (gazing at the floor) mumbled something about paying Alfred back one day when he could. Then the boy thanked him awkwardly for the food and said he had to go. Alfred told him - a little desperately - that he could have more food later if he came back again. Being sick was boring as hell on top of everything else with no Mattie to play with and his school friends’ parents too afraid Alfred was contagious to let them visit. The boy said sorry but he was on an important journey and had to go right away. Then he left through the window. Alfred tried to write Mattie a secret letter telling him all about the exciting thing that happened. But he was too weak to sit up and hold the pen for more than a couple of sentences. Alfred cried again that night. Buried deep under the covers where even his sharp eared maid couldn’t hear him. He wished the strange boy hadn’t left even if he was a smelly thief who called Alfred stupid in his weird accent. All those things were still better than being alone.

But it wasn’t to be when the boy thankfully proved himself a liar a second time and returned the very next day.

Alfred thought about all of this as he sat in the anteroom to the Queen’s chambers. Staring into space as awestruck servants scuttled around and bowed low to their soon-to-be King. Alfred, out of his armour and wearing his first ever set of royal clothes, didn’t notice them. Too busy remembering Arthur as he was as a child, and wondering what in the all-loving name of Spades he was going to say to him once Arthur woke up.

(End of part 3! Maaaan, this just keeps getting longer, huh? I can’t help it. I like this AU too much. I just want to flesh it out 😆)

#hetalia #usuk #hws america #hws england #aph america #aph england #omegaverse #cardverse #catch the queen au #my posts

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redbullcateringfiction · 9 months

Text

Chapter 8 -

Cantata

Arabella is the executive assistant for Mercedes Team Principal Toto Wolff. 10 years into her career, it looks like the tide is changing, and she's beginning to question her relationship with him. Is it something more, or nothing but an idea lingering in her head?

F/M, Fluff, Boss/Employee Relationship, Romance, Pining, Love, Slow Burn

Eight chapter below the cut or click here for AO3

Click here for the previous chapter on Tumblr, and click here for a list of all chapters

(Total: 34872 words thus far)

Where I wander: An opinion by the ‘bitch’

Thursday, March 12th, 2021 6:20 GMT

Author: Arabella Lazaar

Edited by: Jeffrey Martens and Shane Coughlan

Editor’s note, March 12th, 2021: Arabella Lazaar is the former partner of Irish rock band Four Odd Bottles singer Cathal Lynch. Their 3 year relationship was not public knowledge until October 13th, 2019.

If I were to recall every moment during our relationship, I would not question where I went wrong.

Formula 1 is filled with huge personalities and names. There’s no doubt many fans could tell you how they imagine their favorite drivers’ to be, and I can assure you they would be 90% correct. Being in Formula 1 requires being surrounded by glass walls at all times. Your most intimate self is constantly on display. This was something I never enjoyed. Afterall, I suffer from agoraphobia. Seeing into the distance, and seeing the crowds of people is terrifying. I have forced myself to be in these situations. In God’s name, why?

I’ve always loved formula racing, but I never thought I could be an integral part of it. I never had the skills nor talent to be a driver or engineer. I, however, think I have quite the head on my shoulders. Micromanaging people and information became second nature to me. It’s a natural skill that one develops when their anxiety tells them to avoid everyone and everything. So, I saw an opportunity in Formula 1, and put my effort into joining a team. I set aside every fear I have to put my brilliance on the table instead.

During that process, I learned that if I am constantly moving (as it is a job requirement), and hiding behind those big personalities, those glass walls become a comfort. I could be entirely isolated while surrounded by people, because no one cared about me, really. I could also be socializing with some of my favorite people. Above all else, I serve as an important cog in the well-oiled machine that is Mercedes-AMG. It was the dream I sought out.

In 2016, I came upon Cathal Lynch, and our romance began to bud. Nothing new. Just another person to hide behind so I could continue to value my loneliness. This is the moment where I went wrong. Cathal had been correct from the beginning: There was no way to keep our relationship secret forever. We had two incredibly different opinions on this. I believed it could be managed for a long time. Until a wedding, at least. Cathal waited just days before asking if he could reveal me to the public. This became a constant item of discussion. In the meantime, every song Cathal released was a reflection of our relationship. The trips to Morocco to visit my extended family, our house in Brackley covered with his white cat’s hair, and of course, my career. Every time a song was written, and released, I would panic. It was all pieces of information that would lead people to me. The glass walls started to show their cracks.

Then, in 2019, they finally crumbled. I was now a microcelebrity. Yes, I had spoken to a few Formula 1 magazines, but my Instagram had never been on television. This was an entirely new world for me. Cathal did not help me navigate this new world. The strain on our relationship was too large, and Cathal moved out of my home in Brackley just a week before the COVID-19 pandemic hit. This was 2 years ago now. With the collapse of the life I knew, I tried to embrace the disaster. Maybe I’m being dramatic, but when I looked around, all I saw was the shambles.

Wherever I turned though, Cathal was there.

And so I wonder, where can I wander? Cathal follows me everywhere. My job is micromanagement, and Cathal’s seems to be micromanaging me. Every song seems to center around some sort of belief I was using him. I will not apologize for something I did not do though. 1 break up album is understandable. 2 break up albums is uncomfortable. 2 albums and 5 singles is a deliberate assault on a person’s life. I don’t know how he walked away from this so hurt, and I would like to apologize. I would also like to never see him again.

Perhaps, that is what makes me a bitch to him. I am a bitch (as it is a job requirement). I will accept that. I have developed a hardened exterior in no small part due to the previously described situations. I will not accept the assertion that I was nothing more than a woman seeking out fame. I easily could’ve found it in my own job. I chose not to.

I cannot continue to maintain my isolation though, that much is clear. Cathal hasn’t left me alone for 2 years. An essay won’t stop gossip and an army of fans to spread it. This latest incident is proof by itself. Even had the song not been clearly targeted at me, enough speculation would have led people to believe it was. So, I believe I should address at least one other item:

I choose to own the label of bitch, but no woman should have to make that decision because a man decided to label her as one. In the interest of fairness however, I believe Cathal Lynch should accept the label of ‘misogynist.’

As written through correspondence with Arabella Lazaar and Jeffrey Martens. Arabella Lazaar is currently the personal assistant to Mercedes-AMG team principal Torger “Toto” Wolff. Jeffrey Martens is her legal counsel and acquaintance.

Comments on this piece are unavailable.

“Black screens are going up,” I heard over the headset, and immediately took it off. Nothing was going to be happening for a moment.

“Fucking hell,” Toto sighed. “Gearbox issue, we’re not even on the road.” He looked over at me, and I saw a smile creep over his face.

“Let me show you what Bono sent me,” He smirked, raising his eyebrows. He handed over his phone and I saw a tweet.

PopCrave

Cathal Lynch temporarily banned from Formula 1 races after releasing “Bitch,” and showing up to his ex-girlfriend’s job. Video below.

I looked at the video thumbnail. There he was in his stupid Red Bull shirt, but his hair looked different. He had clearly cut it, and his eyes looked tired. He no longer had the shaggy, boyish look he had when we broke up. Instead, he looked like a real celebrity. I clicked on the video and listened closely.

Cathal was leaving the paddock, and a bunch of media had already surrounded him. “Cathal, Cathal. Why are you leaving the paddock today?” One called out. He stopped and spoke into the camera, as I knew he couldn’t resist.

“I was apparently ‘banned’ due to some violation. I don’t know what. My team is on it. It’s absurd. I bought my ticket. The song was planned to be released months ago. I apologize though to all the fans who might’ve expected to see me here,” He groaned out an obviously prepared reply. He knew why he had been banned. No way he couldn’t.

“Cathal, did you see Ariana Lazaar’s response?” Another reporter called out.

“Huh?” He asked walking towards them.

“Did you see Ariana Lazaar’s response?”

“Arabella? You mean Arabella? And no, what response? She hasn’t said anything,” Cathal answered.

“10 minutes ago on the Guardian,” The reporter explained.

“What? What’d she say?” Cathal asked.

“She called you a misogynist,” He responded. I could see the gears in Cathal’s head turn. “Mr. Lynch, do you have a response? Cathal, do you have a response?”

“That bitch.”

I could hear a collective ‘whoa’ come from the crowd of reporters as Cathal flipped his sunglasses down. The reporters chased him down as he climbed into his car and drove off. I looked up at Toto, and immediately laughed when I saw his huge smirk on his face.

“Nice response, by the way. PR is absolutely in love,” Toto explained.

“I…I appreciate that,” I smiled.

“I’m so very serious. I think he just ruined his own career, and you get to keep that pretty smile on your face,” Toto said, before suddenly looking around. “Where’s Netflix?”

“Not here,” I shrugged.

“They’re not going to put this in, right? No point, right?” He asked. “It’d be weird.”

“If they do, they’re not interviewing me,” I nodded.

“Where’s Susie? Do you know?”

“Uh…not sure actually.”

“Let me text her. Keep your ears open on the headset, will you?” Toto asked, stepping away from the computers.

“Will do,” I nodded, putting the headset back on. It was a series of chaotic conversations between engineers as everyone desperately tried to understand the electrical failure occurring in one of the cars. Less time on the road is less time to practice, and suddenly everyone was moving, calling, chatting, arguing, and complaining. If I took the headset off though, I would find it to be entirely silent. Maybe a door would creak open every now and then followed by pounding footsteps, but otherwise, it could be eerie during a time like this. The only time you’d find this room silent otherwise would be the delayed breaths as we all sat waiting to hear a driver was okay after a crash.

This was not silent out of fear though, it was silent because a good chunk of the engineers had run off to settle things on the car directly. The others were too busy staring at analytics on their computers. I recall one time when an assistant from Red Bull learned that I sit in the paddock and listen to things on the headset. I told him quite simply that when Toto isn’t here, I’m his boots on the ground for all things administrative. When Toto is here, I’m still his boots on the ground as he literally flies around taking care of everything else. He should have to worry the least about resource management and being sure he’s kept up on everything. I can handle the rest.

Suddenly, I felt a tiny tap on my leg, and looked over to my left and saw Jack.

“Oh, hey, Jack!” I smiled. I saw Susie was standing right behind me, as Toto ran off to handle something. “And Susie.”

“He saw you from across the room and went straight to practically begging to see you,” Susie grinned.

“Yeah? You missed me?” I asked, picking him up and putting him on my lap. “Here, let’s get you a headset. You might be able to hear your dad.”

I grabbed a pair that was too big and nearly falling off his ears. I held it with my hand as he grabbed on to either ear so he could hear.

“Y’know, Toto’s pissed about the car. I think he needed to see Jack to remind himself he can’t break any necks,” Susie nearly whispered.

“An electrical failure this soon is not exactly a ringing endorsement for the season,” I complained.

“Yeah and Red Bull is on our ass.”

“Gotta focus on our car first,” I shrugged.

“Hey, I was thinking. It’s been so long since we caught up. Did you want to grab a tea or something when you get a break from the action?” Susie offered.

“Uh…yeah, yeah. Of course,” I smiled. In a bit of a sad way, one of my only female friends is my boss’s ex-wife. At least they’re best friends, and at least she is just lovely. To be clear, I would choose to have more female friends. It just happens that I work in a female dominated field in a boys’ club. All of my colleagues who I find myself trying to impress and work against, are women. All of my colleagues who I have to work with and build a strong relationship with happen to be men. Except, really, Susie. Maybe a few others here and there, but our relationships just don’t mesh.

“Too busy?” She asked.

“No, no. I’ll make time. I’ll text you,” I explained. Jack gently pulled the headset off his ears.

“Bored,” He shrugged.

“That was quick,” I smiled at him. “Well what do you want to do?”

He shrugged again.

“Do you wanna watch me mess with…my calendar?” I asked. He nodded, much to my surprise.

“Oh! Alright then,” I responded, and went to my calendar on the computer in front of me. Susie chuckled and sat in the chair next to us. I kept one ear on the headset, the other on Jack and Susie, my eyes on the calendar, one arm around Jack’s back with my cellphone in my hand as I shot off text messages, and the other hand on the computer mouse. This type of multitasking is something they try to train into you during your training. I had been lucky enough to become particularly well versed in it at a young age, helping my parents manage the hotel. Little things here and there. Grabbing the phone while they showed someone around, or playing concierge for the guests. Then, when I came back while getting my training, I actually got the title. The idea of a tiny hotel in Ameland having a concierge was cute enough to bring guests. I mean, the island doesn’t have much, so all I really did was help them manage a little bit of travel to and fro, and tell them where to catch the best views. People still appreciated it…I think.

“Isn’t it nice to have the family back together?” My father asked.

“Yeah, pay no mind to the fact that Chadi has ran off to the nearest bar,” Nour laughed.

“Why is Chadi even here?” Farah asked. “He never shows up. Of course, Arabella offers a ticket to Formula 1 and he decides to show up.”

“I mean, at least he’s here,” I groaned.

“Thank you, Arabella,” My mother nodded.

“Besides, I give you guys tickets all the time. It’s not like this was the only time and Chadi used me or something.”

“Yeah, because Chadi would never do that,” Farah laughed.

“What are you talking about, Farah? Do you suddenly know him better than the rest of us?” Nour asked, leaning in.

“No, but I know our parents better than the rest of you.”

“Oh, listen to the favorite babble on,” Chadi slurred, suddenly appearing at the table. He pulled out the chair directly next to Farah, and smirked.

“Sorry, I tried to tell him to go back to his hotel since he’s drunk but he wouldn’t have it,” Mehdi spoke from the doorway. As the newest addition to the family, why did anyone allow him to play bouncer?

“Why are you still here?” Chadi asked.

“Well, I am married to Nour. I know you missed the wedding, but what? Are you such a drunk you can’t remember that?”

“Shut the fuck up, with all due respect, Mehdi,” Nour groaned. “It’s not your job to keep anyone in or out of the family despite what Farah may have told you.”

“Everyone, shut up!” My father shouted. “Chadi, we love you. but you can’t show up drunk and argue with your sister.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Did everyone miss what she said about me?”

“No we heard it,” I complained, rubbing my temple.

“Then you should say to your favorite daughter to keep her mouth shut sometimes!” Chadi shouted at our parents.

“Favorites? We don’t play favorites,” Our mom spoke, softly.

“Raise your hand if you went to boarding school,” Chadi smirked. Nour and I raised our hands with Chadi.

“The favorite child gets the stellar education of Burgemeester Waldaschool? Meanwhile, the only one of us who is rich went to Saint-Denis and played squash because she was anxious.”

“Only one of us? I’m sorry, are you in my pocketbook, Farah?” Nour asked. “Your husband is a brain surgeon, fuckhead.”

“Watch your mouth,” My father warned.

“Stop fucking critiquing us and get on this one,” Nour answered, pointing at Farah.

“Farah, be nice,” My mother sighed.

“Be nice? That’s it?” Nour asked. “C’mon, you’ve got something better than that in there/”

“Leave mom alone, Nour,” Farah argued. “She hasn’t done anything.”

“Actually, our parents have done everything,” Chadi slurred. “When you think about it.”

“What the fuck are you even talking about, you fucking drunk?” Farah interrogated.

“I think what Chadi is saying-” Nour began.

“I can speak for myself, fuckhead,” Chadi interrupted. “They chose you to be the favorite, me to be the prodigal son that has yet to return, and Nour to be the envious older brother. And Arabella to be the anxious one who sits there twisting her fucking hair and not saying shit.”

I slowly took my hands out of my hair. I mean, yeah, he was right.

“Why are you mad at Arabella? She is literally just sitting there,” Nour asked.

“Because she’s literally just sitting there. She’s not saying anything of value and just watching this thing go down,” Farah groaned. Farah turned to me, eyebrow raised, and hair falling out of her bun. Chadi turned to me, with his body clearly wanting to slump over. Then Nour, the most cleancut one at the table, turned to me with a slightly crazed look in his eyes, like he smelled blood and was ready to go after it. Then my parents. My mother and father both turned to me, instead of speaking up and trying to solve this problem.

“Listen, everyone needs to shut up. I brought you all here. You didn’t have to come, any of you. You chose to. Farah, just accept the fact that you’re the favorite. Our parents can barely admit it because it’s true. I’m sure you went through shit too though, I guess. Chadi, you’re drunk. Go back to the hotel, and just fucking sleep it off. And Nour, stop just fueling drama because you want to see the family blow up. And mom, and dad. At least realize that Farah is your favorite. Maybe if you admitted it, all of us would calm down or something. And I will keep playing negotiator since that’s all you guys want from me. But everyone, otherwise, shut the fuck up. Actually, y’know what. I don’t care. I’m leaving,” I complained. I stood up and left the table. No one came after me. Why would they? They were probably too self-absorbed to have even heard what I said.

“We’ve had Bottas on the road for 5 or so laps right now. We don’t have a lot of time left in the morning session,” Someone called from the radio.

“How many laps can we get in?” Toto asked.

“Maybe 10? 15 total?” A response rang out.

“We’ll take it. It’s day one, he needs to be on the road,” Toto groaned. Toto turned to me and rolled his eyes. “Well, at least he’ll have those. He’s going to absolutely have my ass later.”

“He’ll learn to live with it,” I shrugged.

“It would be better for him to learn to live with Max and Charles.”

“Speaking of Charles,” I gestured towards the screens. “Car’s down.”

“Well…and there it goes. Red flag. Alright…6 laps from Bottas?” Toto shrugged. “Pfft. This is just uber good, yeah?”

“I’m going for lunch in a few,” I sighed, taking off the headset.

“You’re going to be in the garage for the afternoon session then?” Toto asked, tapping my shoulder so I could turn around to face him.

“Nope, my weekend is in the motorhome.”

Toto raised an eyebrow.

“Yeah, I’ll be back, but I’m talking shit with Bono when I get back,” I sighed. Bono looked up from his place to the left of Toto and raised an eyebrow.

“Who are we talking shit about?” He asked, putting down his papers.

“Toto,” I whispered.

“Alright, you two,” Toto chuckled. “But before you go, Arabella. Give me something to distract myself for a moment. What do you want for your anniversary?”

“A pen would actually be nice,” I sighed, taking out my phone and scrolling.

“Still on about a pen. Anything else?” Toto groaned.

“There are good pens, Toto,” Bono nodded. I suddenly realized I had way too many notifications for me to continue comfortably looking at my phone. Even if just to make myself look busy.

“A fountain pen?” Toto asked.

“Oh, I would never use a fountain pen,” I sighed.

Toto threw his hands up. “Then what good of a gift is it?”

“I mean, she writes a lot,” Bono shrugged.

“She writes a lot. No worries, Arabella. I’ll make sure you get a pen. It will be the best gift you’ve ever gotten," he winked. For a moment, for that moment, everything was about what he had just said. Of course, our relationship is professional. At best, friendly. However, it would be irresponsible for me not to admit though that a part of my cold exterior could be melted away by the simple gesture of someone wanting to do something nice for me. Was that just part of my seemingly growing crush on him? I don’t think it matters. What it really says though is how desperate I am for someone to care about me.

“You see how her eyes just lit up? I think she really does want a pen,” Bono laughed.

“Maybe,” I cringed at myself. I could just imagine my doe eyed look for a few seconds. Toto just smirked though, implying that at the least, he didn’t notice the ‘desperate’ part of my expression.

“Yeah, uh…do you have a recommendation?” The security guard sighed, looking me up and down.

“Yeah, uh…Lewis Hamilton?” I mocked.

“The attitude is not cute on you,” He responded, looking through the list. “Well, just because you’re on the list, doesn’t mean you get to come in.”

“Then what’s the point of your list?” I groaned.

“Do you think you’re Grace Kelly?”

“Do you think you’re the secret service?”

“I am,” He sighed, quickly flashing his ID. Oh…

“Alright, Schatzi,” I heard from behind me, as an arm wrapped around my shoulders. “I thought you’d already be on this boat, huh?”

“Yeah, I did too, Toto,” I sighed, looking at him. First kiss, second kiss. Just a brief touch on each cheek. The security guard looked at me in the eyes, and then back at Toto, before stepping aside to let us in. Toto let go of me, slipping into the crowd, as I began to follow him. Right before I did though, the security guard grabbed my arm.

“Now I have to know…who are you?” He asked.

“His assistant,” I shrugged. The security guard watched as I slipped into the crowd, but not quite disappearing before I blew a raspberry at him. I’m childish…but who cares at this particular moment. I’m on a billionaire’s super yacht, at the request of the best F1 driver in the world and another billionaire, and within my sight right now is Prince Albert. I took my fingers through my hair. I straightened it for the first time in a very long time. I stepped further into the party. It's hard to feel comfortable when surrounded by people like this, but nevertheless, I couldn’t help but savor the moment a little bit.

My anxiety was creeping up though. I could feel it. I quickly moved towards one of the servers and grabbed a glass of champagne, and chugged it. I grabbed another before they even moved away. I refuse to not enjoy myself, no matter how much alcohol it takes. The good thing about being unrecognizable is that no one is really desperate to talk to me. So, I can float through the party like a ghost…wait…why did I come then?

“Hey, Arabella!” I heard from deep in the crowd in front of me. The British accent and ability to remain soft spoken while yelling was impossible not to recognize. I pushed through the crowd, following the hand waving to me.

“Oh, hey!” I smiled. Lewis gave me a nod, and smiled.

“I swore to God, I saw your boyfriend floating around here,” Lewis said, looking around.

“Are you sure it wasn’t Lewis Capaldi?” I asked.

“Oh, you know…it might’ve been. They do look alike, don’t they?” He sighed. “Is Cathal here?”

“In Monaco? Yeah. Here at the party? Likely not. We try to split up our engagements. Avoiding speculation and all that.”

“Ah, yeah. Not fun dating celebrities, is it?”.

“I mean…it’s great,” I smiled.

“You don’t have to lie,” Lewis laughed. “But, I’m glad you could come. Sometimes these parties feel a little…weird. It’s like 20 year olds and 50 year olds. Nothing in between. Except us, I guess.”

“Yeah, it's definitely interesting. But this isn’t my first party in Monaco…maybe the most elite one I’ve been to though,” I cringed, looking around.

“Oh, one thing I did want to mention. I am having a less elitist party tomorrow. Less princes, more fun. Bring your swimsuit, bring Cathal, it’ll be great. Less intense at least. I’ll text you the details.”

“Cathal? I don’t know…I…”

“Don’t worry. We know discretion. Despite what it may seem like, there are ways to keep things quiet. Promise,” Lewis winked.

“Thanks,” I smiled. I took a deep breath and looked around the party from my position. “I’m…going to go mingle. I’ll catch up with you when I see you.”

“Got it. See you tomorrow,” Lewis smiled.

I stepped in the direction of the exit. I appreciated Lewis’s offer, and maybe I would go tomorrow. Today though, I just am not sure if this is the environment for me. I can’t say I find this to be particularly comfortable. I’m not famous, and I don’t want to be. I barely got let in the door. I shouldn’t be here. I just shouldn’t-

“Are you leaving already, Arabella?” I heard Toto behind me.

“Oh…yeah,” I answered, turning around.

“Well, before you go, at least let me introduce you to some people. I was just telling everyone about my amazing assistant, and they were just saying how they have to put a face to the name.”

I walked directly to the right of Toto, and waved to the group of men he was talking to. 2 hours later, I was still on the boat. Sure, I didn’t belong with the celebrities, but maybe that’s not my niche in places like this. But I can definitely play assistant in places like this. And I kind of love it. Sharing stories of messy conversations and quadruple bookings, all while showcasing how damn good I am at managing it? It gets no better.

Tag list: @daddyslittlevillain, @littleheaven

#f1 2023 #f1 fandom #toto wolff #f1 fanfic #f1 fic #fanfic #formula 1 rpf #oc of color #toto wolff fanfic #toto wolff fanfiction #toto wolff x oc #toto wolff fluff

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horrormoviemonstermakeout · 1 year

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MONSTER RATING: Godzilla (Shin Godzilla)

Shin Godzilla is a new spin on Godzilla from Japanese directors Hideaki Anno and Shinji Higuchi, and it fucking rules. Look, I love most of the Godzilla movies, even though it went from a metaphor to the horrors of war and the nuclear bomb to basically just kaiju WWE, Godzilla was meant to be a terrifying monster. Shin Godzilla seeks to rectify it with this new incarnation - a mutilated, radiation-scarred amalgamation of tumorous, charred flesh.

Shin Godzilla follows the members of the Japanese government as they attempt to weave their way through the bureaucratic and social nightmare of a 400 foot tall irradiated monster seeking to destroy one of the most densely populated cities in the world. It’s a fairly interesting concept - it’s less a typical kaiju story and more of someone going “Okay, seriously, what if Godzilla actually existed in real life, what would happen?” I’ve been known to enjoy ridiculous hypotheticals and I, for one, am glad that Shin Godzilla follows through with it and still manages to make it interesting. The wonderful performances really sell that these people are responsible for the lives of several million citizens and that they are utterly aware of how limited their powers are. These are people trying to do the best they can to not let this be the worst humanitarian disaster on the face of the planet.

The movie’s cast is huge, I could swear they have enough actors to replicate the Japanese government one-to-one, which makes it a little difficult to pick out who our main protagonists are. The one we focus on the most is Rando Yaguchi (Hiroki Hasegawa), Deputy Chief Cabinet Secretary, our main protagonist with his friend Hideki Akasaka (Yutaka Takenouchi), the Prime Minister's aide, and Kayoco Anne Patterson (Satomi Ishihara), the US President’s envoy. As Godzilla grows more and more dangerous - with mutations that threaten to obliterate Tokyo, if not all of Japan - they must organize as many people as they can muster in order to devise a plan to stop Godzilla in its tracks. All the while attempting to placate the US, who is more than eager to destroy Godzilla, along with all of Tokyo, with nuclear force.

I know political commentary is not usually what people come to Godzilla for, but the “what if”-esque nature of this movie lends itself to it surprisingly well. Godzilla is treated both as a force of nature, much like an earthquake or hurricane, that appears randomly to cause arbitrary death and destruction, and a hostile entity that has to be combatted. It’s shockingly realistic for a disaster movie, we see how the government is stretched thin trying to handle evacuation, military deployment, trying to seek reason in a country with an itchy trigger finger resting on the nuke button - it gets tense watching them despair and panic, doing everything they can to minimize the loss of human life.

No punches are pulled at the expense of America, of course. Our response is immediate military deployment, with little to no regard for collateral damage or civilian casualties. Props to the movie for accuracy, even if attempts to fight Godzilla with raw military power are futile. Gunfire, cannonfire, missiles, everything seems to bounce off its burnt exterior without so much as a scratch. The only thing that manages to pierce its skin are the missiles dropped from American B-52 bombers. In response, Godzilla discharges dozens of laser beams from his back, destroying the bombers and reducing the metropolitan area to a burning, irradiated wasteland. Even if the missiles did succeed, the movie is quick to point out that the carpet bombing would’ve annihilated Tokyo anyways. When conventional weaponry doesn’t work, the US immediately plans to destroy both Godzilla and Tokyo through use of a nuclear bomb. Every character is justifiably horrified at this.

Godzilla in this movie is a being of ultimate violence, absolutely nothing can trump it. When there’s a weapon it can’t shrug off, it evolves to surpass it. More importantly though, he’s basically a wild animal trapped in a corner. Of course it’s going to lash out, you’re provoking the god of violence and he’s scared shitless. He is the ultimate hubris punisher, a being that exists to humble humanity and say “Your violence will only be met with destruction.” The calls for violence against it are noticeable once you pick it up, even in the beginning when it’s a large, unknown, whale-like creature in the Tokyo bay, the government officials are already calling for its extermination. The only way he is defeated is through scientific research and understanding, a blood coagulant that is developed only through study of its molecular structure and behavior. The movie’s big message is “Violence will only ever beget greater violence, it’s only through cooperation and understanding that humanity can survive,” and it’s using the American proclivity towards violence as the cudgel for this metaphor, which is great.

We talked a lot about what he represents, but let's get literal for a moment. Let's talk about the big man himself.

- MONSTER RATING - GODZILLA -

CREEPINESS: 7/10 - Classically, Godzilla is just one big dinosaur, and like, conceptually it’s pretty terrifying. He’s a giant monster that’s almost impossible to fight and can kill thousands of people pretty easily, though a lot of the older movies have added a bit of narm to him. For a lot of people, Godzilla is more a goofy rubber monster than something horrifying.

Shin Godzilla is horrifying. His design makes it look like he’s one-half dead, useless flesh and the other half painful, tumorous overgrowth, with the exterior of thick, folded over, burnt skin and dull red light faintly glowing from where it’s thinnest. Raw, exposed flesh that’s visible from the parts that aren’t covered in charred skin. The shriveled, contorted arms that seemed to have lost functionality. The several overlapping teeth that seem to just grow randomly from in and around its mouth. This beast is a product of radiation and every single part of it seems to yearn for a swift release. Existence for Shin Godzilla seems to be one of endless pain, as its tumor-ridden body continues to survive despite it threatening to fall apart.

Though what makes him even scarier than his design is that the movie portrays him like the personification of natural disaster. It cannot be reasoned with, it cannot be stopped, and the more you try to stop him, the more death and destruction he will cause. Even then, nothing humanity can do can actually stop it, it’s more powerful than any weapon on Earth, and its existence only signifies inevitable annihilation. Humans are no longer on top, and they’re no longer safe either.

The ONLY thing that stops Godzilla from being truly terrifying is - and I’m sorry to say this - the eyes. Big, googly-eyed peepers that don’t suggest any form of brain activity in that skull. A lot of people seem to think it’s first appearance in the film, when it’s younger and less developed, is actually pretty cute in an ugly pug sort of way. The googly eyes carry on even to hid final form, which makes him look unfortunately goofy with his beady little eyes. I understand the movie is trying to go with the glassy, dead-eyed fish appearance to make it look even more like a walking corpse, but it doesn’t really stick. Otherwise, the design is phenomenal.

WETNESS: 6/10 - Surprisingly not as wet as you'D think for a giant fish. His final form makes him look like he survived an hour in the incinerator. The dry, black, cracked skin with a faint red glowing underneath conveying the unbridled nuclear heat stored inside. Though he loses his wetness as he evolves, his first appearance is wet as HELL.

Godzilla is a fish that’s become irradiated, and you can certainly tell that when he first appears. His skin is still green and not yet covered in burnt flesh, though with some parts that are just exposed musculature, as if its rapid growth is literally ripping him apart. As he crawls through the streets of Tokyo, blood spills out of his gills with every breath. This is the midpoint between what it once was and what it will become and it looks utterly painful. If his final form is nuclear incineration, his first form is nuclear disintegration. His cells are just barely holding together as he’s forcefully evolved into a being of destruction.

DATEABILITY: 8/10 - Let me give you a quote from the director of the 1954 Godzilla film, Ishir⁠ō Honda:

“Monsters are tragic beings. They are born too tall, too strong, too heavy. They are not evil by choice. That is their tragedy. They do not attack people because they want to, but because of their size and strength, mankind has no other choice but to defend himself.”

You’re a fish in the ocean, and by happenstance you accidentally find yourself in a nuclear waste dumping ground. The radiation mutates you. Slowly, painfully, you grow larger. Your fins are replaced with distortions of limbs, blood spills out of your gills, and you have no idea what is causing the pain you feel. Soon enough, you start surpassing buildings in size, and in a blind, pained stupor you find yourself in a city. Your body is too huge and unwieldy, as you move the infrastructure around you turns to rubble, and hundreds die in your wake. In response, humans have no choice but to try and kill you. You never chose this, you never even realized what was happening, but now you’ve become a god of death, the only thing you will ever cause is misery and disaster. You are utterly alone, because you’ve become built for violence, and violence will be the only thing you’ll know for the rest of your life.

Godzilla is all alone in this world, and no one can possibly understand them. He might be a terrifying destructive god on the outside but on the inside they’re angry and terrified. Can you imagine suddenly mutating into a gigantic monster, whose existence can only destroy? How alienating it must be that you cannot coexist with the life around you, that the only thing that can follow you is unmitigated death. No one will try to understand you, let alone sympathize with you, because you will only ever be a threat and nothing more. It’s fascinating that the song that plays when Godzilla unleashes his nuclear beams, “Who Will Know,” is one that’s sympathetic to him.

“If I die in this world / Who will know something of me? / I am lost, no one knows / There’s no trace of my yearning.”

Godzilla in this movie, despite his city-destroying size and power, is still the scared little guppy he once was. He doesn’t know any better, he doesn’t even know why this is happening to him in the first place. What he needs most of all is someone next to him, to see him for what he is, and to love and care for him despite his irradiated and monstrous appearance. Someone to quell the fiery radioactive fear in his heart, and show him the love he needs in a world that only seeks his death.

FINAL RATING: A GIANT TUMOR WORTH LOVING / 10

#monster rating #godzilla #shin godzilla #kaiju #movie review #movie analysis

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wander-over-the-words · 2 years

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BioFluff Week 2022 Fic #7

Title: It’s Not All Sunshine and Rainbows

Prompt: Free Day/Surface

Summary: The one where Eleanor is terrified of the weather, Sinclair realises he has a blip of paternal instinct, and Delta is really good at Trouble.

Characters: Eleanor Lamb, Subject Delta, Augustus Sinclair; mentions of Brigid Tenenbaum, Grace Holloway, Stanley Poole, Sofia Lamb, Amir, Splicers, Little Sisters.

Pairing: some Augustus Sinclair/Subject Delta, but it’s mainly family fluff between Eleanor and her dad and the dude she’s taking as a father figure.

Warnings: depictions of natural disasters; mentions of drowning, death, violence.

Notes: Final submission for BioFluff Week, with an answer to the specific prompt ‘Surface’! I’ve always enjoyed the notion that while Eleanor would be fascinated by weather on the surface, she’d be shit-terrified of some of the more intense examples - like tornadoes! So, here’s Eleanor experiencing her first tornado. Extra thing to say: I put a stupid amount of time, research and effort into plotting their goddamn board game nngrng.

All material belongs to Irrational Games.

Fic also available on AO3.

…

Eleanor sits on the back porch as she half-listens to the radio and half-watches Delta mill about the garden, stooping low to rip up the weeds that have accumulated during Sinclair’s absence from the home. She’d overheard Sinclair saying he might need to hire back a gardener to take a crack at his gardens, but Delta had insisted he would do it; by all accounts, he seems to be enjoying the work.

Sinclair is helping in a more idle fashion by steering a wheelbarrow, following Delta in an attempt at feeling useful, so Delta has a place to toss the weeds and dead grass.

“Looks like you’re makin’ a real dent in the damage old age has done to this yard, pumpkin,” Sinclair says, smiling as he surveys Delta’s work; at least a quarter of the garden is done. “Mighta been that you were a real good gardener in a past life!”

Delta lets out a thoughtful rumble to reply to him.

Sinclair bobs his head as he puts his hands to his hips, looking over at the supplies he’d gone into town for, namely the bag of topsoil waiting for them.

“Well, the plan is: if we manage to finish this up today, we can lay some o’ that down too,” Sinclair says, and his wording has Delta looking up from his work, then over at the bag as well, “an’ then we might just start bein’ able to grow things out here again. Give the place some of its former beauty.”

Delta glances toward him, then stands up from his work and starts making his way over to the bag of topsoil. He stoops to pick it up and carries it back to Sinclair, cradles it in one arm to free up a hand and points to a logo on the bag, presumably belonging to the company or store; it’s of three roses bunched up together from a birdseye view, encircled by their own conjoined stems. Delta then points down at the lawn.

“Hm?” Sinclair peers at the logo. “Oh.” He shrugs with a smile. “Well, I don’t see why not. They’re not the kind o’ flower that used to grow back here, but they’ll do jus’ fine in prettyin’ up the place. It’s your call this time, chief - as I said before,” he gestures to himself, “mi casa,” he gestures to Delta, “es tu casa. Ain’t just my yard anymore, is it? Our yard now.”

Delta lets out a delighted warble, his shoulders lifting to form body language that just screams excitement, and he must be slightly overwhelmed by his own emotions because he suddenly reaches out and wraps an arm around Sinclair, pulling him into a hug.

Sinclair is moved so quickly that he loses his footing, and the only reason he doesn’t fall face-first to the recently-cleaned yard is due to being pressed up against the brick wall that is Delta’s torso.

He lets out a choked “Oof!” as he hits it, the side of his face all squished up against Delta’s sternum, and then he chuckles and slips a hand between them.

“As always, I’m happy that you’re happy, chief, but, uh, let’s hold off on squeezin’ the stuffin’ outta me, huh?”

Delta jolts and reminds himself of his own strength, then eases up the hug, staring down at Augustus with a no doubt worried gaze, but his worries are relieved when Sinclair just smiles and leans his head against Delta’s chest more comfortably, patting it twice to tell him it’s okay.

From where she sits, Eleanor smiles.

She hadn’t been sure about Augustus when Tenenbaum had first mentioned she would get him to escort Delta down to Persephone - she’d heard about him from Aunt Grace, Stanley and Mother, and knew he wasn’t the trustworthy sort, more of the selfish kind - but watching him through Father’s eyes started to change her mind, and seeing them interact outside of Rapture does so even more. He makes Father happy and safe at least, and that’s all she can really ask of him.

She gives a soft chortle, then looks to the radio as the song that had been playing finally slows to an end, and she listens for what the announcer pair have to say next - which turns out to be the weather, something that Eleanor finds an apparently-odd amount of joy in listening to. But she does find it so interesting, how people just…find out what weather there will be tomorrow, when they tell her there will be rain - and then there is!

“And here’s something important, folks,” the man says, “we’re gettin’ reports of a tornado watch being put out, for the following counties to take note of -”

Eleanor turns her head to look at her pair of guardians. “Augustus! Father!”

Sinclair pulls away from Delta like he’d forgotten she was there, looking over at her wide-eyed, and Delta lets out a soft hum of curiosity to let her know she has his attention.

She ushers them over and they join her just as she hears the man say “Morgan County,” - which is the very county their dear Madison is head of.

“What was that about?” Sinclair asks, frowning at the radio.

Eleanor looks up at him, her turn to stare wide-eyed. “They…said that there’s to be a tornado watch.”

“Oh.” Sinclair’s frown lets up and he lifts his eyebrows. “Well, then.”

“What does that mean?” Eleanor asks, feeling her stomach flip.

Sinclair nods to the radio. “What that means, sweetie pie, is that that nice man there is informin’ us that a tornado could be on the way.”

Eleanor swears, she can feel her face pale.

She recalls seeing them in Amir’s book about the surface: the giant, swirling tubes of wind and clouds that people are supposed to seek shelter from because tornadoes do nothing but destroy everything around them.

Wind has been something Eleanor’s become completely fascinated with since they’d gotten out of Rapture; she’d happily stood outside on a windy day, laughing as her hair and the collar of her blouse had been blown about and her skirt had been flung around her knees, despite the chill the wind had brought with it. She remembers being little, down in Rapture, thinking about what wind must have felt like, but despite her urge to feel it, she’d had no such wishes with natural disasters. She’d understood as soon as she’d seen the image in Amir’s book that they weren’t safe, they weren’t something she should look forward to - in fact, they were something she should fear.

And by God, she does.

“If that’s the case, then…then we should evacuate, shouldn’t we?” Eleanor asks, already rearing to stand and run to wherever Augustus directs her.

“No, no,” Sinclair nonchalantly scratches his chin, looking up at the sky, “not yet. It’s still a bright day out,” he holds out a hand, “and I ain’t feelin’ a single drop comin’ from the sky. Mm - watches are only called out for when the weather’s right for a tornado to form.” He waves a hand casually. “But we’ve had watches in the past where nothin’ happened at all, so I wouldn’t go frettin’ about anythin’ just yet.”

“Yet…” Eleanor mutters, staring into space.

He must miss her tone because he hums, still nonchalant, then casts his gaze elsewhere.

“That bein’ said - might not be a bad idea to go an’ check the shelter’s still standin’ tall an’ strong. Reckon it’d be best to go and do that right now.”

He starts making his way to the other side of the house, where the cellar doors are.

Delta stoops to place the bag of topsoil down on the porch beside Eleanor, then calls out a note of whalesong to let Sinclair know he’ll come with him to help, and Sinclair thanks him as they walk together.

Eleanor watches them go, then turns to look at the pile of weeds and blades of dead grass in the wheelbarrow as a gust of wind blows through the air, making her hair tickle her chin and the short sleeves of her blouse shuffle about on her arms, her skirt brushing the side of her leg. It captures a few strands of grass and weeds and sends them floating back onto the lawn her father had ripped them from.

Such a thing would usually make her smile, but now - she brings her knees to her chest and hugs them as she hides her chin against them, staring worriedly as the wind continues to blow.

…

The morning has faded into the afternoon and the afternoon into evening, and the entire time, Eleanor has kept glancing at the sky and watching the wind, even after Augustus and Father had decided they were finished with their work for today; she didn’t watch them put down that topsoil, since her nerves had gotten to her when another soft gust of wind had blown some of the dead grass from the wheelbarrow, and she’d nervously asked Sinclair if they were finished now - ‘just curious’, of course, and not at all because she didn’t want them or herself to be out here anymore, where it wasn’t safe.

When Sinclair had oh-so casually said no, they’d be layering the soil on now, and he’d purchase for Delta the needed supplies to grow roses tomorrow, Eleanor had caved and gone inside, leaving the radio outside so Sinclair and Delta could hear when the radio people told them a tornado was coming and they could die.

She’d situated herself with a book to try and get her mind off things, but she’d found herself easily looking up, toward the windows, every few minutes, watching nervously as one of the trees just outside their fence swayed in the wind - and her blood had turned to ice when she noticed the drops of rain hitting the window.

Sinclair and Delta had apparently gotten to finish their yardwork before the rain got heavier and the sky started to darken (and is it dark because it’s the evening, or is it dark because of a tornado? She’s still learning these things), and now they’re here with her. Sinclair is doing a crossword in the newspaper on the couch beside her and Delta is seated on the floor (he can’t sit with them on the couch; his suit’s too heavy for Sinclair’s furniture…as they’ve already discovered with one of the poor beds upstairs), doing a jigsaw puzzle that is technically for children (it’d been the only kind that had pieces big enough for his hands).

Eleanor is white-knuckling the book in her hands as she watches the rain outside. She feels sick to her stomach - isn’t rain something that happens during tornadoes? Sinclair had said that, hadn’t he? That it wasn’t raining earlier so they didn’t have to worry about tornadoes?

Well, it’s raining now, so why isn’t he worried? He’s just sitting there, tapping a pen against his cheek as he ponders a crossword puzzle. Why isn’t he concerned about this?

Eleanor looks back down at her book and realises she has no idea what’s happening in the story or where she even left off, so it’s no longer a worthy attempt at a distraction. She shuts it without even marking her page and instead hurriedly turns the television on and finds something that will distract her.

There’s an episode of a show Eleanor enjoys - Doctor Who, it’s called - and she settles on that; she missed the beginning, but she finds she doesn’t mind all that much.

As she fixes her gaze on it, Eleanor squeezes fistfuls of the leather of Sinclair’s couch, slick beneath her sweaty palms. She tries desperately to keep her attention on the TV, like Delta is now doing (he’s found television as fascinating as she has, and even Sinclair had been surprised to find people on the surface had figured out how to make televisions broadcast in colour), but the television is unfortunately situated right in front of one of the tall windows in the living room, so her eyes keep sliding to check the skies for plumes of wind.

Stop looking, she tells herself as she looks at the TV, with the TARDIS and the Doctor and everything she likes about this show, stop looking, Augustus will tell you when it isn’t safe.

They’re a good fifteen minutes or so into the episode when the audio cuts out, the Doctor’s talking replaced by a monotone beep, and then he disappears from the screen and instead, the television projects a blue background, with text that makes her blood go cold all over again.

TORNADO WARNING is the first thing she sees.

“What’s happening to the screen?” Eleanor asks, even though it’s a silly question when the answer is right in front of her, when she knows what this means.

“Yer better off askin’ somebody else,” Sinclair says, with an almost sarcastic chortle, not looking up from his newspaper as he writes an answer into his crossword. “Now, I know you’re taken with this particular program, honey, but I just find it crazier than a box o’ frogs.”

Delta grunts to say no and he reaches over, tapping at Sinclair’s leg.

“Hm?” Sinclair looks at him, then to the screen. When he sees it, he removes his glasses and frowns.

“The National Weather Service,” says a man’s voice, as monotone as the beep, “has issued a tornado warning for the following counties -”

“Huh,” Sinclair says, and he waits until they hear Morgan County before he bobs his head, eyebrows raised. “Well…that’s not good, is it?”

“Why? Why isn’t it good?” Eleanor asks; again, she doesn’t need to, but Sinclair is the expert here. Neither she nor Father have experienced storms (if Father has - before he was a Big Daddy - then he doesn’t remember them).

Sinclair nods slowly to himself, robotically setting his folded newspaper down beside him and placing the pen on top.

“That, honey, that’s a sign that we should start considerin’ the idea of movin’ down into the shelter.”

“Then…Then there is a tornado coming?” Eleanor continues with the obvious questions.

“Most probably. Lettin’ out a warnin’ means they’ve spotted one.” He scratches his chin and looks curiously at the TV. “Only hope is that this is the first one they’ve let out, and they haven’t jus’ been throwin’ their concerns into the wind, as it were.”

Eleanor eyes widen as a shot of guilt hurts her heart; why had she bothered with the book to distract her? Why hadn’t she gone straight for the television? She would’ve known sooner that something was -

A siren blares from outside, echoing through town, and she doesn’t need to ask anymore silly questions to know what it means, especially not when Sinclair and Delta whip around to look outside, and Sinclair’s eyes have widened.

“And that right there,” Sinclair says quickly, standing up from the couch, “that’s our ticket to move. C’mon, c’mon! Everybody, up!”

Eleanor’s breath immediately picks up, her heart pounding against her ribs; the last time she felt panic this quickly was when she’d realised Mother was going to try and drown them with Persephone’s explosives, and she finds herself rooted to the spot as Sinclair and Delta move around her, momentarily blocking her view of the TV with its blue screen and TORNADO WARNING still splayed out -

There comes a shout of whalesong and her arm is captured in Delta’s hand, and Eleanor gasps and looks up at him as he tugs as gently but as urgently as he can to coax her into getting up.

“Eleanor! C’mon, now!” Sinclair calls from the dining room behind them, stopped on his way to the basement.

Eleanor does as she’s told and quickly gets up, looking back at their belongings - Sinclair’s newspaper and pen, Delta’s puzzle, and the television remote she’d tossed aside - and she lets Delta lead her into following Sinclair to the back of the house, near the glass doors to the garden, to the door leading to the basement.

Sinclair reaches it first and opens it and he and Delta usher for Eleanor to go first; she again does as she’s told and passes by them.

When Delta approaches, he freezes, looks at the size of the doorway, then motions to Sinclair to go ahead; when Sinclair looks afraid, he hastily rectifies it with hand gestures that he’s going to go around, to the other doors outside, where he’ll fit better, and not to worry because he’ll be quick.

Sinclair nods and Delta rushes to carry out his plan.

From where she stands midway down the stairs, Eleanor sees Delta go and immediately calls out, panicked, “Father! Father, what’re you doing?!”

“Ah - he’s just goin’ around to the other side,” Sinclair replies as he slips in and slams the door shut, fingers shaking slightly as he hurries to lock the door - latch, key and all. “It’d take longer for him to try an’ squeeze through this doorway, he fits better goin’ through the other entrance.”

Right on cue, the metal doors that point to the sky are flung open, and Eleanor hurries down the stairs in time to turn the corner and see Delta come barreling down his own short set of stairs and turning to slam the doors shut behind him.

Though it does barely anything to lift the weight from her chest, Eleanor breathes a sigh of relief, and Sinclair runs by her to help Delta pull the latches across the doors to lock them tight. With the closing of those doors, the basement goes dark, and Delta’s helmet lights up.

The two step back from their work, Sinclair panting lightly and Delta observing the doors with a locked-up, nervous air about him, as the rain pelts against the metal, making Eleanor’s brow furrow worriedly.

“Well,” Sinclair says in the silence, “drama’s over with - it looks like we’re gonna be spendin’ a minute down here. Go ahead an’ point your lamp this way, chief - I’ll get the lights. There’s a switch somewhere around here…”

Wiping rain droplets from his porthole, Delta does as he’s told and turns to face Sinclair, who moves over to the opposite wall to locate the switch.

There comes a click and the lights come on, and it’s only a minor comfort for Eleanor, who’s fixated on the sounds of the storm outside, still standing in the middle of the room and staring at the locked cellar doors.

“There, now. That’s better,” Sinclair says.

He turns to go over to the cupboard on the far side of the room, passing by the cleaned-out wheelbarrow he and Delta had been using earlier and kneeling to open one of the cupboard’s doors.

“Alrighty - I packed up some things down here that’ll help pass the time until that storm blows over.” He stands back up to show them the small pile of flat boxes he’s got. “We got board games, some word puzzles - collected a couple of your jigsaw puzzles, kid. Anyone got a…preference?”

Eleanor barely hears Sinclair talk; she’s looking up at the ceiling, listening as the rain pelts down outside, and another shot of ice goes through her veins when she hears the rumble of thunder.

She’s already experienced one thunderstorm since coming to the surface, and ironically, she’d anxiously asked Sinclair if that meant a tornado was coming because the two examples of bad weather had fused together in her mind and she hadn’t known they’d get a warning about the latter. She remembers Sinclair chuckling like she was silly and assuring her no, it just meant they were gonna be having some bad weather.

Well - this is certainly ‘bad weather’. The storm has gotten worse, she can hear it; the rain hits harder against the doors, the wind gets louder, the thunder draws closer.

(And that means the tornado’s getting nearer to them, doesn’t it? That means…That means it’s going to hit them, and the house will be destroyed, and they could end up -)

“Eleanor?”

She feels a poke to her arm.

“Hm?” She looks at Sinclair, then at Delta, whose finger still hovers over where he’d poked her bicep.

Delta lets out a curious little noise as Sinclair motions to the pile of boxes in his hands.

“You got anythin’ in mind you wanna do?” Sinclair asks.

Not be in the middle of a tornado.

“Oh. Um.” Eleanor blinks once, she hadn’t even been listening to any of the options. “Anything is…fine - Um. Did you…say you have Trouble?”

Sinclair bobs his head once in approval and slides the chosen game from the middle of the pile, carefully balancing the rest on his arm as he turns to kneel back down.

“Trouble, then,” he says.

He puts the rest of the games back, then shuts the cupboard and brings the Trouble board game over to the opposite side of the room, where he motions for them to join him.

With another worried glance at the ceiling, Eleanor follows them over to the wall, where they sit, Eleanor with her back to the brick and her knees drawn up, Sinclair to her left and Delta to her right, with one leg stretched out and the other bent to avoid Eleanor’s personal bubble.

(Are they safest here? Is that why Sinclair had them move here? Is this safe?)

Crossing his legs to get comfortable, Sinclair slides the box’s lid off and brings out the board, setting it down in the middle of them.

“Got a preference for colour?” Sinclair asks.

“Huh? Oh.” Eleanor looks down at the board, then directs her gaze to the metal doors as she replies, “Yellow is fine.”

“Mm-hm. And what about you, chief?”

Delta points out the blue pegs, so Sinclair nods and turns the board so the yellow pieces are in front of Eleanor, the blue are in front of Delta, and the green are in front of himself.

“I’ll go on ahead an’ be green, then,” he says, then gestures to Eleanor. “Ladies first - we go ‘round clockwise, so that’ll mean I’ll be next, then you, pumpkin pie.”

Delta grunts in the affirmative and Eleanor gives a half-hearted, tiny hum of agreement.

(She can just picture it now: the giant tower of wind invading the town, ripping apart everything in its wake, tearing roofs off buildings and sending glass flying…All the people she’s met since they arrived, the workers in the shops they’ve gone to…In the grocery store, with all the new food Eleanor had wanted to try and bring home for Father to try, and the boutique, where that kind lady had helped her find nice clothes because Augustus had had no idea what he was doing in the women’s section…the gardening store where the patient man had answered Eleanor’s questions about sunlight and bumblebees -)

“Eleanor?”

Eleanor looks to Sinclair.

“You’re goin’ first,” he says, raising an eyebrow with a small, awkward chuckle. “Can’t leave the startin’ line until you do. You alright, honey?”

Delta lets out another curious noise as he sets a hand on Eleanor’s shoulder, leaning forward to question her.

Eleanor forces a smile as she nods; a part of her wants to tell them - especially Father - how frightened she is, but there’re memories creeping in the back of her mind, memories of being small and scared of the dark, of asking Mother to check under her bed, of Mother telling her she was better than this. She’d been worried about the dark when living with Aunt Grace as well, but by then, she’d learned not to tell adults she was afraid.

And obviously, there’s nothing to be scared of here because Augustus isn’t scared - he’s happily sitting there, playing a goddamn board game like there isn’t a death spiral on its way, and he knows about these things. So, if Augustus isn’t scared, then she has no reason to be either.

“Of course,” she says. “I’m perfectly fine.”

She leans forward to press down on the plastic popper in the middle of the board, making the die inside jump and roll to a new number. She gets a six, and Sinclair gives a long, impressed whistle.

“Lady Luck appears to be on your side already, so it seems,” he says as Eleanor picks up one of her pegs and places it on the left side of the first two open places in front of her home base. “Probably get that from your daddy, he’s always unfathomably lucky the first few turns, so says our card games back on the train.”

Delta shrugs.

Eleanor goes to hit the popper again, only to jump and suck in a breath when a shot of thunder cuts through the sounds of pelting rain. She swallows back the jolt of panic going through her, taking a moment to try and calm the pounding of her heart, then she hits the popper and gets a three.

She moves her piece accordingly, then looks to the metal doors and places her hands down on the floor either side of her as Sinclair takes his turn and fails to get a six and then looks up to ask Delta if he’d like Sinclair to handle his turns for him, to avoid damaging the popper or the pegs by accident.

Her fingers curl against the wooden floor, dragging her nails across the boards, as she watches the metal doors, and she swears she sees them shake -

(There’s no way the tornado hasn’t hit Madison by now, just listen to the weather howl out there. Any time now, she knows it, they’re going to hear the crashing of buildings being destroyed, of cars being flung - Augustus left his car outside, should they have moved it? He loves that car, shouldn’t they have tried to protect it or something? She doesn’t know. He keeps a sheet tied over it to protect it from damages, but that won’t do anything if the tornado picks it up and flings it - shouldn’t they have done something else? And if it’s flung, then…then will it hit the house? Hell, if the tornado’s close enough to throw Sinclair’s car, it’s close enough to hit the house itself, and they might be -)

It’s her turn again, and she has to take her eyes off the doors to hit the popper and roll a one, and she moves her piece before Sinclair tries for a six and fails again.

He rolls for Delta and sighs as he moves one of Delta’s pegs out of home base for him.

“Well,” Sinclair says, all fake-grumpy as he hits the popper. “Seems like I’m the only one around here who Lady Luck’s decided not to lean upon.”

Delta gets a four, and Sinclair moves his piece for him, and Delta leans over and pats Sinclair’s knee.

“Oh, now, don’t you play the sympathetic silver medal, chief,” Sinclair says. “‘Nother thing I recall from our games o’ War and Old Maid is that you, sir, enjoy the art of winnin’ a little too much.”

Betraying his own smugness, Delta’s shoulders lift happily, and Sinclair scoffs.

“Well. Young Eleanor’s still on the board with ya, so you go ahead an’ put those shoulders down.”

Eleanor looks at him when she hears her name and forces a wide smile and a hum of amusement -

(The car will come flying any minute now, soaring through the rain -)

She takes her turn, gets a four, and moves her piece to one over from Sinclair’s home base.

Sinclair gives a snide chuckle. “Better keep your eye on that piece o’ yours, honey, cause I might be just about to snatch it up.”

He hits the popper.

“Or not,” he says lamely, frowning at the three that comes up.

Delta chortles, and Sinclair directs that frown his way, making a show of narrowing his eyes at him for the sake of the joke.

“Oh, hush, now. Your turn.”

(If the tornado hits the house, it will be destroyed, won’t it? This beautiful house Augustus has owned for years, wrecked in seconds. And if it hits the house, will they be safe here? They can’t be, surely; if the tornado’s strong enough to destroy the house, to destroy the town - the boutique, the crafts store, the grocery store -)

The pop of plastic under Sinclair’s hand makes Eleanor give a small jump and look down at the board to find him moving Delta’s piece five places.

Eleanor robotically takes her turn and gets a two, which takes her further away from the danger of getting caught by Sinclair’s piece leaving home base. She goes back to staring at the doors, hugging her knees again and digging her fingers into her own leg.

Sinclair leans over and hits the popper for his own turn, then lets out a triumphant laugh as he finally gets that six. He moves one of his green pegs out of home base, then takes his second roll and gets a one, to which he shrugs and casually moves his peg.

And then comes Delta’s turn, which turns up another six, and Delta and Sinclair exchange a look as they realise where that first peg will land.

“Now - Now, pumpkin pie, darlin’, sugarplum,” Sinclair says, holding out a calming hand, “let’s think about who you’re gonna hurt if you move that first piece o’ yours. You can always fetch another one o’ your soldiers from the barracks.”

Delta makes a show of rubbing the bottom of his porthole with a curled finger, where his chin should be, as he thinks about it, then he relents, shrugs and gestures for Sinclair to get another one of his pieces out.

To continue the joke, Sinclair wipes his hand across his forehead and gets one of Delta’s pegs out of home base for him, and then he hits the popper for Delta’s second roll - and comes up with another six.

Delta immediately belts out a laugh and Sinclair’s face falls; Eleanor looks away from the doors at the sound of her father’s delight and looks down at the board.

“Uh - well, the…obvious move now is, ah, you’re gonna wanna move your, uh, new soldier on his way, so let’s just, uh…” Sinclair says, reaching for the peg that had just escaped Delta’s home base.

Delta holds up a finger to stop him, lets out a few rhythmic hums in a mimicry of the classic “Ah, ah, ahh,” then wags that finger and gestures to the other blue peg.

“You wanna move that one?” Sinclair ask, incredulous, then perks up a little as he plucks Delta’s first peg from the board. “Oh, well, look at that, sport - turns out, you actually went an’ rolled a five this turn, so - accordin’ to some basic math and the rules of the game - you move right here.”

He moves it to the spot next to his lone green peg.

Delta lets out a long groan, defiant, and holds up six fingers.

“Uh, no, see, pumpkin - much as I hate to say these words - that’s where you’re wrong.” Sinclair puts his glasses on and peers at the die. “That’s definitely a five right there. Eleanor, you see a five, don’tcha?”

For even a moment, Eleanor’s mind is taken from the storm outside and she looks at him with a sheepish smile, refusing to answer, with an apology in her stare and her furrowed brow.

Delta lets out a growl and points down at the board to tell Sinclair to play it properly.

“Ahh, fine. You got me,” Sinclair says grumpily as he pulls off his glasses, picks up Delta’s piece, then snatches up his own piece and puts it back in his home base. He places Delta’s peg down where his had been.

Delta gives a satisfied grunt.

“Personally, I can’t believe you’d go an’ treat your sweetheart in such a fashion,” Sinclair mutters, tilting his head away to point his nose in the air, all fake-offended. “Where’s that kindness that won me over in the first place, huh?”

Delta gives a dragged-out rumble and reaches over to give Sinclair’s leg a little push to tell him not to be silly.

“It’s fine, I guess.” Sinclair looks to Eleanor. “Eleanor can avenge me.”

Eleanor gives a soft laugh, genuinely amused - and then crash goes the thunder, the rain keeps pelting down on the doors, and Eleanor is back out of her comfort zone -

(- then a couple of metal doors won’t be a match for it. It’ll…get in here and they’ll be…sucked up into it…And she remembers Amir’s book, telling her…how many people die to these things a year…)

Another nudge to her arm.

“Your turn, honey,” Sinclair says with a smile.

She forces a smile back and hits the popper, then moves her piece three spaces.

Sinclair rolls for his own turn -

(Nobody survives a tornado, right? What had the book said? She doesn’t remember. Is it possible to survive? No. No, she doesn’t think so. She doesn’t remember what the book had said, but she doesn’t think so. How can someone survive one of those things? They can’t -)

Crash goes the thunder, the rain pelts down, the wind howls -

“Well…I’m just gonna go ahead an’ come out an’ say it,” Sinclair says bluntly.

Eleanor looks at him wide-eyed, expecting him to announce they aren’t safe here anymore, the storm is going to come and they’re going to be whisked away -

“But I’m startin’ to theorise that you’re cheatin’, sport.” He stares down at the six on the die, then jabs a finger Delta’s way, barely hiding his smirk as he amuses himself. “I know I recognised your tendency ta be lucky in these games, but that luck’s gotta run out. I reckon that you’ve been sneakin’ a use of Telekinesis on this board, now, haven’t you?”

Delta waves a hand to bat away Sinclair’s accusations, then holds up his hands to show he’s not doing anything.

“Hmmmm - if you say so.” Sinclair relents, hand hovering over the board as he awaits Delta’s choice in which piece to move. “But I’ve got an eye on you, chief.”

Eleanor stares hard at Sinclair. Why isn’t he afraid? Isn’t he listening to what’s going on out there? It’s been at least twenty years since he moved to Rapture - in that time, hasn’t he…forgotten anything about living on the surface? Acquired any fears about things that should be normal up here?

(If the tornado is strong enough to pick up houses and cars, then…it can pick up Father, can’t it? He’s heavy enough to break a bed, but…but the tornado’s stronger than that, so it could pick him up. So if those doors don’t hold, if they fly open, then Father could be dragged out. And if he can get sucked up, then no doubt Augustus can too. And she weighs less than both of them, so she’ll go right with them. How long do these things take to go by? How long do they need to survive down here? When can she officially say they’re in the clear? Where is the time limit? She just wants this to end -)

“Eleanor?” Sinclair says, raising an eyebrow as he notices her staring at him. He checks over his shoulder in case she’s actually looking at something over there, then turns back. “You alright?”

Eleanor looks at him, sucks in a breath through her nose as she replies shortly, “Yes,” and then pushes the popper, then reaches out to move her peg the one space she earned -

A crash of lightning, the room goes black - Eleanor and Delta let out a gasp each, and Eleanor pushes her fingertips into the floor on either side of her as if she assumed the floor would disappear along with the light, her heart leaping into her throat.

Delta’s helmet lights come on and Sinclair gets up from the floor.

“I thought this might happen. Luckily, I packed some flashlights down here. Chief, gimme a hand, would ya?”

Delta gets up to position his lights where Sinclair needs them, while Eleanor desperately tries to keep herself from hyperventilating, feeling the backs of her eyes start to sting.

(This is it, isn’t it? This is it. The tornado’s close enough to cut the power, the house will be next -)

Her fingertips hurt from how hard she pushes them into the floorboards, trying to find some stability, to help her stay calm, as her lip quivers and tears blur her vision -

(- and then them, and she doesn’t want Father to die, she doesn’t want Augustus to die, she doesn’t want to die -)

“There we are,” Sinclair says, wandering back over, shining a torch over Eleanor’s head to avoid blinding her.

It’s still dark enough that Delta’s helmet lights remain on (and those lights are momentarily pointed toward the cellar doors as Delta takes a moment to watch them), even as he and Sinclair set about switching on the four torches they return with; Eleanor’s fingers curl into fists, palms wet with sweat as she breathes deep through her nose, and her tears begin to spill.

(She swears, she sees the door shake, so they’re about to burst open, this is it, this is it -)

They position the torches down so they can still see the game board, then Sinclair’s saying it’s still her -

(This is it, this is it, this is it, this is it -)

“Eleanor?”

(This is it, this is it, this is it, this is it -)

“Eleanor. Honey, what’s wrong?”

(This is it, this is it, this is it, this is it -)

There comes quick movement from her right as Delta shifts forward, towards her, and his large hand cups the back of her head as he rumbles to her, trying to ask what’s wrong, and Sinclair is staring at her, brow furrowed, and the dam finally bursts -

(This is it -)

Eleanor shakes her head fervently.

“No, no - I’m not okay! I want this to be over…!” Eleanor exclaims, then slaps her hands over her ears and ducks down against her knees. “I-I-I lied - I-I…I’m scared!”

Immediately, Delta’s arms are flung around her; he moves her as gently but as quickly as he can, sliding her across the floor to bring her to him, to situate her between his legs so he can hold her against his chest in a protective embrace.

She turns her head to hide her face in his chest, squeezing her eyes shut and holding onto him for dear life as one of his hands passes over her hair, stroking it as he warbles quietly to soothe her.

“Oh,” Sinclair says, unsure of what to say or do in this situation; he looks from Delta to her and back again, then awkwardly gets to his knees as he moves a little closer. “Oh - Uh - N-Now, it’s okay, honey, it’s alright. You’re gonna be just fine, you’ll see.”

Eleanor’s face scrunches up as she resists the urge to cry anymore, desperately hiding her face in Delta’s chest.

“That storm outside, it’s nothin’ compared to others we’ve had in the past! Just a little one, I swear it,” Sinclair adds.

Eleanor adamantly shakes her head; there are no little ones, all tornadoes are dangerous, she knows that, she knows that (she thinks), he’s just saying that so she’ll stop being silly.

As if it heard him, the weather decides to throw more at them - literally, as the wind howls and there comes clattering against the metal doors, close enough to their safe haven that Eleanor gasps and tucks her face against the curved front of Delta’s helmet, feeling the cool metal against her forehead as she tries to stop listening to the sounds outside, and Delta apparently tries to help her as he lets out another soft note of whalesong.

“Now, that wasn’t anythin’ to panic over,” Sinclair says quickly as he moves closer on his knees, hovering a hand close to his lap as he hesitates to touch her and invade she and Delta’s hug.

The weather must really hate him, because it proceeds to fight back against his claims once again.

Lightning strikes somewhere outside and there comes a crash of something falling down nearby, and in a moment of panic, Eleanor throws her arm back, out of Delta’s embrace -

“Honey -” Sinclair says, only to pause and look down.

Because Eleanor has grabbed his hand.

She’s wrapped her fingers around three of his and he can feel her hand shaking, but even as it quakes, she refuses to loosen her tight hold on him.

Sinclair stares for a moment, then looks to Eleanor’s face; she’s peeking at him from behind her hair, over her shoulder. He can see the fear in her eyes, the worry and concern; she’s not just scared for herself. He should’ve known - her grasp on his hand tightens, as though she thinks he’ll leave or that…something will happen to him. As though…it’s not just Delta’s reassurance that she wants.

He’s given pause; God knows, he does sometimes feel like a third wheel under his own roof, what with Delta and Eleanor’s bond, and how close they already were. Sure, he and Delta have their own unique bond - Delta is the best thing to ever happen to him, and he knows Delta feels similarly - but he and Eleanor…Well, he knows he wasn’t part of her plan for life after Rapture, and he’s got to be honest and say she wasn’t part of his, so he hadn’t been of the impression that she thought much of him.

Sinclair looks back down at the way she holds his hand…and he shifts his hand and closes his fingers around hers, holds her hand in return. As he looks to her face again, he feels an odd, protective feeling surge through him that he hasn’t felt in…well, he doesn’t know. It’s different than the protectiveness he’d felt when Delta had ventured into Persephone, but he feels like he’d gotten a taste of it before, when they’d been escaping Lamb’s army, when Eleanor had fought back Splicers to help protect him and Delta. Girl her age shouldn’t have been doing all that, and she shouldn’t be sitting here now, thinking they’re all going to die, when he’s sitting here, doing nothing.

Protectiveness over others is a thing he’d never felt before these two came into his life. What he’s feeling now, it’s not the kind of protectiveness he feels toward Delta, that’s for sure…but he has a frightening suspicion that this is similar to how Tenenbaum felt toward her girls, when she stopped seeing them as just hosts for those slugs.

As he looks back to her face, Sinclair’s expression hardens, letting go of the awkward uncertainty, and he reaches under his own arm to move aside the Trouble board, to avoid stabbing his knee with their game pieces. With it out of the way, he better moves over to the pair, and he reaches out with his other hand to gently touch Eleanor’s shoulder.

“Ah…sweet pea,” he says softly, “it’s alright. We’re gonna be just fine, I promise. Now, I’ve lived through tons o’ these kinds o’ storms, and I know it sounds nasty out there, but this is all just a normal occurrence whenever one o’ these mean suckers comes to town. Jus’ the kind o’ bad weather you can expect up here on the surface, and even then, it ain’t horribly often. But we’re perfectly safe down here, don’t you worry. It’s what this basement sits around waiting for.” He gives her a little smile. “Well, other than a wheelbarrow an’ some board games.”

Eleanor sniffles and asks shakily, “Is it…Is it going to hit us?”

“No, no, no. It’ll just pass us on by - we’re gettin’ the edge o’ the storm right now. I’d tell ya if we were in any danger, and I haven’t said a word of the sort, now, have I? Besides,” he releases her shoulder and gives Delta a little nudge on the arm, “we got your daddy here, and he wouldn’t let anything get at us, now, would he?”

Delta grunts to confirm this, then releases Eleanor with one arm and uses it to pull Sinclair in, to have him join the hug, to show he’s protecting Augustus too; Eleanor ends up almost sandwiched between them as Sinclair hugs Delta in return with his free arm, his other hand still clutched tightly in Eleanor’s grasp.

“There, now. See? Big guy’s holdin’ on to us, so now we’re bound to be fine. Everybody’s safe an’ sound,” Sinclair says to her. “Don’t worry, honey. Everything’s just fine.”

…

Eventually, the sounds of thunder and wind and debris flying about quietens down; it’d been easier to ignore when she’d been wrapped up in Delta’s embrace, with Sinclair’s hand in hers, getting the comfort she needed from the people who matter most to her, but now there’s no denying it - the noises out there have stopped.

Sinclair is the first to straighten up, looking toward the cellar doors.

“I think…the storm mighta subsided, at last,” he says.

He starts to edge out of the hug, obviously intending to go and check, only for Delta to make a small noise and release Sinclair, motioning with a hand wave for him to stay put. He gently coaxes Eleanor into moving closer to Sinclair, to tell her to stay with him, then he moves back to get to his feet.

“Be careful, Father!” Eleanor calls, holding Sinclair’s hand in one of hers and his shoulder in her other, as Delta walks toward the stairs leading up to the cellar doors.

Delta ascends them slowly, still listening out for anything outside, then he undoes the latches on the doors and pushes them open. There’s a shuffle of something falling off of the doors once they get to a certain angle; Delta peeks out at first, then steps up, out of the basement properly.

A moment goes by as Eleanor and Sinclair watch in case he comes back, then they hear him give out a note of whalesong, as he does when he wants their attention.

They look at each other, then Sinclair rises from the floor and motions for her to stay behind him as she gets up as well. Sinclair ascends the stairs, peeking out as well, then nods, satisfied, and gestures for Eleanor to follow their lead out of the basement.

The sky is still clouded with grey, but the rain and wind have stopped; the three look around themselves, at the sight of the leaves and bits and pieces of branches and abandoned trash scattered over their garden. A pile of them had gradually covered the entrance to the cellar, the culprit of that shuffling when Delta had pushed the doors open.

Eleanor turns to look out at the town; it’s hard to see properly because of the high fence around the property, but everything looks…okay. She then looks up at the house - there might be some debris up on the roof too, and she sees some clumped up on the windowsills, but besides that…no. Nothing looks destroyed, nothing looks…tarnished.

She hears Sinclair give a hum of disdain and turns to him, only to see him looking over at that tree just outside their fence, the very one she’d been observing earlier; one of the branches has been torn from the tree and has fallen to the ground, and the tree has been damaged to the point that its heartwood is showing, its bark splayed and torn.

Eleanor furrows her brow as she asks herself if the tree got hit by lightning or if the wind did that damage, but nonetheless breathes a sigh of relief - that must’ve been the crash they’d heard earlier. It’s close enough for them to have heard it inside the basement, and fortunately, it hasn’t hit their fence.

She follows Delta as he goes into the back garden to check on the damage done to his earlier work, as Sinclair leaves them to check on his car out front.

The leaves, branches and odd bits and pieces of rubbish have all littered their garden, covering the soaked topsoil Delta and Sinclair had put down earlier; Delta stares out at it, then sighs, a long puff of air projected into his helmet.

“I’m sorry about your garden, Father,” Eleanor says sympathetically, smiling at him. She falters then, at something else laid out over their yard. “What…is that? Over there, on the grass.”

Delta hums, curious, and walks over, just as Sinclair returns.

“Good news is,” he says, “my car is doin’ fine. Protective sheet did its job, an’ nothin’ scratched up my paint.” He looks over at what Delta’s doing. “What’s that, pumpkin?”

Delta stoops down to pick up one end of the long strip of…something - paper? They can’t quite tell, but it’s shimmering slightly; he holds it up for them to see, turning it over so they can see the other side. With the way he holds it and the way the strip is partly folded over, they can only see the colourful writing partway: HAPPY BIR -

Sinclair barks out a laugh. “Looks like someone was havin’ a birthday celebration before the storm hit! What a way to ruin a good bash.”

Delta spots something else on the grass and bends low, plucking it up and showing it to them - it’s a deflated, purple balloon, dangling uselessly from Delta’s finger and thumb.

Sinclair titters again, then cocks his head with a frown. “Though it looks like the storm equally wrecked our work on your potential rose garden, chief. We’ll hafta pick up where we left off after we clean up out here.”

Delta gives an exasperated groan as he observes the area around him, then carries the balloon and the banner back over to the porch, dragging the wet banner through the debris.

Eleanor smiles, then rubs her arms as she looks around.

Everything’s okay. Nobody got hurt, nobody got killed. The tornado hadn’t hit them, just got close enough to throw some branches from the trees and litter their clean gardens. Nothing that can’t be cleaned up.

“You alright, sweetie pie?” Sinclair asks as Delta dumps the balloon and banner down.

Eleanor’s smile turns awkward as she shrugs. “I…I feel a little bit embarrassed…I must’ve seemed so ridiculous, getting as scared as I did. You must’ve found it funny.”

“Ohhh. C’mon now.” Sinclair waves a hand as Delta joins them. “You weren’t anythin’ of the sort, and I didn’t let out even a chuckle in your direction. Tons o’ folks are scared of tornadoes like that - I’ve seen grown men cry like babies when a twister’s come by. Hell, if I was born in Rapture an’ you went an’ told me that the surface sometimes lets loose these giant, destructive tubes o’ clouds - well, I’d probably be scared just the same. Shook me up alright, first time I ever laid eyes on one, comin’ over the horizon.” He shrugs a shoulder with a smile. “I’m jus’ an old man, y’see. Had the time to get used to ‘em.”

Eleanor gives a soft chortle, and her smile stretches more genuinely as Delta gently pats her head, then rests his hand there as he warbles softly to her reassuringly.

He pats at his chest to tell her he was afraid too, and Eleanor’s smile pinches at one end; she’s not sure she believes him on that one, but she appreciates the attempt.

“And I guess,” Sinclair adds to that notion, smiling at Delta, “that either you’ve got some muscle memory in regards to how you handle storms, chief, or you’re braver than I thought, watchin’ you traverse Rapture, cause I didn’t see you shake even the once.”

Delta shrugs.

Believe him or not, he had been scared, but if they want an explanation for his lack of more intense fear, then it seems obvious to him: not only had he too been of the belief that if the situation was truly that bad, Augustus would have said something - Sinclair’s calmness allowed Delta to remain calm too - but he’d also simply been more concerned for his daughter and his partner than himself. Per the usual. Besides, he and Sinclair’s antics over the Trouble board just proved entertaining enough to distract him, just as the pair’s card games on the train down in Rapture had distracted him from his predicament (perhaps a little too entertaining this time - he feels awful that he hadn’t realised how frightened Eleanor had been sooner).

If his past self has ever dealt with storms like that, he doesn’t remember it.

For her part, Eleanor feels she should’ve given them more credit than she had; they aren’t like Mother, who practically scolded her for her childish fears. Even when he’d been a brainwashed slave, Father had supported her fears and her interests - he isn’t like Mother, she’s always known that. And Augustus…well, she doesn’t know him as well, obviously, but…maybe she should work a little harder to get to know him.

She looks at them both, back and forth, and says sincerely, “Thank you…”

Sinclair gives her a little smile. “Think nothin’ of it.”

Delta pats her head again and Eleanor beams up at him.

Sinclair nods toward the house. “Now, c’mon. Better go check on the inside, in case anything’s fallen over or broken.”

“And afterwards,” Eleanor says, “perhaps we can finish that game of Trouble we started?”

Sinclair titters. “Sure we can, sweetheart.” He puts on a mock frown as he leads the way back into the house, looking over his shoulder at Delta. “So long as your daddy quits his cheatin’ ways.”

Delta lets out a defiant growl to deny such accusations.

“Not to worry, Augustus,” Eleanor says, more confident than she’s felt all day, “I’ll have you both beaten.”

Sinclair barks out a laugh, and Eleanor grins and holds her head high as she follows her guardians inside.

#My writing #BioShock #BioShock 2 #biofluff #biofluff 2022 #Eleanor Lamb #Subject Delta #Augustus Sinclair #Deltaclair

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