#mention of character injury

[soapy-soartp]

Day 30 of @whumperless-whump-event

Day: 30- I DON'T MEAN TO GET EMOTIONAL

Prompt: Fear / Breaking point / "I can't stop crying, I'm sorry-“

Fandom: TGCF

Characters: Wu Ming, Xie Lian

-omega wu ming manages to get to alpha xie lian during his 3 day test with fang xin (will be making a full length fic of this soon-ish hopefully )

Xie Lian didn’t know ghosts could cry.

But here he was, watching as the ghost, who had unfalteringly followed his every word, began to shake apart.

He can see the silent tears drip down from under that smiling mask and the barely there tremble as Wu Ming kneels beside him. Pale hands hover over him as the ghost almost seems frozen in place. Most damning of all was the shaky gasped out /‘Your Highness’/ and the rapidly spreading scent of an omega in distress.

Xie Lian squirms, the sword pinning him down shifts which causes him to wince, that sound makes the ghost’s scent sour even more as he chokes back a pained noise. The fallen god can’t help the gnawing guilt building in his chest, despite his initial mistrust of the other, his behavior towards him was horrible and inexcusable, he see that now. He can’t wrap his head around why the ghost is even still following him. He certainly doesn’t deserve the loyalty and devotion he’s been shown.

Instinctively Xie Lian’s inner alpha tries to emit a comforting scent but the attempt is ruined by the scent of blood filtering through. He lets out a frustrated sound at the omega’s continually worsening mood and calls out to him hoping that would do some good.

“Wu Ming…”

His voice quiet and hoarse manages to snap Wu Ming out of his frozen state and soon shaky hands carefully rests on the hilt of the sword. The action shifts the sword and Xie Lian bites his lip, trying to avoid any signs of pain but his scent gives him away.

The ghost breathes and steadies himself, hands on Fang Xin. He eases the sword from the fallen prince’s abdomen all the while mumbling out muffled little apologies that break the alpha’s heart.

Once he was freed from the sword, he carefully sat up with the help of Wu Ming. He hisses from the stiffness of his body and turns to the masked ghost, desperate to let out an apology, a small thank you, anything.

But the words are stuck in his throat as he turns his attention back to the ghost. His brows furrowed in concern over seeing the man kowtowing to him, his mask touching the ground, still mumbling out little apologies. His scent is still that of a distraught. And the trembling stars anew, with everything getting worse longer the prince maintains his silence.

After a few moments of just bewildered staring, a small whine sends everything crashing back to reality and makes the alpha act, calling out carefully to his ghostly companion.

“Wu Ming…? What, erm, what’s wrong? Don't be so upset, it’s fine I can’t die…”

Though that seems to have been the wrong thing to say as other silently cries harder and apologizes even more profusely. Unfortunately for the both of them that behavior just seems to agitate Xie Lian’s inner alpha, who desperately needs to comfort the one in obvious distress. But he has no idea how.

“Wu Ming, don’t cry,“ he tries, its awkward and agitated, he has no clue how to help the other.

He’s still feeling pain from the wound in his abdomen. The scent of distress and misfortune that’s already clung to the duo is amplified by the omega. Wu Ming won’t look at him. His patience is running thin, he can feel himself ready to snap into commanding the other.

Just when everything was about to reach a breaking point, just when he was about to command the omega to get off the floor and stop. He is cut off by the other suddenly gasping and somehow bowing even more.

"Your highness! This lowly one is sorry! I can't stop crying, I'm sorry! My scent I can’t- this one is truly sorry!”

A string of panicked apologies come from the bowing figure in front of Xie Lian, each getting more frantic and desperate than the last. Even the scent around them starts to turn sweeter, desperate to please the agitated alpha.

He feels his guilt crash into him again and that's all it takes to get him to calm down and reassess the situation. It unnerves him now that he can think clearer. The ghost that’s faced his mistreatment for the past few days if not weeks weep and apologize over and over for something that seems so inconsequential.

Well either way, his- their situation doesn't change. He’s still sitting in the middle of the street at who knows what hour, with a nearly fully panicking and extremely stressed omega at his feet. He looks back to Wu Ming whose mask is still pressed to the ground, who's still trembling and undoubtedly crying, who’s began to take in heaving short breaths despite not really needing to breathe. Who’s still mumbling out little apologies to someone who doesn’t deserve them.

Xie Lian winces and takes a steadying breath in, calming himself and his scent. He tries his best to smile, to comfort. He’s hoping it works as he calls out to the omega once more, softer this time, with patience he thought long gone.

“Wu Ming… Omega it’s alright, sit up for me please?”

When the other follows through, trembling still but willing to look at Xie Lian, the fallen god begins to feel something akin to relief. Maybe it’ll all be alright.

[frownyalfred]

I came across a post where someone mentioned that Martha Wayne’s pearls were actually her teeth, but Bruce misremembered or blocked it out…

This has to be one of the most heartbreaking and gut-wrenching headcanons I’ve ever encountered about Martha and Bruce. Just imagine the scene—her teeth falling out instead of the pearls, either from the impact of the bullet or from the way she fell and hit her mouth.

The imagery is so disturbing and visceral. It adds a whole new layer of trauma to Bruce’s memory, making his recollection of that night even more tragic.

Also— I feel like we don’t talk enough about what the Waynes’ deaths must have really been like…

The thought that Bruce might have been splattered with his parents’ blood, or even brain matter, from the impact. .. I feel like the writers never really specified where exactly they were shot or what kind of gun was used, which could have made the injuries even more horrifying depending on the weapon. The unease in his father’s voice—something foreign that Bruce had probably never heard before—from a man who was usually so optimistic and confident, might have been the first time Bruce saw his father truly scared. And then there’s his mother’s screams. In Christopher Nolan’s movies, Martha’s screams still haunt me to this day. The actress did an incredible job capturing that raw terror.

But what really gets me is the time. How long did Bruce stand there, in the pool of his parents’ blood, waiting for someone to come and help him? Did he try to pick up his mother’s pearls, or maybe try to stop the blood from pouring out of their wounds? That time must have felt like an eternity for him—standing there, powerless, with his parents’ blood on his hands, the smell of rot from the nearby trash, the powder of the gunshot lingering in the air, the city’s humidity, and the iron tang of blood.

And another chilling thought: what if his parents died with their eyes open? The idea of Thomas Wayne’s lifeless eyes staring up at his now-traumatized, orphaned son is just devastating.

Anyways, sorry for the ramble… I would love to hear your thoughts !!!

oh my god. yeah…..I mean, yeah. I’m getting smacked speechless by some of these anons today.

I actually saw someone knock all their teeth out once like you’re describing and it is gruesome. seeing teeth where they aren’t supposed to be is horrifying.

I think comics and movie adaptations letting the Waynes get shot somewhere in center mass, away from their faces, by low caliber bullets so they bleed out with last words is a mercy, in some ways.

modern guns could make that scene could look very, very different. I won’t go into them here but…yeah. there’s a reason they die with their faces intact in the comics and most movies, in my opinion. and with a few words or screams, maybe, before they fully die.

but yeah. there’s a world where they both get hit point blank in the head, brain and blood go everywhere, and Bruce has to sit there caked in for a while. until the cops show up, and even then, he probably doesn’t get clean for a while, since he’s covered in the decade’s most haunting crime scene.

[achenetype]

Hihi can you please do a Luke x reader where it’s basically an unrequited love like reader is so in love with Luke and he has no idea so she moves on and years later she’s over him and confesses to him like a oh I thought you should know and the whole time Luke had been in love with her, kinda base it off that one TikTok audio where it’s like “I’m not in love with you anymore” “I never knew you were” 🩷🩷

OHH YOURE FEEDING MY ANGST BRAIN WITH THIS ONE. buckle up lets break some hearts

edit: this ended up being WAY sadder than i originally intended. i am so sorry anon oh my god

i gave you a rare gift (but you didn't want it) — luke castellan

pairing: luke castellan x fem!reader

word count: 2.8k

content: angst, major character/reader death, unrequited love, mutual pining, reader is part of kronos' army, luke and reader are doomed by the narrative, [Y/N] used (sparingly), alcohol mention, description of injury

listening to: bloodfest (from mizumono) by brian reitzell

You are twenty-two years old, sitting on the rocky beach of a lake somewhere in the forests of upstate New York. Light, gentle fog hangs in the air around you, and the only sound is the tap-tap-tap of Luke skipping rocks across the water.

Come dawn, the world will burn. The gods will be dethroned. Every demigod will either be free, or dead.

But now, at midnight, you are twenty-three and Luke turns to you. He's holding a small, squashed cupcake in one hand. "Happy birthday," he says, "to my right-hand man." He pauses. "Woman. Right-hand woman."

He holds the pastry out to you and smiles, but something behind his eyes is empty. Hollow. He hadn't been sleeping recently. As much as he tried to hide it, he couldn't stop you from seeing when he came to you every morning for a cup of coffee and to debrief for the day.

Perks of being the revolution leader's best friend, you think. His right-hand woman.

Luke's eyes flick from the cake to your face. "Do you like it?" He asks, and for a split second, you swear there's a note of hope in his voice. "I wanted to do something, y'know," he says. "Twenty-three is huge. It's a monumental age."

You nod, but stay quiet.

He pauses for a second. "You remember how you always said you wished you never had a birthday?"

When you were twelve, nearly thirteen, your mother drove you across the country to go to summer camp.

"It'll be like a road trip," she said, tossing your duffel bag into the back seat of her battered car. "And then, hey, you'll only stay at camp until the end of August, and then you can come back and go to school. See all your friends again." She squeezed your shoulder and pushed the car door closed. "How about that?"

"Sure," you said. "Super fun."

And it was; you were actually kind of excited. You'd never been to New York. It seemed a million universes away.

And it was your birthday tomorrow. Maybe this was a gift, something that your mother had put together to make up for the years of being too tired and too drunk to make a cake, or get presents, or anything.

Your mother put her hands on her hips and sighed. "You know how I feel about the attitude, yeah? Let's not do this today."

"I wasn't even trying to—" You cut off as your mother glared at you, her face tense. You knew that look: the biting-the-inside-of-her-cheek, trying-to-be-understanding, trying-to-be-a-good-mom-despite-it-all look.

You hated that look.

"Just..." She sighed. "Just get in the damn car, [Y/N]."

You did, fighting back the tears building in the corners of your eyes, and the slam of the car door closing was as loud as thunder.

Twenty silent minutes of city streets and highway merge ramps and cold, empty stretches of asphalt and concrete passed before either of you spoke.

"Mom," you said, thirty-three seconds into minute twenty-one, "I'm sorry for talking back earlier." Your voice was quiet, shaking, cupped in your throat like a scared animal.

She didn't answer, keeping her eyes fixed on the road.

"I don't like being like this, Mom," you said, looking over at her. The silhouette of her through the driver's side window, backlit by the streetlights, was shapeless. Impassive. "I don't like doing this with you all the time."

She scoffed.

You pulled your legs to your chest, tucking your head between your knees, and tried to find sleep.

You weren't sure how long you slept, but you woke up to the sound of music playing softly over the speakers. Exit signs whizzed past you at what felt like breakneck speed. You wondered, briefly, if you would break your neck if you jumped out of the car right now.

Ultimately you decided against it. You didn't want your mother's last words to you to be, get in the damn car.

That would make her feel guilty, you thought, and that guilt would make her hate me even more.

"I don't wanna fight," you tried instead, picking at a loose thread in the cuff of your jacket sleeve. "Mom, I'm sorry, okay? I don't want us to be mad at each other anymore," you said. A sob caught in your throat, heavy and wet and choking.

Your mother sighed and reached one hand from the wheel to tuck your hair behind your ear. "I know you don't, sweetie," she said. "I don't want to be mad at you either."

"Then why do you do it," you asked.

When she turned to look at you, her eyes were wet. She smiled, or tried to. "Sometimes, certain people just…can't help but fight," she said. "It's just part of who we are, I think."

"Did you fight with Dad?"

Your mother inhaled, quick and sharp through her nose, as she flicked the turn signal to right and guided the car down the exit ramp from the highway, her eyes locked ahead. "Yes," she said. "Sometimes. Sometimes I think that's where we get it."

You swallowed. "Do you ever miss him?"

She doesn't peel her gaze away from the road. "Every day."

The two of you made your way through bustling streets and across too many bridges to count. You thought you fell asleep again, for a minute or maybe a year. Maybe it was all a dream.

"Mom," you asked as she turned onto a worn dirt road, the sunrise barely stretching over the horizon, "why are you bringing me here?"

She didn't answer for a moment. Two moments, then three. Through the leaves, you saw one tree standing impossibly tall. A pine tree.

Your mother parked the car and turned to you. "Because I don't know what to do with you, [Y/N]," she said. "I don't know how I can keep you," she paused, "safe. How I could do this, on my own, in any normal way."

She got out of the car and grabbed your bag, shoving it against your chest. "Camp is just up that hill there," she said, gesturing in the direction of the large tree you'd seen earlier. "They’ve got people up there waiting for you."

"Mom," you said. "Wait, I—I wanted to talk to you—"

She shook her head. "I can't come with you, sweetie." She smiled, the curve of her mouth falling just short of her eyes. "You just remember that I love you, okay?"

At that moment, you knew: she was going to leave you here.

“No,” you said, tears rolling down your face. “No, no—Mom. Mom, please.”

“Before you go,” she said, her voice tight and sharp, “I wanted to give you this.” She reached into the back seat and pulled out a jacket, worn leather with patched elbows. “It was mine in college,” she explained, not meeting your eyes. Like she was reading from a play or book, and you were the unfortunate audience. “I figure, it doesn’t fit me anymore.” 

She pressed a kiss to your forehead. “Happy birthday, baby.”

It was the first time you had ever felt like your mother loved you. You knew she liked you, sometimes. But you were never quite sure if she loved you until that moment. 

And then she got back into the car with one final, teary nod. 

And you never saw her again.

“Yeah,” you tell Luke, shrugging. “I think I’ve got a pretty good reason, though.” Your lips curve into a smile.

He laughs and tilts his head. It’s a habit of his; he’ll say something and twist his neck just a fraction, narrow his eyes. A nervous tic that not even years of training and fighting and killing could stamp out.

You used to think about kissing his neck when he did it, but now you’re not sure whether you would know the difference between kissing and ripping his throat out. 

“True,” Luke concedes. You laugh, too, unrestrained and loud. “Gods, your sense of humor is dark.”

“You laughed first,” you remind him. He grins.

The cupcake he offers you, despite its lumps and smears of frosting, is pretty good. You split it apart with careful fingers and hand half of it back to him.

“You’re celebrating with me,” you laugh, “so you get half. That’s the rule.”

Luke simply smiles at you and takes the crumbling cake from your hand. “Whatever you say.”

You roll your eyes, grinning back. “Damn right.”

Luke’s laugh rings out again, sharp and bright against the night sky. Firelight flickers across his face, painting him in brilliant streaks of orange and gold. 

“After tomorrow,” Luke murmurs, pulling his knees up to his chest, “we can do this whenever we want.” The wind ruffles his hair almost fondly, floppy brown curls stirring and settling back against his skull.

You raise an eyebrow. “This?”

He gestures in a wide arc. “Be here, like this. Just be people, instead of demigods or heroes or revolutionaries.” Luke’s voice picks up, conviction surging into his words. “I mean, seriously—when was the last time you thought you would ever have a normal life?”

You’d never understood the demigods who joined Luke’s cause without knowing him. The plan itself seemed crazy—the only way anyone would follow it was if they knew their leader could pull it off. 

You have to know Luke to know he was capable of that, you think.

Until now. Now, you see what you think everyone else sees—a real leader, a revolutionary. A force for change with a silver tongue.

He makes it all seem so possible. You almost think he might pull it off.

Luke looks over to you. “We’re going to change everything,” he says. 

Almost.

“We’re going to change the rules,” Luke said, spreading the map over an empty cot in his cabin. “If we want to win, we need to be thinking six steps ahead of the enemy.”

A few of the campers huddled around the makeshift table shuffled and coughed awkwardly. 

“Every strategy’s been done before,” a tall girl with bubblegum-pink hair and an eyebrow piercing shouted from the back of the group. “How are we going to out-war the god of war’s kids?” 

Murmurs rushed around the table, soft and susurrant. There’s no way we’re going anywhere here. We’ve gotten our asses beat six weeks in a row. What are we even doing?

Luke smiled. “Ares is the god of war,” he said, “not strategy.” He slung his arm around one of the campers next to him and inclined his head in the direction of the map.

Quietly, almost too quiet for you to hear, he murmured into the girl’s ear. “Don’t doubt yourself, Bethy,” he whispered.

You learned three things in the ten minutes that she spent explaining your team’s new strategy—

—one, your team was going to kick some major ass—

—two, your strategist’s name was Annabeth Chase, and she was the smartest eight-year-old you have ever met—

—and three, Luke was right.

Annabeth’s plan took the rules of Capture the Flag and threw them out the window. She split the team into four subgroups, each with a delegated leader. Luke nodded along as she talked, marking the map with a stubby pencil. 

When Annabeth’s eyes, dark and piercing, searched the crowd and landed on you, you felt your heart stop.

“You,” she said, “are you good with a sword?”

You raised your eyebrow, pointing to yourself—just to confirm this genius child was speaking to you—and Annabeth nodded. 

“I guess?” You said, shrugging. “I know some basic stuff, and I’m good at disarming.”

Annabeth’s face broke into a smile. “Work with Luke on the first wave of offense.” She gestured to the map. “You two will take points B and B-one,” she explained. “My group will take the A-points. You wait for our signal to move in.”

You met Luke’s eyes across the table. Hey, you mouthed. 

His eyes flicked up and down your form. Hey, he mouthed back. You ready to win?

You smiled and nodded.

Good, Luke said, all teeth. Let’s go.

He stood and grabbed his helmet. You did the same.

“I’m [Y/N],” you said as you followed Luke through the forest. “We, uh—we met when I first got here, like, a year ago.” I was sobbing my eyes out because my mother abandoned me, you didn’t add. It was kind of pathetic. I think I threw up from crying so hard.

You suddenly hoped Luke didn’t remember meeting you, actually. That would be less embarrassing.

He turned and caught your eye. “You live in the same cabin as me. ‘Course I know you.” 

Of course he remembers.

You laughed, flushing red. “Oh. Yeah. Of course.”

The silence was so thick, you could have cut it with the sleek bronze of your sword.

In the end, it was Luke who broke the silence. “You wanna play a game while we wait out here?”

You shrugged. “Sure,” you said. 

“Twenty questions,” Luke replied. “So we can learn enough about each other to actually work together.” He smiled. “What’s your favorite color?”

“Low-hanging fruit,” you said, your voice just barely taking on a teasing tone. “It’s green.” 

Luke laughed, loud and full and bright. “Apologies,” he said; mirth crept into his words, staining everything with a tinge of that laughter. “I’ll go for the more gut-wrenching, intimate questions next time.”

You flushed red again. Intimate questions. What the hell does he mean by that?

“My turn,” you said instead. “What do you want to be when you get older?”

“We’ll be heroes,” Luke whispers. “Real heroes. Not figureheads propped up by the gods.”

You wish you could believe him. He’s lying on the beach next to you, his head resting in the junction between your shoulder and your neck. Over the treetops, the stars are beginning to fade from the sky.

It’s almost time.

Your throat feels like someone has sanded it down to expose your vocal cords. This is a bad idea, you want to say. We shouldn’t do this. Tell me we can still not do this. 

“Wanna play twenty questions?” You say, crackling and hoarse.

Luke turns to look at you. “Yeah,” he murmurs. 

“My turn first,” you whisper. Luke nods.

You take a deep breath, in and out. “Are we going to die doing this?”

Luke inhales sharply. “Maybe,” he says. Slowly. Deliberately. “But we’ll do everything we can to make sure we don’t.”

“I got another question,” you say. Luke raises an eyebrow. His knuckles brush yours as you sit up.

“Are you scared?”

It’s your birthday. 

You think you’re going to die. 

Luke is kneeling over you, the palm of his hand pressed against the wet opening in your stomach where someone had caught you with a spear. The shaft of it is still sticking out of you, you think. You’re afraid to look down, afraid to see it. 

“No,” Luke gasps, “no, no, no.”

You watch as the gold fades from his eye, leaving behind the honey-dark brown you remember. His hands are slick with blood—most of it’s probably yours, it has to be yours. You’re bleeding out, after all. 

You tug on Luke’s sleeve weakly. “Hey,” you breathe. “Luke. It’s okay, it’s okay. It’s going to be okay.”

“No,” he says. “You’re—you’re hurt.”

“I know,” you rasp. “I know it hurts. I’m the one—” 

You break off as a cough sticks in your throat. It feels wet. Oily. Desperate to get out. You taste the blood in the back of your throat before you can even take another breath.

“—I’m the one who’s feeling it,” you finish, your voice tilting up at the end. A joke. Gods, your sense of humor is dark.

Luke laughs weakly. “Don’t talk,” he says. “You’re gonna be just fine, [Y/N], just fine.”

He meets your eyes. You see him realize it in slow motion.

Tell him. Tell him now. He’s never going to know otherwise—he could die any minute—

“Luke,” you murmur. “Luke, did you know I loved you?”

He freezes. “What?”

You cough again. Blood spills over your lips. “I loved you,” you repeat. “Since we were campers. Had the…the biggest, stupidest crush on you.”

Luke shakes his head. “No, no,” he says. “You—”

“You’re my best friend,” you continue. “Whatever feelings were there, you’re my best friend.”

Luke’s palm against your stomach is warm. It feels safe. It feels like sleeping side-by-side in the cabin, like shared meals and shared secrets. 

“Why are you telling me this?” Luke says, “why are you—why?”

You blink, just once, but it takes everything you have to open your eyes again after closing them. “Because I’m going to die,” you whisper. “And even if—even though I moved on, I wanted you to…to know.”

Luke bows over your body, pressing his forehead to yours. Tears slip from his cheeks and fall onto yours, driving little rivers through the blood smeared there.

He’s crying. Why is he—

“You idiot,” Luke says brokenly. “I loved you too. I loved you too.” He cradles your head in his lap, brushing your hair away from your face. “[Y/N], I’m so sorry.”

Your eyes slip shut.

I loved you too, Luke’s voice echoes. I loved you too.

[orcelito]

showing off the commission i got from @ruporas for my fic, In the Next Life!

i'm still so incredibly excited about this. it's been some months since the story event that caused these scars, but i wanted SO BADLY to be able to see what they'd actually Look like... & Here They Are.

ruporas rendered the scars So Well, i just cant stop Looking at them... there's a Fresh & a Healed version, which ruporas was kind enough to give me without additional charge (Thank U Again😭😭) so i get to see what it looks like at different stages.

Lichtenberg Figures. in terms of actual scarring, lightning strikes that people survive don't tend to leave permanent scars, but the lichtenberg figures that they (usually temporarily) leave behind are just So Cool... Now, what happens when you get someone who can survive an amount of electricity/lightning that would be Frankly Lethal to any normal human person?

This :]

[toastywindow]

POV: your name is micah bell

[jawz]

i saw the tv glow is legitimately one of the stupidest, most tryhard movies i've ever seen in my entire life. absolute dogshit. and everyone is pretending it's the most lifechanging thing they've ever seen LOL give me a break! the gall to claim this is inspired by fucking DAVID LYNCH??? i can't

[starry-bi-sky]

more cfau miscellaneous things because Childhood Friends Danny and Jason have my head and heart always and I need to finish rewriting chapter two dammit (and redo the half-finished chapter 4 because its just Not The Vibes). i'm almost through I need to get through the graveyard scene. (i just stubbornly refuse to have it be shorter than the original chapter and thats the little death. that is the mind killer.)

Danny and jason’s ghost forms both smell faintly like burnt flesh and cigarettes. However, Jason has a more smokey smell while Danny’s smells almost,,, electrical? In a sense? Like he just straight up smells like burnt flesh and sulphur while Jason smells like someone put him in a smoker first.

It’s very much an unpleasant smell but Danny finds an odd comfort in it just as much as he finds a comfort in the smell of nicotine.

(Jason post-revival smells burnt flesh once and is immediately offput by the fact that it brings him an instinctive comfort. He doesn’t realize its because it reminds him of Danny, and is uncomfortable by it.)

-

In an au of an au, Danny’s altercation with Rath ends with Rath regaining enough of his sanity to snap out of the grieving state and ends with him breaking down. Instead of being souped and imprisoned, Rath, who is permanently 14, decides to Move On into the unknown. He’s exhausted, heartbroken, and tired.

(Is this influenced heavily by the ParaNorman scene where he talks to Agatha and helps her move on? Yes. But it doesn’t fit with the Original Storyline so im shoving it into an Au of an Au.)

Rath tells Danny that Jason lied to them (which he genuinely believes), and that he’s tired of waiting/looking for him/grieving. Jason is gone. He isn’t coming back, he abandoned them. And he wants his mom and dad, and his sister, and his friends. And he’s ready to join them.

He leads Danny out to Gotham, which other than Amity Park might’ve been the only city left untouched due to Rath’s own mental block on the place. They go out to the park he and Jason used to frequent or up to one of crime alley’s rooftops, and there Rath lies down and goes to sleep. Only to never wake up again, materializing into nothing as his soul moves on.

Before Rath leaves, he forces Danny to promise him that he’ll only wait for Jason for ten years. After that if he doesn’t find him, or if Jason doesn’t show, then Danny has to move on. Whether that be like how Rath does, or if its inly mentally/emotionally, doesn’t matter. He has to move on. Don’t wait for him. Don’t waste his time any more.

(“Oh, and if you find him, kick his ass for me.”)

Danny reluctantly agrees, and Rath lies down. Danny sings to him as he falls asleep.

(Angsty points if the vigilantes including Red Hood caught wind of their presence and were silently watching from the shadows. Rath might know they’re there, but Danny’s too focused on Rath to notice.)

(If only so that Red Hood realizes that this is what happened to Danny, and that Danny is gone before he can make things right. The tragedy, folks. The angst. The initial realization that Danny was Rath, and then also that Danny was dead and has been dead for years, and that before he moved on, he moved on believing that Jason abandoned him.)

(like i said it doesn't fit in the original timeline/storyline hence why its an au of an au and isn't nearly a fleshed out, but i was largely just focusing on the tragedy of Rath moving on and Jason being alive to see it and realize just who Rath is.)

-

Just like how the Lazarus pits shot Jason's twiggy 4'6-5'4 (depending on what you find) feet tall and 86lb ass up like a tree an essentially fixed his malnutrition, the portal did the same thing for Danny.

(granted i forgot about malnutrition and danny's likely stunted growth at first -- his family lived in crime alley and despite both his parents working, I don't think they had enough food all the time. He probably wasn't as badly malnourished as Jason was, but he wasn't healthy either.)

Granted his ghost in its "natural" state (14) is short, and his growth spurts were slow at first, it did result in him reaching his dad's height. There were points where it just happened overnight, like a baby. He went to bed one night 5’6 and woke up the next day 5’10.

Jazz is shorter than him. Although I have't decided if she's even liminal at all (and if she is, it didn't cure everything because she would have also suffered childhood malnutrition, and since in au canon their parents didn't get their hands on physical ectoplasm until after they got to Amity Park. So the exposure is less.)

-

Danny's voice absolutely sounds like canon Dan's. It kinda just dropped one day when he was 16-17 and never went back up. Sam and Tucker sometimes ask him to just talk about anything because they find his voice soothing.

I'm not sure yet how Danny would feel about it at first considering Rath, but I imagine that Rath, when he did speak, would have had a quieter and scratchier/weaker voice considering he's spent the last decade shrieking and crying.

(and i suppose technically that shouldn't have any effect on his throat considering he's a ghost and idk if that would actually affect him, but i like the idea so im keeping it)

In the beginning you could hear him from a mile away by the sound of his loud, echoing wails, but ten years later you can only really hear him by the soft, shuddering sobs he makes. Like he's gasping for air that isn't there. The future is full of very quiet survivors.

And it's much easier to speak when you pitch your voice upwards (especially when whispering/speaking quietly) so he might've spoken in a higher, airy pitch in order to be heard. So Danny might actually find a comfort in having a lower voice.

[phoebepheebsphibs]

Double-Mutated Mikey

Chapter 44: Death of a Mutant

Continued from the short story written by @boots-with-the-fur-club

Prev || Next

Leo takes his three brothers down the hall to a more spacious area -- a mostly empty room filled with a few storage boxes and cabinets. Leo keeps them in the hall while he quickly surveys, making sure that there is no one nearby. They've had enough surprise attacks for today...

He gives the room a once-over before ushering them in.

"Here's as good as any," Leo breathes, his hands jittering ever so slightly as he grips his swords. "Let's get out of here."

"The sooner the better, if you ask me," Donnie grunts, still scratching at the tender sore on his arm.

"Are we sure that April and the gang will be okay?" Raph asks nervously, his hands wringing. "I don't feel good just leavin' em here."

"They'll be fine," Donnie reiterates flatly. "They have a government agent watching them and a robot to help. Plus, Cass is crazy, she won't let anything happen to them."

"But what if they find something crazier than Cass?"

"What on earth could be crazier than Cass?" Donnie scoffs.

Mikey giggles at the statement. Donnie smiles in response, though he's not completely sure why. He wasn't trying to make a joke.

"...However, if it makes you feel any better, I will call them and double-check to make sure that they are alright before we leave," Donatello offers.

Raph nods with a grunt, and Donnie quickly whips out his phone.

As Donnie speed-dials April, Leo goes to Mikey.

"You okay?" he whispers. "It's been a long day... are you holding up alright?"

"I think so," Mikey sighs. "Just... ready for everything to be over, I guess. I mean, it will be over today, right? Everything? All of it?"

"Maybe," Leo answers honestly. "I mean, I hope so. Once we get back, I doubt the TCRI will try to relocate you because of a definite lack of Chaplin. And with Fugitoid and Bishop working on their case against both the Earth Protection Force and the Techno Cosmo Whatever-It-Is, I'm sure that the whole organization will be dead and gone within the month."

Mikey gives a deep sigh of relief as he leans against Leo's arm.

"...But that doesn't mean that everything is over..." Leo mumbles.

Mikey looks up at him curiously.

"Whaddya mean?"

Leo reaches into his fanny pack and produces Mikey's cure.

"Do you know what you want to do with this?"

Mikey stares at it nervously.

"I...I thought I did," he mumbles. "Now I'm not so sure."

"That's okay," Leo nods, handing the syringe to him. "You don't have to know immediately. You don't even have to know by the end of the month, or the end of the year. Think about it for as long as you need, bro."

Mikey cradles the retro-mutagen gently.

"...I thought that if I had this, then it would be easy to take it," Mikey whispers. "I thought it was what you all wanted. But now..."

"It's totally your call, dude," Leo assures him. "We won't force you or make you feel like one option is better than the other. You're you, with or without your tail and super cool animal traits."

Leo ruffles the nonexistent hair on Mikey's head to make sure he knows that everything is okay. Mikey chuckles softly as he hides the syringe in a fold within his broken shell for safekeeping...

"Update, April has been notified of our departure," Donnie announces. "And everything is fine. She said that they not only found Cassandra, but also somebody called Dr. Finn."

"Finn?" Leo repeats. "That's the woman who shot the Professor!"

"She's a head scientist here," Mikey fills in. "She was mostly in charge of my surgeries and studies."

"I'm sure she'll be of great use to the Professor and Bishop," Donnie nods. "Now, let's get out of here."

"Alrighty, mi hermanos!" Leo says, huffing with effort as he pushes against his knees to stand. "¡Salgamos de aquí! Lo antes posible, ¡gracias!"

Leo swings the katanas and a shaky portal opens up. The bright flash of blue temporarily blinds them. Mikey squeezes his eyes shut and grumbles. His head is starting to hurt again... Must be the flashing light...

"Okay, this should take us to the lair..." Leo says, gesturing to the break.

"Should?" Raph questions. "You're not sure?"

"Hey, it's hard to focus on making a portal when you feel like you're about to fall over, dude," Leo mumbles exhaustedly.

Mikey's head continues to throb. He tries looking away from the portal. It never hurt like this before when Leo made a portal...

"Why the lair and not the Yokai resort where Dad and Draxum are?" Donnie questions.

Leo gives an exaggerated groan and rolls his eyes. Mikey grumbles a bit as well, stepping away from the portal and clutching his head tightly.

"It's my default safe location!" the irritated slider argues. "I always go there in an emergency! Besides, I don't exactly know exactly where we are right now, so..."

"We're on Staten Island!"

"Can we just hurry up and go through?" Raph interrupts, glancing back at the youngest sibling. "I don't think Mikey's doing so well..."

The three turn to see Mikey, still gripping his head tightly as they argue.

"...Michael?" Donnie asks, taking a cautious step. "What's wrong?"

Mikey groans in pain, barely managing to look up at his brother.

"I... I-I d-don't know.... m'head hurtss...."

He grunts and groans and growls, pressing his knuckles against his temples and squeezing his skull as the headache persists and grows.

Why does it hurt so much? Why is there a ringing in his ears that whirls around his brain? Why is the noise getting louder and louder??

Donnie takes a step closer to him, reaching out to touch his shoulder.

"Mikey, what's wrong--"

Mikey screams, falling to his knees.

The portal fizzles to a close as the three run to his side.

"Mikey, what's happening?!" Leo shouts, terrified. "Just tell us what--"

Mikey's screams turn up an octave as they transform to agonized sobs. He clutches his head so tightly, his knuckles turn white and the skin underneath his hands starts to bruise from the force.

"MIKEY!" Raph shouts, louder than his baby brother's cries. "Mikey, just tell us! What's wrong?! What's going on?!"

"H-he's --" Mikey gasps, writhing on the floor. "He's in my head!"

"Who?" Leo begs.

"DON'T MAKE ME DO IT!!" Mikey shrieks, sobbing loudly.

"Make you do what?" Leo asks, holding Mikey still. "Mikey, what is happening?!"

Mikey's face becomes a scowling snarl as he takes Leo's hands off of him and pushes him away, practically throwing him across the room.

"Mikey?!" Raph gasps, turning to look at him.

Mikey's eyes continually dilate, the pupils going from round and terrified to thin and cutting in an instant before growing wide in shock and confusion again. His facial muscles spasm, unsure which expression to hold -- hate or horror.

"I-I'm sorry!" Mikey begs, scooting away in fear. "I-I don't--"

Mikey screams again, skittering as far as he can before his back slams into the wall behind him. He sobs loudly, his head ringing.

"I DON'T WANT TO KILL THEM!"

Raph and Donnie jolt at hearing that.

Leo runs back in and slides right up to Mikey, placing a hand on his shoulder.

"Mikey --" he says calmly, "-- you won't kill us. I know you won't."

"He's in my head!!" Mikey sobs, body jerking and jittering as he fights himself.

Leo takes in a deep breath and places a hand on Mikey's forehead.

His eyes glow white as he mind-melds with his baby brother...

Leonardo is almost psychically thrown back as his thoughts are blasted with death threats at full volume, orders flooding for Mikey to follow. The voice is garbled, indiscernible, yet part of it is strangely familiar.

Leo is certain he's heard these voices before...

'Wretched little pest...'

Leo steadies himself and grips Mikey by the shoulders.

"Mikey, you have to listen to me! I know you don't want to kill us, I know it's hard to fight these thoughts, but you have to!"

Mikey shrieks a shrill cry of pain as he stares at Leo blankly.

"I-I... I c-can't -- h-he's too strong, he's too loud!!"

"Who is?" Donnie begs? "Who is doing this to you?!"

The door creaks open slowly.

All eyes turn to see...

A monster.

Large and grotesque, a mangle of strawberry flesh and amalgamation of limbs, eyes, teeth, claws, tentacles, and thorny barbs. It lumbers slowly into the room, its eyes trained on the four boys.

"THERE YOU ARE..." he growls.

Half of the face is exposed, the skin of the wretch underneath and the tuft of hair frayed outward reveal the monster's identity.

"...Chaplin?" Leo says, his voice barely a breath. "It... n-no, you... I thought you were dead--"

The creature growls at him, snarling fangs bared.

"KILL THEM, MIKEY," he orders. "KILL THEM."

Raph stands up and guards Donnie instinctively. He reaches for Leo and Mikey as well.

"Don't listen to him," Raph states sternly, staring daggers at Chaplin. "He can't control you anymore, okay?"

Mikey can't answer. He grips his head so staunchly, he leaves bloody scratches where his fingers were. He presses his face against his knees, desperately hoping that the added pressure and self-made enclosure will help him ward off the demands and keep him protected like a fortress.

Mikey sobs loudly as he realizes it's not working.

"I WANT YOU TO KILL THEM, MIKEY," Chaplin repeats, becoming impatient. "DO IT. NOW."

Mikey's head lifts up softly, a blank expression on his face. His breath comes in shuddering gasps, his face drenched in sloppy tears. His eyes zero in on his brothers. He slowly stands up.

"...Mikey, no," Leo begs, standing along with him, holding his arms out to guard his brothers. "Mikey, please."

Mikey doesn't say anything. He just watches them.

"Mikey," Leo begs, eyes glazing over with tears. "Don't... I know you, you don't want this. I promised that... that nothing would change how much I love you. No matter what you do. But I know you can fight this, I know you can. I have so much faith in you, dude. I know you can do this."

Mikey's brow furrows. The corners of his mouth turn downwards.

"I know you can do it..."

Leo cautiously steps forwards and wraps his arms around Mikey in a hug. He squeezes him close to his chest, as tight as he can.

The markings on his arms, legs, face, and shell begin to light up.

Mikey blinks softly.

He raises one hand up to touch him.

"KILL HIM. NOW."

Mikey doesn't move.

Raphael and Donatello walk over and join the hug.

Their markings begin to glow as well.

Mikey leans into their embrace, burying his face in Leo's shoulders.

His body begins to shimmer.

The monster snarls and hisses with fury.

"INSIGNIFICANT LITTLE -- IF YOU WON'T DO IT, I'LL DO IT MYSELF!"

Chaplin pounces.

A golden mystic chain tears through the air and crashes into him, completely severing at least three krang arms from his body in the process.

Chaplin roars an ungodly sound at them, and charges again.

Mikey bursts from his brothers' hold and soars at the monster, chains in hand and eyes the colour of a thousand suns.

It's as if a nuclear explosion goes off in the room, knocking Leo, Raph, and Donnie into the wall as Mikey and Chaplin battle it out.

Raphael creates a giant hologram over himself and shields his two brothers, watching over his shoulder as Michelangelo goes absolutely ape and obliterates the monster one blow at a time.

Mikey severs arm after arm after arm after tentacle after giant jaw that attempts to literally bite his head off.

Chaplin knocks Mikey back just enough to get the upper hand and pounces atop him, threatening to rip him apart. His claws shred at Mikey's chest, gashing his shoulders, and even causing several more deep potential future scars on his face as he does what he can to damage his ex-perfect-living-weapon.

Mikey kicks the monster off his chest, sending him flying into the room above them. Mikey gets an idea and flies after him, grabbing the fleshy beast where he can and soars upwards, crashing him through floor after floor after floor until they disappear from sight.

"...Uh... so yeah, we should go after them?" Leo asks.

"Probably."

One mystic portal later, the three remaining brothers find themselves on the rooftop, where Mikey and Chaplin are in the heat of the duel, away from causing more structural damage. Mikey is swinging mystic chain after mystic chain at Chaplin, cutting him down to a more manageable size as he removes the krang parasites from him one by one.

Leo drops to his knees, worn out from the portal. Donnie catches him before noticing that the krang parasites are still alive, and crawling around in an attempt to reunite with each other.

"Raphala," Donnie seethes. "Hold this for me, will you?"

Raph takes their leader into his arms as Donnie activates his ninpo and transforms his staff into a variation of the bug-slapper he'd once made for capturing Draxum's oozesquitos. Only this time, the device will capture a different kind of 'bug'...

Meanwhile, Mikey's fight is showing to be more difficult than he expected.

Chaplin dives at Mikey, talons elongated and ready to stab him straight through. Mikey manages to dodge the claws, but not the tentacles that follow. The slimy extremity coils around him and throws his across the rooftop. Another appendage creates projectile thorns, and as Mikey regains his bearings, the krang monster begins firing.

Left, right, left, right!

Mikey has to dance quite creatively to avoid the projectile barbs.

LET ME TAKE OVER, Instinct howls. I CAN DO THIS BETTER, I WILL KILL HIM FOR YOU --

Mikey ignores him.

Mikey shoots his own projectile barbs and spines at Chaplin, making sure not to hit any vital organs, but only aiming at his feet and additional appendages.

One strikes right through and severes an arm from the body.

Chaplin howls profusely and retaliates, charging Mikey.

Donnie slides in behind the battle scene and scoops up the parasite, trying to keep them from getting out of hand. He doesn't notice that one -- which has managed to evade capture -- begins crawling up behind him.

"Dee, LOOK OUT!"

Donnie turns around just in time to see Raph's ninpo arm stretch out and slam down on the parasite, as though he were swatting a fly.

Donnie jumps away, pulling each limb he can as far from the squashed parasite as he can.

"Yikes! Thanks, Raph!"

"No 'probbles'," the eldest replies.

Leo slowly stands to his feet and wobbles over to Donnie.

"What can I do?" he asks. "How can I help?"

"I doubt you could keep up with Mikey and zombified Chaplin in your state," Donnie calculates. "But could you make a portal? Even just a small one?"

"Why?"

"We need the formula to eradicate these parasites as best we can."

"Got it," Leo nods, clutching his swords and creating a meager fist-sized portal. He sticks his hand through and pulls out three vials of glowing blue liquid.

"Perfect," Donnie sighs, pouring the formula into his ninpo weaponry filter. "Time for some extermination..."

As Donnie begins his obliteration spree, Leo glances back at Mikey, who is starting to slow down. Chaplin on the other hand, refuses to give up, his parasites forcing his body to move even through the injuries and exhaustion.

Mikey dodges the projectile barbs that Chaplin fires at him for the most part. One snags him in the side and creates a gashing mark. Mikey takes a quick knee, clutching his side. Chaplin seizes his oppurtunity.

"MIKEY! LOOK OUT!"

Mikey stares up just in time to see Leo's sword get thrown between them, and suddenly Leo himself phases in its place. He kicks Chaplin square in the jaw before slicing his katanas at him, the blows deflected by the thorny spikes the creature wears.

Raph joins in as well, slamming his fists against the monster as it tries to run Leo through with his barbs. The duo continue to fight against it, Mikey joining a moment later despite his injury.

Krangified Chaplin throws a pretty powerful punch at Raph, sending him reeling and clutching his face tightly. Mikey pounces on his back and starts tearing the krang parasites off of him with his bare teeth. The creatures shriek and howl, and Chaplin roars at him as well.

He reaches back, grabbing in fury. He grips Mikey's shell with desperation and throws him across the rooftop. As Mikey reels head over heels, he throws a series of mystic chains at the monster, which wrap over his body and pull him along.

The two whirl around each other, pulling and spinning as they fight to knock each other off the roof in a ridiculous version of ring-around-the-rosie. They soon lose understanding of where they are --

"Mikey, the ledge! Watch out--!!"

Mikey and Chaplin slip to the farthest edge of the building, Chaplin losing his footing first and dragging Mikey along with him.

Mikey's claws cling to the edge, van der Waals forces coming into effect and helping him stay connected to the building as best they can. Chaplin's krang limbs extend and reach out for the building as well.

The two are practically suspended in midair, hanging off the side of the building.

Raphael shouts to them, his ninpo arm reaching out and wrapping around Mikey's waist, trying to pull him back as Chaplin attempts to take Mikey down with him. Chaplin's eyes burn through Mikey's skull as Mikey holds on to the man's exposed shirt collar, gripping him tightly and carefully.

"I got you!" Raph shouts. "I-I got you!!"

"Pull him up!" Leo yells.

"I'm trying," Raph grunts, straining as he pulls and pulls with effort. "Chaplin's fightin' me! He's trying to pull Mikey down or somethin'!!"

Chaplin snarls loudly at Mikey as he attempt to absorb him into the krang parasites; the pink flesh begins to spread over Mikey's hand, still clutching Chaplin's neck. Mikey growls in protest, trying to wrench his hand free.

"Spray Chaplin with the toxins, Dee!" Leo shouts.

"I can't, I'd hit Mikey!!"

"Well somebody do something!"

Mikey suddenly gets an idea.

He reaches into the fold between his shell scutes...

"YOU WILL ALWAYS BE A MONSTER," Chaplin hisses at him.

"Maybe," Mikey answers, taking the syringe of retro-mutagen from its hiding place. "But I'll never be a monster like you."

Mikey stabs through the putrid alien flesh and pierces Chaplin's neck, injecting the cure into his veins.

Almost instantaneously, the cure takes effect, destroying the krang fused to him.

The parasites shriek in agony as they shrivel up and burn away into nothingness. Chaplin shrieks in unison as his body goes through extreme detox.

He nearly slips from Mikey's grip, but the double-mutant keeps a firm hold on him.

Raphael pulls the two back, and Mikey sets the man down once they are secure.

"...W...w-why..." Chaplin gasps, choking softly as the last of the krang melts from his face. "Why would you....?"

"Because THAT'S who I am," Mikey states, enunciating every words as he speaks, to drive the fact home into Chaplin's thick skull. "Not a monster. Not an experiment. Not a weapon. I'm just... Mikey."

The double-mutant box turtle smiles at the man before turning away to go back to his brothers and portal home.

...It's just too bad Chaplin didn't like that answer...

The mad scientist growls, grabbing one of the discarded spines on the ground and lunges at mikey, swinging for his neck.

Mikey's hears him coming and immediately whirls around, foot extended on instinct to swipe at Chaplin's ankles.

Dr. Chaplin roars, and manages to pounce on Mikey before his tail knocks him back.

The man is thrown harder than he expected, and cries in shock as he stumbles over the side of the building, before screaming as he falls to his true and final death...

Mikey gasps, hyperventilating as he realizes... he just... did that just happen?

It... it's over?

It's over. Ha.

Hah... He... he won...

He won, he really won!

Haha! He did it, he really --

A week of torment, so many days of recovery, and a full 24 hours of trauma later, Mikey has finally won!

He turns around to face the cheers of his brothers at the final and very real defeat of Dr. Chaplin.

Mikey smiles brightly.

His neck twinges.

He... h-he won, M-M-Mikey.....

Something hot flows down onto his shoulder.

His brothers' cheers fall quiet. Their expressions shift to that of horror and fear.

Mikey won... right?

The pain in his neck worsens. He looks down, and sees a trail of red...

Mikey lifts up a claw and feels at his throat. Why is it getting hard to breathe?

His hand brushes against something thick, long, and rough embedded in the skin. One of the krang spines. The one Chaplin grabbed, the one he... h-hhhe......

...The trail of redd becomes a stream down his neck and chest...

Why..... is the world... ssssspinninggggg.......

One of his brothers shouts out his name.

He looks out to them.

He smiles at them.

"Mikey.... do... good?"

Mikey manages to take one step before he feels his weight overwhelm his center of gravity and tip him over, eyes rolling in the back of his head as everything goes dark. The last thing he registers is Leo running to him, just barely catching him before he can hit the ground.

Mikey doesn't hear their sobs.

He doesn't hear their pleas.

He doesn't feel their warm embrace as they beg him not to do this, stay with them, stay alive, stay, stay, stay...

Mikey feels nothing anymore. It's just...

...dark.

But there's a light up ahead. One that is blue, and red, and purple...

...and orange.

He'll see them again. One day...

Prev || Next

[mika-writes-fanfics]

As It Was

Dabi x Reader Angst

Warnings/tags: angst, hurt/no comfort, brief mentions of burns, major character death, pre-established relationship, reader cares for flowers

Synopsis: Dabi returns to you after completing his life's mission, his body now badly burned and damaged. He wonders, will you accept him with open arms? Will you take what is left of him?

Author's note: I've been on a Hozier binge. "As It Was" from Wasteland, Baby! was giving me major Dabi vibes. This is kind of different from the content I usually like to write and read, but I felt so inspired I just had to write it. Word count: 1.1K

He’s now thankful your home is on the outer reaches of the city, tucked in a secluded pocket between the border of the forest and the concrete hell of the city. After what he’s done, there’s not a person in Japan that wouldn’t recognize his face. Had you not lived in the middle of nowhere, he’d already be arrested by some weak police officer or jumped by some rookie hero. 

It’s ironic, the thinks, that his opinion has changed. He hated it, at one point. You lived so far away from his shitty apartment at the time, meaning that every time he wanted to see you, he had to take the agonizingly long train rides. It was like you lived in a fucking retirement community since all the elderly would take the same train, giving him judgemental stares all the while. It pissed him off to no end. And if that wasn’t enough, being in the forest always reminded him of Sekoto. 

But still, he bore it all for you, back before he let his rage consume him. 

Before he devoted himself entirely to revenge. 

Before he started burning himself all over again. 

Before he fucked it all up.

Despite the way he left you, he hopes you’ll be kind enough to him to accept his return, to not instantly slam the door in his face.

If he even makes it to your doorstep, that is.

Each step he takes feels like a battle between life and death. These heavy and labored movements exhaust him, made worse by the state your driveway is in. Of all the days for it to rain, it just had to be today. The torrential downpours make the path harder to traverse. Mud clings to his boots with every trudging step he takes, threatening to suck him into the earth, burying him at his final resting place. 

The puddles of water settling in the tire tracks of your car show him grim reminders of his appearance, showing him glimpses of just how ghastly he’s become.

He’s a burnt husk of what he once was.

Nothing is left of him now that he's achieved his life’s purpose. 

The only thing that remains of him is this homing instinct to return to you.

To go back to the start. 

To give you what’s left of him.

To feel his final sensation of comfort.

To feel loved again.

He’s faced with the reality of how long it’s been when he finally catches sight of your home. In the year he was by your side, he never saw those Foxgloves bloom once, as he met you in the late summer. But now, judging by the towering violet, bell-shaped flowers framing the sides of your window, it’s been three years.

It’s in this moment that his mind replays the memory of the following summer, the one in which he noticed you agonizing over the flowerless plant beds. He remembers it, with surprising clarity amongst the mental fog. 

“Why do you bother taking care of those stupid flowers if they never fucking bloom?” He asked you, critically. 

“They’re foxgloves,” you answered. 

“So?”

“So, they do bloom, just biennially, and their flowering season just passed. You’ll see why I keep ‘em around in another year,” you explained.

The fact you even implied he’d still be in your life a year from then filled him with a sense of security. Whether you meant it or not, he took it as a promise, and kept it tucked in the darker reaches of his heart. 

Three long years have passed since he left you, since he abandoned you without a word. But he has known you have a patient side to you, he’s seen it in the way you always gave him space in his darkest days, how you allowed him the time to come back to you when he was ready, how you never took his frustrating habit of pushing you away to heart, weathering his toxicity with love and carefulness. Maybe, since you’re so patient, you have been waiting for him. If you welcomed those flowers despite their long absence, maybe you’d accept him, too. 

Normally, he’d sneer at the thought of you turning him into such a hopeless romantic, a weaker version of himself, but considering how there’s nothing left of him anyways, he’s fine with the idea. Maybe the positivity you give him would turn him into something beautiful again. 

He finally climbs up to your doorstep and stumbles against the door. When his shaky and weak hands turn the knob, expecting to be met with a locked door, it turns easily without resistance. Your door is unlocked, which in his state of hopeful delusion, he interprets as you waiting for him.

Maybe you knew he would come back.

You had made it easy for him to crawl back into your life.

Or maybe you just forgot to lock it. 

He swings open the door as he leans against the door frame. Any other time, the sound of the groaning hinges would grate at his ears, but right now, the sound feels familiar and comforting. It feels like nothing has changed, everything is as it once was.

He trudges deeper into your home, shambling past your living room and tracking mud all over your floors. There’s a pit of anxiety forming in his stomach the longer he walks through your home without seeing a glimpse of you. But it’s when he approaches the kitchen that he hears you humming, the sound calming his mind. 

His boots thud on your tiled floor, loud, and uneven. He sways as he walks, bumping into one of your dining chairs, the movement scraping the chair against the floor. Your humming abruptly cuts off at the sound and you turn to the source, on high alert, only to see him propping himself up against the walls.

A sharp gasp escapes your lungs. 

All he can see is you as the edges of his vision grey out. Against your better judgment, you rush over to him as his legs start buckling underneath him.  

He starts to collapse on the spot. You close the distance and open your arms around him, catching his fall and attempting to bear the brunt of his weight. 

Despite what he’s done, despite how he left you so suddenly, he can still feel your love for him.

It’s in the way you try to make sure he doesn’t fall, despite tripping being the least concern to him given his injuries.

It’s how your voice sounds frantic as you ask him if he’s okay if he can hear you, if he’s still in there.

It’s how you start to sob at seeing the state he’s in. 

You’re so worried about getting him to lie on the ground safely and checking his pulse that you fail to see him softly smiling at how you fuss over him, what’s left of his burnt face forcing out a peaceful expression. 

The last thing he hears, the last thing he feels, the last thing he thinks about, is you.

[vexedallay]

They should not have let me, a writer who enjoys putting characters through trauma, take a first aid class.

In other news, did you know long falls have the tendency to cause injuries to the upper spine?

And totally unrelated to either of those statements, did you know Icarus took a long fall very soon after receiving heavy back trauma?

[michyeosseo]

You take a war so lightly. This only proves you have not experienced a real one.

Zeng Li as SHEN MUYUE

THE LEGEND OF SHEN LI (2024)

[lunainlove]

I feel like I have read all the good fanfics on ao3 for ghostsoap 😭😭 in times like this I hate being so picky with what I read and all the other fanfics that catch my attention are not finished and I refuse to read until they are done because I’m not patient at all so I’m left with nothing 😭😭😭 and finding good fics is so difficult on ao3 like I usually get what I read from recommendations, snooping into my fav authors bookmarks and pure luck

Anyway if someone has good fanfics please lmk I’m open to anything but recently I’ve been craving some mission focused fic or something like that with found family (I’m a sucker for gaz price ghost soap laswell ale and rudy together) and a happy ending because the I absolutely adore angst as long as there’s a happy ending 😭😭😭😭

[thebad-lydrawn-sanses]

Ah. Dust your voice is different now huh? To us it just looks like it's in italics where it wasn't before...what does it sound like? More echoey? Quieter? Do you have to use more magic to talk?

Dust: i took the ability to subconsciously speak, eat, and hear for granted. it takes effort now. everything sounds muffled. eating is a slow and embarrassing task that i need help with now. i've been told that my voice sound softer, almost echo-ey. Killer says it sounds like I'm in pain 24/7. they're not wrong. i didn't have a sense of smell in the first place, so no loss there. i can still see perfectly fine for some reason i refuse to question, so, yay there too Cr: Dust's shirt: i lured him to death with a can of baked beans

[opossumonashelf]

EMERGENCY COMMISSIONS!!!

(Animal injury mention under cut)

So recently this morning we had a mishap with one of our cats. Precious, our oldest cat is quite matted and my mom tried to cut one of them but accidentally got the skin too close and he needs surgery.

I'm upping my full color to $20 and sketches to $15. I take Ko-fi and PayPal!

This time I'm not just asking, we are currently hoping we can do scratch pay on the surgery. Currently as I write this I'm on my way to the clinic for the surgery as we speak.

The surgery is $2000 roughly.

[wickjump]

grrr cross whump… grrrr making him suffer… grrrr giving him extreme amounts of injury and blood soaking his bones… grrr…

[typicalopposite]

𝙴𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝙸 𝚃𝚛𝚢 𝚃𝚘 𝙵𝚕𝚢 (𝙸 𝙵𝚊𝚕𝚕)

BuckTommy Fic | M | Chapter 3/7 | 5595 words

Prologue | Chapter One | Chapter Two | ao3

𝙲𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚃𝚑𝚛𝚎𝚎: 𝙸 𝚆𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝙵𝚊𝚒𝚕 𝚈𝚘𝚞 (𝚘𝚏 𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝙸'𝚖 𝚂𝚞𝚛𝚎)

PLEASE READ TAGS FOR TRIGGER WARNINGS

There’s a distinct noise a body makes when it hits the ground after a significant fall. A splat— a squelch— that’s unmistakable, and sickening. Buck has heard it far more times than he’d like to think about, and yet at the moment it seems the forest has gone silent for it. Like all of nature holds its breath along with him in anticipation of that god forsaken sound. 

Buck tries to close his eyes before Tommy hits the ground, but just like a nightmare (which is what this feels like; what he wishes it were) they stay wide open. He sees everything. He sees the exact moment the sound happens; this time up close and far more personal than any other. There is just a moment more of silence—like the universe is paying its respects for what it has just done—then all the noise comes flooding back. 

Buck stops moving—he can’t get any closer. He tries to take in a breath and it catches halfway. The air is suddenly too thick, and too hot… and uthere’s a good chance he’s going into shock. 

Tommy’s body is contorted in a way that’s not too gruesome, but enough that it’s clearly not natural. There’s no way—Buck can’t break his eyes away from his body, as much as he desperately wants to—but it looks like he is still breathing. He knows it’s just a cruel trick of the eye; dead bodies appearing to breathe. There's just no way. Buck finally looks away. 

Again he tries to take a breath; again he doesn’t get in much air before the flow is stopped by the ever tightening of his chest. There’s also a chance he could be having a heart attack. Bobby did, from the stress he was under… and this very well might have that stress beat. 

“Oh god…” he chokes out, voice strangled by the bile rushing up into his throat. He feels like he might be sick, or maybe pass out, and he desperately needs to scream or cry… or both… or all of the above. His head feels like it might explode… the amount of guilt and anger and grief filling it is just too much. 

There’s a soft rustling of leaves. So soft he almost misses it; his head is spinning so fast and his ears are buzzing so loud, he’s surprised he’s even still standing, much less able to pick up on random noises. He hears the rustling again. It’s coming from the direction of Tommy’s body. It could be an animal… he needs to look back. 

Tommy’s hand is moving. 

His fingers are curling into the leaves and twigs then stretching back out. Buck thinks it might just be nerves… because there’s no way— Tommy sucks in a deep breath, then groans. “Oh my god!” Buck gasps, his knees finally giving out and he collapses to the ground. Tommy is breathing; it’s ragged, and each breath in his face twists like it hurts to do so… but he is definitely breathing. 

His hand closes around the foliage again. He opens his mouth and exhales sharply: “Eh… ehh…v…” he manages, slowly turning his head to the side, before sucking in another pained breath. “Ev… Ev!” Buck gasps, scrambling across the ground to Tommy’s side.

He very gently, very carefully, slides his hand under Tommy’s, and the bloody hand grabs on weakly. “Hey— hey,” Buck says, hovering his body over Tommy’s. The non swollen eye is still closed; the other one crusted over. 

“Ev’n,” Tommy manages, his hand opening and closing around Buck’s. Blood trails run down his cheeks from his nose. His lips are dark red, teetering towards purple, likely from the lack of oxygen he’s getting from the staggered breathing. 

“Tommy,” Buck whispers, bringing his other hand up to Tommy’s cheek. He’s so scared to touch him, he doesn’t know what’s broken, or bruised, or sore. He would hate himself if he hurt him more than he can only imagine he already is… more than he already has…  Tommy doesn’t move, Buck holds his breath, fearing the worst has caught up to them. Oh how typical would it be if the universe let him live just to take him right after; literally right out of Buck’s hands… But he can still see the shallow breaths. He’s still here, for now. “Hey… I’m here. I’m— I’m right here. I’m with you…” 

Slowly the good eye cracks open—that’s such an understatement… it’s just the only one that can open. He blinks it a couple times before the eye turns and looks at Buck. It widens, the corners of his lips turning up every so slightly, and he lets out a sigh, squeezing Buck’s hand. “Bu— B- Bu— K..” 

Maybe you should just stick with Buck…

“Hey, no… no don’t—” Buck squeezes Tommy’s hand back, carefully bringing it up his lips, he kisses over the swollen knuckles. “It’s Evan… please… it’s still Evan…” That gets him as much of a smile as Tommy can manage across his swollen face; his thumb grazes slowly across Buck’s cheek, catching a tear. 

“‘M… s’rry…” 

“For— for what?! You didn’t— It’s me who should be apologizing…”

Tommy jerks his head back and forth. “No… ‘m s’rry…” His eye stares up at Buck, tears welling up in it until he blinks and it topples over.

“Okay, okay… it’s okay,” Buck says, a soft laugh escaping as he clings to Tommy’s hand. “We can work on apologies and who should and shouldn’t give them later…” He looks around, not even sure how far from a clearing they are. “Right now I just have to— I have to get you out of here…” But he can’t even remember the direction his Jeep is in— much less how he’s supposed to get Tommy back to it—he was just running so wildly in his panic. 

He removes his hand from Tommy’s cheek and goes into his pocket for his phone. No signal. There's a creak from above him, and he looks up at the helicopter. His first thought: there’s no way to get up to the radio; second thought, the radio is probably broken anyway; third thought, the helicopter is creaking… it’s falling… It’s going to fall, right on top of Tommy. 

Shit. 

If there is one thing Hen and Chimney has ingrained in his head about fall injuries… you don’t move them without a neck brace and backboard… and you definitely don’t move them by yourself. Another creak and suddenly those teachings seem to matter far less. He looks down at Tommy, who is still staring up at him with his one glassy eye; still almost smiling through the swelling and the blood; still clinging to his hand. 

“I— I have to…” he says, and Tommy squeezes his hand, gives him the slightest nod. Buck might have only imagined it, but he nods back, and moves until he’s at Tommy’s head. “Okay…” he whispers, letting go of Tommy’s hand, to hook his arms under Tommy’s. “Okay, one… two…” a louder creak, the helicopter shifts. “Three!” Buck screams and pulls Tommy across the ground. He sucks in as much air as his body will allow and grunts, his eye screws shut. 

It’s not nearly far enough. 

Buck moves back and again—as carefully, but as quickly as he can—pulls Tommy with him. He does this until they are far enough away from the helicopter it won’t affect them in a fall; and fall it does. 

There's another loud creak and the helicopter comes crashing right down onto the spot still covered in Tommy’s blood. Buck throws himself over Tommy’s body to shield it from the debris that is thrown at them from the crash, but they are otherwise fine. “Oh my— oh my god…” Buck gasps, looking back at the wreckage. If the radio wasn’t busted before… It is now. He looks at Tommy; he’s still breathing. Buck could cry… he is barely breathing, but still breathing. His eye is still closed, and Buck touches his cheek. “Hey— hey, just— just stay with me okay?” Tommy cracks it just enough to look at him a moment before letting it fall back closed. Buck laughs. He breathes a sigh, and checks his phone again… still no signal. 

It would take a miracle for them to be found, he thinks… then off in the distance, he hears the faint whirring of a propeller. 

“There’s no way,” he mumbles to himself. Looking up through the cracks in the treetops, as the sound intensifies… They are about to pass over. “You hear that?!” He laughs, looking down at Tommy. His eye is closed, and he doesn’t open it again, but he does squeeze Buck’s hand. “I’m gonna— I’m going to go try to flag them down… I’ll be right back,” Buck says, bringing Tommy’s hand up to his lips before gently laying it down on his chest. 

He pushes up to his feet, his legs still wobbly, and runs over to the wreckage. There’s a fairly big opening from the helicopter coming through, but he wonders if it’s big enough. The helicopter gets closer, the propellers louder, until it’s about to pass over the opening. Buck already knows his neck is going to go stiff from looking up so long but he doesn’t care, and starts screaming and flailing his arms. 

It passes over. 

He screams louder. Jumps up and down right on his bad leg. He’s sure he’ll feel that later, too, but he couldn’t care less right now. He just hopes they saw the opening; saw him. 

They did. 

The helicopter comes back to the opening and hovers. “Hey! Hey— yeah here. He’s— he’s here!” The door opens, and a ladder drops. McCarty pokes his head out, then turns and starts to climb down. The helicopter lowers enough the ladder is almost at the ground, just low enough that McCarty can safely hop off. “Oh god, I can’t— thank god…” Buck exclaims, teetering back; McCarty grabs him before he falls. 

“Whoa there, kid… you good?” 

Buck nods, points back to Tommy, then starts running back without warning. “Tommy,” he calls towards him. “Tommy! They— they’re here. McCarty’s—”

The rise and fall of his chest has stopped. 

The rise and fall of his chest has stopped. 

“Tommy!?”

“Holy shit…” he hears McCarty gasp from behind him. 

“Tommy!” Buck drops to the ground, and takes his hand back; it falls, limp. “No! Tommy… they— they’re here! P- Please…” 

“Collier…” McCarty says into his walkie, his voice solemn. “Take that clearing… we’re— we’re gonna need all hands… to— to move Kinard’s—”

“No!” Buck screams back over his shoulder. “He’s— he’s not— I just have to— I’m starting compressions!” Gently he turns Tommy’s body so it’s flat—as flat as he can get it considering… He wonders how much more damage his body can take, and CPR isn’t a gentle technique by any means. He starts it anyway. 

“Kid,” McCarty says, laying a hand on his shoulder after the first set and Tommy’s still not breathing. “Buckley,” he says more sternly after the second. 

“He’s alive!” Buck gasps! Looking back at McCarty. “I— I don’t know how… but he… he survived the fall.”

“The fall?” 

Buck nods, going back to blow air into Tommy’s lungs. The smell, and taste, of blood is so strong it’s making him feel sick. He finally feels air blow back. “See! See- see- see! He’s— he’s breathing!” Buck sits back on his heels, pointing frantically at Tommy’s chest; the rise and fall much slower this time… but once again there. 

“I’ll be damned… he’s— hell…” McCarty gasps, staring at Tommy in disbelief, he opens the neck brace he brought down with him and Buck helps him get it around Tommy’s neck. “Collier! Have you landed her yet?” McCarty says into his walkie. 

“Affirmative. We’re heading in now,” Collier replies. 

McCarty runs his fingers through his short cropped hair, and laughs. “Make it quick, sir… he’s alive!” 

“Come again?” 

“Tommy is alive! But he’s in pretty rough shape, we’re gonna have to be quick.” 

Buck leans over Tommy, touching his face. “Hey, did you hear that? They’re coming!” He slides his hand back into Tommy’s; it's limp, so Buck squeezes it instead. “You’re getting out of here…” He waits, hoping Tommy will open his eye again, but he doesn't. It’s okay… he tells himself, at least he’s breathing.

He looks up when he hears the crunch of feet on the leaves and twigs. Collier walks up to McCarty, looks down at Tommy in shock. “You— you sure he’s—”

“Yes sir… he’s breathing.” 

Two more firefighters are right behind him holding the backboard. Buck doesn’t recognize them. They are young, likely new; Tommy had mentioned getting a few recruits. One — their name tag says, Dominguez — looks around Collier and McCarty at Tommy’s body and pales. The other — Hicks — tears up and has to turn her eyes away.  

“Come on you two…” Collier snaps. “Get it together and get over there!” They quickly straighten up and run over to Tommy. Buck moves back, letting them do their job, even if every fiber of his being is itching to help them. McCarty and Collier join them, and in no time Tommy is strapped to the backboard, lifted up between the four of them. They all but run past Buck, in the direction they came and he doesn’t hesitate to follow after them. 

Dominguez climbs in and they feed the board through the door, carefully laying it on the gurney and securing it. Then Hicks climbs in, immediately going for blood pressure cuffs, and IVs. Collier radios into the hospital that they are coming in, then back to the station that they have him. Buck can hear someone talking back, their voice frantic… but he’s too busy staring at the empty seat next to where McCarty just sat down. 

“Can— can I?” He asks, knowing he doesn’t deserve this right; knowing Tommy’s team might not give it to him. 

Collier looks out at him from the pilot’s seat. “What about your vehicle?” Buck quickly shrugs; the forest rangers could keep it for all he cares. “Alright, make room,” he yells behind him. McCarty surprisingly smiles, and clears the free seat. Dominguez and Hicks give each other a look, but go straight back to working on Tommy. 

Buck sits quietly, watching them hook up a couple lines; getting him started on fluids, and oxygen. Dominguez uses a wet wipe on the swollen eye, and then pulls it open once the crust is cleaned off. He shines the light over both. “Both pupils are reactive,” he says, and Buck lets out the breath he didn’t realize he was holding. Hick looks up at him, not even trying to hide the scowl that crosses her face. 

“This is exactly what Lucy was afraid would happen…” she says, quietly… but definitely let it be loud enough Buck would hear it. McCarty sighs, and glares at her. “What?” she continues, voice now raised. “It’s true… I mean, look at where we’re at…” 

Buck feels his face heat up, and looks away from Tommy—from them—to his hands. Tommy twitches, and groans. “E- Ev…’n” 

“Oh shit…” Dominguez gasps. “Tommy? Tommy, can you hear me?” 

“Ev’n,” Tommy repeats, trying to turn his head. “E- Ev’n…” 

Dominguez looks at Hicks, who sighs, gesturing for Buck to come closer. 

Buck stalls. 

Look at where we’re at…

Why the hell does he stall? Because in that split second decision Tommy’s eye, that is cracked open—searching the limited vision space it has for Buck… for Evan—rolls to the back of his head. His body seizes up. Every machine they have attached to him starts blaring alarms. 

McCarty moves past Buck to help Dominguez hold Tommy’s body still. Hicks tries to get a reading for his BP, his pulse, his oxygen levels, something… anything. Collier lowers the helicopter onto the hospital's helipad. Buck… still doesn’t move. He stares—maybe he is in shock, maybe he should have expected this… 

Everything had worked out too well. It had been too… easy; too convenient; too miraculous. Something was bound to go wrong.  

The residents waiting on the roof for them, snatch the door open as soon as the helicopter touches down. Tommy is lifted out, placed onto another gurney and is quickly wheeled away into the hospital before Buck fully even registers they have landed. His eyes are burning; he blinks against the tears, and follows McCarty out of the cabin. Tommy is long gone, rushed off to an OR to access the damage… and Buck had stalled. 

Why the hell did he stall. 

He didn’t let him know he was there. He should have let him know he was there… and now he might never—

Buck looks at his hands.

“Buckley,” Collier calls from the helicopter. “You want a lift back to your vehicle?” A moment passes before he repeats, “Buckley,” a bit louder. 

Then there’s a hand on his shoulder, it’s McCarty. “You good? Do you need to be checked out?” He asks. Buck lifts his eyes from his hands to McCarty’s face. He blinks, trying to register what was even just said to him. It clicks, he shakes his head. 

“No, I’m fine,” he lies. Or, well… he mostly lies. Physically he is fine. Mentally, though? Emotionally? He’s honestly a wreck. But the pain in his heart—the whirlwind of emotions and thoughts and regrets running wild in his head—is not something anyone is going to be able to check out and fix; it’s not something anyone needs to worry about. He deserves to feel it. He blinks slowly, looking back down to his hands, suddenly hyper aware of how tired he feels from the adrenaline finally plummeting to the ground (as sickly ironic as that metaphor may seem now).  “I’m— I’m fine,” he repeats, thinking maybe doubling down on the statement will really sell it. 

He turns and walks away before either can respond; off of the hospital’s helipad through the sliding glass doors into the oh-too familiar white walls, and the strong scents of disinfectant, iodine, and saline. 

He probably shouldn’t be able to navigate the hospital as well as he has become accustomed to doing. He is a firefighter after all, not a doctor… Yet his eyes remain on his hands, rather than ahead of him, and he still easily manages to reach the elevator—taking it down to the emergency room floor—with no issue. 

A part of him desperately grasps for a shred of positivity. Internally he gives himself reminders of all the times he has been here before for some situation that seemed dire and then turned out alright in the end. A much bigger, much more negative, but logical, part of him replays the fall, the flight to the hospital, the hospital staff taking the gurney through the doors out of sight, over and over and over as if to say: How can this turn out alright?! 

The answer? It can’t. It won’t. It’s not possible. He fell from too high; he lost too much blood; he sustained severe internal damage. 

He continues to look at his hands…

“Buck,” a voice calls just as he steps into the waiting area; it’s Bobby. He looks up shocked to see his team there, unsure how they even knew to come, and wishing he could find some solace in the fact they are here, and he is not alone. He finds none. “What happened?” 

“He happened,” another voice says, so angrily it makes Buck flinch. Morris storms across the room towards Buck, face red and pulled down into a deep frown. Buck realizes his team isn’t the only one here… “What the hell are you even doing here, Buckley?” The man snarls, making it into Buck’s space. Bobby reaches out an arm to keep him from getting any closer. Morris scoffs: “You don’t have to protect him, Nash. I’m not stupid, I won’t touch him… Tommy wouldn’t want—” Morris takes a breath and steps back from Buck anyway. “Why don’t you just leave, kid…” he says, voice suddenly drained as if he put all his energy into the sudden burst of anger. “You’re good at that.”

Buck wilts. He tries to not let it be visible; he doesn’t deserve to let it be visible. He doesn’t deserve sympathy (he doesn’t think anyone is really going to sympathize with him anyway… maybe his team will… although they have been pretty upset with him too). “That’s enough,” Bobby says, staring down Morris like he’s daring him to speak again; it manages to make Buck feel better and worse at the same time. 

Hen approaches him, with Chimney and Eddie on her heels. “What do we know, Buck?” She asks, voice kept low so that the question stays within their circle. “How bad is it…”

“It’s— He— He’s… in surgery… I guess— I’m sure. I was so— so close, Hen—” Bucks shoulders rise up then fall in a helpless shrug. “I tried. I tried to get to him but he fell; I couldn’t— there was nothing I could—” 

He looks at his hands, they are trembling. 

He wants to cry. He wants to finally let go and break down, and just maybe someone will have pity on him enough to comfort him through it. He takes a breath and once again pushes the emotions away. He doesn’t deserve any kind of release. He doesn’t deserve pity, or comfort. He does deserve the anger… he has half a mind to chase after Morris just to be given another dose of it. He looks at his hands.

“Buck,” Eddie says, squeezing his shoulder. “You can’t— it’s not—” Buck looks up at him, eyes pleading for him to not go there. Don't attempt to take what is rightfully his. Don’t tell him not to blame himself. It is his fault. 

Buck looks at his hands… there’s blood on his hands… Tommy’s blood is on his hands.

“Where is he?!” Buck looks up to see Lucy running into the lobby. Her eyes are wide and bloodshot, and they easily find Buck—standing awkwardly in the middle of the full lobby, covered in blood and dirt—and lock on him. “Buck… they— Collier said you found him… was he— is he…” She walks up to Buck, looking to him for answers. Everyone is looking to him for the answers to what happened in that forest; answers only he fully knows. Answers he doesn’t know if he can share… not yet. 

Suddenly he understands Tommy’s reasoning for not telling him about Jay. Suddenly it all makes sense. He looks at his hands… He looks at Lucy. “I’m— I’m so…”

She grabs his shoulders, and shakes her head. “No… Buck you tell me he’s going to be okay! You tell me right now.” 

“Lucy… I— I can’t… he’s—” Buck takes in a shaky breath. “Lucy, I'm sorry—” 

“I don’t need you to comfort me, Buckley.” Lucy snaps, releasing him and stepping back, her voice ice cold in a way she’s never used with him before. “He wasn’t even supposed to be in the air today. Captain grounded him until he could get his head straight…” she narrows her eyes at him, the look slicing through Buck like a knife.”— til he could get over you.” She shakes her head, wipes a tear as it falls from her eye. “He never should have been up there… I was supposed to be the one who went…I— I should have been—”

“You can’t blame yourself—” Buck tries, reaching out to touch Lucy’s arm. She snatches back from him and scoffs. 

“I don’t blame myself,” she says, her scowl deepening. “I blame you.” The words hit Buck like a slap to the face, as Lucy draws in a deep breath, ready to take another swing. “If I had been up there everything would have gone smoothly. I would have actually cared about making it back in one piece… or making it back at all.” 

Buck can feel his eyes widen. “Wh- what’s that supposed to mean?” Lucy tightens her jaw, a hint of regret flashing across her face. “Lucy,” Buck tries again. “What is that supposed to mean?” 

“Why are you even still here?” She asks instead of answering Buck’s question. “Be- Because you feel guilty? You did your part; you got him to the hospital… So why are you sticking around?” 

Why is he sticking around? 

Because there is absolutely nowhere he would rather be, than here when (if… it's all just a big if right now and that thought terrifies him) Tommy comes out of surgery. He isn’t exactly sure what to say, because he knows he can’t say that. He doesn’t deserve to say that he wants to be here. He does, however, feel guilty, like she said. So guilty in fact it’s making him feel sick; making him feel like there’s a vice around his chest, steadily squeezing. 

“Look,” Lucy finally says after taking a few breaths to calm herself down. “If you honestly think, that the man who acts like you’re the center of his universe; who spends every second of downtime either calling you, texting you… or talking our ears off about you; the man who you’ve said yourself treats you better than anyone else has ever treated you… If you can without a doubt tell me you really think for even just one second that he is this terrible person you have been trying so hard to paint him out to be— then you never deserved him in the first place… And you should just go home and let those of us who do care be here for him.” 

I do care… Buck thinks. “I— I’m sorry…” he says. 

“I need to go call his mom…” Lucy sighs, turning her back to him as she pulls her phone out. She walks back to the 217’s claimed side of the lobby, and Buck is left alone. 

He looks back down at his hands and attempts to wipe the blood off onto his pants, but it has dried. 

“Where’re you going?” Eddie asks when Buck starts across the lobby. 

“I just need to— I need…” he tries, and fails, to find the right words to explain that if he doesn’t get Tommy’s blood off of his hands he is going to go insane. He points to the bathroom, and Eddie relaxes back into his chair. “I’ll be right back,” he mumbles under his breath.

The extremely bright LED light inside the bathroom isn’t helping his raging headache, so he squints as he walks over to one of the sinks. He loads soap into his palm and starts scrubbing… avoiding looking into the mirror. Unable to look at himself. 

The water runs over his hands turning red as it falls into the sink and goes down the drain; his hands are still stained… he adds more soap. 

E- Ev’n…

He scrubs. 

B’ck…

The creak.

He remembers.

The snap. 

He scrubs. 

The water still runs red. He adds more soap. He pictures Tommy falling. He watches it play out again through his memory; Tommy frantically reaching for something to grab. The sound of the scream he lets out when he finds nothing. The splat of him hitting the ground. 

He scrubs. And scrubs. And scrubs.

It won’t come off.

He scrubs harder.

He was never supposed to be in the air today. 

He scrubs harder.

I don’t blame him, I blame you.

It won’t come off.

I think I see forever with you. 

He can’t get it off. 

They had plans… He was going to teach Tommy how to surf… Tommy was going to take him to the snow. “Ready to take some big steps,” Buck repeats the words Chimney had said to him when he thought Tommy was taking Buck to meet his mom. 

“She’s going to love you,” Tommy said when they had actually approached the idea. 

They still haven’t even gotten around to his flying lessons. They just never had time. He'd only learned a little Muay Thai… but Tommy always held back; always scared he might hurt him. Little did he know Buck was about to turn around and absolutely destroy him. 

He adds more soap; he scrubs harder. His hands are starting to feel raw. 

The door opens, he doesn’t look. “Buck,” Eddie says, softly at first, then again, panicked. “Buck stop.” He feels Eddie grab his wrists prying his hands apart. Buck fights against him. 

“I can’t look at it anymore, Eddie… I— I can’t!” Doesn’t Eddie see the blood? Doesn’t he understand Buck has to get it off. 

“Hey! Someone help me!” Eddie screams towards the door. 

“What the— hey! Buck, whoa— hey…” Bobby runs over to Buck’s other side, taking one arm while Eddie still has the other. “That’s enough, kid…”

His energy drains once again. He looks at his hands. 

The water is still running red, except the blood is no longer Tommy’s… it’s his. 

Buck looks down at his hands; from his fingertips up past his wrists is deep red, rubbed raw and bleeding. “Oh god…” he gasps, trying to take in a few calming breaths; instead it turns his stomach and he has to push away from the sink, away from Bobby and Eddie’s hold on him, to stumble through the door of the nearest stall. He collapses to the floor  holding his ruined hands away from the seat—the last thing he needs is an infection—as he heaves into the toilet. 

“Here,” Eddie says, handing him some paper towels. 

Buck sits back on his heels. “Thanks…” he says and begins to dab at the still bleeding spots on his hands. 

He wants to cry; he pushes it down.

A hand covers his, stopping his ministrations of trying to stop the bleeding. It's Hen. She offers a genuine smile—he doesn’t deserve that. He looks away. “Hey,” she says softly. “Let me see.” He opens his mouth to say that he’s fine… “I’m not asking,” she says before he can. “Wet these,” she instructs Eddie. “And find me some antibiotic ointment and gauze.” 

Buck hisses as she spreads it over the bleeding spots, avoiding her eyes. She wraps his hands and lays them back in his lap. Bobby and Eddie help Buck to his feet. He thinks he should probably just leave. He is causing more trouble than anything by being here… 

Chimney is waiting in the hall. He looks at Buck, with puffy red rimmed eyes, when he walks out of the bathroom. He looks down at Buck’s hands, and sighs. Buck braces himself for another attack. To be called selfish, and told this is all his fault, that he doesn’t get to take the attention from the person who deserves it by hurting himself. That he’s really being Buck… and he needs to just stop. 

Two arms wrap around him. Chimney holds him like he might just disappear if he doesn’t hang on for dear life. “He’ll get through this, Buckaroo…” Chimney says, and Buck thinks it might hit harder than if he were screaming at him. “Tommy’s strong and— and he will fight to get back to us— to you, okay?” 

Buck sucks in a breath and holds it. He doesn’t deserve this from them… why are they mad at him? The 217 seems to get it. This is his fault. 

They walk with him back to the lobby, and Sal has arrived, sitting with Lucy and Morris. They all look up as the 118 walks Buck to a seat, Eddie and Chimney sitting on either side of him. Sal glances over, the first person not on his team to look at him with pity rather than like he someone hijacked the helicopter’s controls and made it crash himself. 

Hours of a heavy awkward silence pass before a doctor finally walks out into the lobby. “For Kinard,” she says, seemingly taken aback when nearly the whole of the lobby’s occupancy stands up.

“How is he?” McCarty asks. 

“He coded several times during surgery, but he pulled through,” the doctor says. Buck feels the vice around his chest tighten with each injury she explains. Multiple broken bones, a ruptured spleen, a tear in his liver from a broken rib… Severe trauma to his spinal cord… More words to run, and rerun through Buck’s head. She looks over Tommy’s chart, and sighs. “I'm not going to lie to you all, it’s very touch and go right now. All we can do now is monitor him and wait for him to wake up. 

“Can— can we see him?” Lucy asks. The doctor looks around at the large crowd. “We know everyone can’t but—” She looks around her team, and even at the 118. “We’re kind of all he has until his mom gets here.” The doctor reluctantly agrees, says only a few can go in at a time. The rest have to stay in the ICU waiting area. 

Buck feels like his feet are cemented to the floor when everyone starts towards the elevators. He thinks he hears Morris mumble he’d have to go through him to get into Tommy’s room. He thinks he hears Sal say he needs to back off. He thinks he should just go home. Tommy doesn’t need him here, he has his team; he has Buck’s team, too. 

Chimney puts a hand on Buck’s back, breaking him from his thoughts. “Let’s go,” he says, giving a slight nudge that seems to break Buck’s feet free. They wait for an empty elevator and squeeze inside.  

_________

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