#miserable mentally and physically to the point you wanna die a little but hey! this one blood test i did was normal

[drabbleswithdragons]

I'm allergic to so many foods there may literally be no feeding tube formula that I can have ahahaha

[hold-my-hair-back]

I love your writing I'm so glad I found ur blog!! Any chance you can write a fic with Dean with a really burpy stomach bug and Castiel looking after him? xx

I know I haven’t posted a story in forever but life got chaotic. Anyway, here’s a request fill while I work on an OC story. OCs usually take longer for me to write for some reason so I’m gonna quickly put this fanfic out haha. Much love to the Anon who sent it.

Takes place around season 5 . So… Spoilers up to that point.

———————————–

After being back from forty years of relentless, excruciating torture in Hell which impacted Dean drastically on a physical and mental level, being benched during a hunt by his little brother was almost humiliating. Especially considering the fact that it due to a stomach bug of all things and the hunt was nothing more than just a spirit – something that should be a walk in the park for someone who went through literal Hell, but, no. Sam had to go and give Dean his sad puppy-dog eyes and give the whole ‘You were dead for four months, I can’t lose you again’ speech, treating Dean’s stomach flu like it was stomach cancer instead. Despite how stupid Dean thought it was, he agreed, knowing Sam and Bobby were more than capable of ganking a spirit on their own.

He wouldn’t just sit around Bobby’s house, though. That was where he crossed the line. Dean had agreed to sit back and relax for a couple of days while this thing worked its way through his system, but there was no way that was happening. After just two hours of flipping through his ‘Busty Asian Beauties’ magazine, he was restless. Neither of them got sick very often, so their first aid kit was fresh out of Tums and Emetrol. Not to mention, for once in his life he needed something that wasn’t alcoholic to put in his stomach. The fridge was stocked with beer, but his stomach turned just at the sight of it. So, Dean grabbed Baby’s keys and headed out the door to the nearest gas station.

It was a little before noon when Dean arrived at the small store. The symptoms of the stomach flu had begun last night and hadn’t let up since. He had woken up nauseous without any warning, his mouth already filled with bile. He had sprinted to Bobby’s kitchen sink as the only functioning toilet was all the way upstairs. Getting sick that moment hadn’t been the only time throughout the night, either. Dean knew this stomach bug was kicking his ass and sitting out of the hunt was for the best. It still didn’t help with the humiliation. Especially as he sat in the parking lot of the gas station, head resting on the Impala’s steering wheel as he debated whether or not he would be able to make it in and out without having to puke in a public bathroom.

A familiar whoosh sound made Dean jump and without lifting his head off the wheel or opening his eyes, he sighed heavily. “Dammit, Cas,” he muttered through clenched teeth. “What have I said about just popping up without warning?”

“My apologies,” Castiel replied, but to Dean, it sounded frustratingly insincere. Then again, this was Cas, and his sincere voice probably sounded the exact same. Dean lifted his head and looked over at the angel and sighed again. Castiel’s blue eyes were full of sincerity and Dean knew getting angry over something that the angel couldn’t really help would be futile.

“Don’t worry about it,” he said softly, wincing as his stomach churned and gurgled again. Dean let out a soft grunt as he wrapped one arm around his bloated middle, the other supporting his head. “What do you need, Cas?”’

Castiel did that thing he always did when he couldn’t quite understand something. His head cocked to the side and his blue eyes narrowed with confusion. “Is something the matter?” he asked Dean.

Not being able to help himself, Dean scoffed. “Nah. Just my stomach being ripped apart while still inside me.” A flash of alarm went through Castiel’s features, and Dean quickly corrected himself, remembering his angel friend took everything literally. “Not really. It’s just the stomach flu, I’ll live. I just came here to get some ginger ale or somethin’. My stomach is a friggin’ mess right now.”

“Ale?” Castiel asked with a frown, watching Dean closely. “You think….alcohol will alleviate the distress in your stomach?”

“Ginger ale ain’t alcoholic,” Dean responded with a sigh. “It’s–” Dean cut himself off mid-sentence as he released some of the air that bubbled up his throat. Dean grimaced as the burp left an unpleasantly acidic taste in his mouth and he made a mental note to brush his teeth once he was back at Bobby’s.

“What was that?” Castiel asked curiously, and much to Dean’s frustration, the angel cocked his head to the side again.

“I ain’t gonna explain burping to you, Cas,” Dean said as he pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Is it normal?”

Dean felt his irritation grow. The arm around his stomach tightened and he held his breath, both to fight the nausea and to stop himself from snapping at Castiel. “Yes, especially when your stomach is trying out for the friggin’ gymnastic Olympic team.” Dean burped again and squeezed his eyes shut as he exhaled slowly. “I also don’t have anything left in me, so my stomach’s trying to – urp – bring up something it doesn’t have.” Castiel didn’t say anything and Dean found the silence helpful as he tried to settle his stomach by gently rubbing it. However, when a loud, painful gurgle sounded from his belly, Dean knew what was about to happen. As horrifying as this was, Dean knew it would only be a matter of time before stuff began to come out of the other end. “I need a bathroom,” he panted to Castiel before hurrying out of the car and into the gas station.

The bathroom was about as disgusting as possible, but thankfully it was a single so no one else would come in as he relieved his bowels. He sat down on the toilet and let nature take its course, trembling with each wave. Dean groaned and wrapped both arms around his stomach as it continuously churned painfully. An acidic belch brought up a mouthful of bile onto the floor and Dean spat onto the ground. “Please, God,” he moaned to himself as he looked at the mess he made on the floor. Despite emptying itself from both ends, Dean felt his entire middle sift under his palm. “Please. This is awful…”

The same familiar sound as before came and Dean felt his irritation peak. If there was ever a wrong time for Castiel to suddenly appear by his side without permission, this was it. Dean looked up at Castiel and shook his head in disbelief. “You’re gonna just fly in on me in the bathroom now?” he demanded. “Get the hell outta here, man. I’m… busy.”  

Castiel looked confused for the millionth time since he popped into Dean’s car less than a half hour ago. “You prayed,” he pointed out. “I came.”

“I didn’t-” Dean cut himself off as he realized he had technically asked for God. Damn it. “Well, whatever, Cas. I’m gonna tell you right now that if I ever decide to pray to the man upstairs and not directly to you, it’s not gonna be over diarrhea. Now get out!”  Dean was starting to feel violated and embarrassed as Castiel just stared at him while he was sitting on the toilet. Luckily, Castiel was gone instantly, leaving Dean alone to clean up his mess.

When he got back out to the car ten minutes later, Castiel was sitting in the passenger seat. Dean climbed into the driver’s side and looked over at him with narrowed, green eyes, reading to tell him to leave when he saw Castiel was holding a bag in his lap. “What’s that for?” he asked, his curiosity trumping over his anger.

Castiel reached into the bag and pulled out a bottle of ginger ale and some Emetrol. “I asked the kind lady for some help for a friend who was suffering terribly in the bathroom.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Dude-”

“I hope it helps,” Castiel continued. “You know, I have met many souls in Heaven and illness is a massive killer.” Castiel looked out the window and Dean could have sworn he saw the angel bite his lip, not even long enough to last a second. Suddenly, he understood.

“Hey,” Dean said gently, nudging his friend’s shoulder. “I ain’t gonna die because of an upset stomach, okay? Look at me, Cas.” When blue eyes met his, Dean continued. “I didn’t mean to yell at you. I know you aren’t exactly sure how to deal with all of this crap. I just want you to know that you’re doing a good job and I appreciate it.” Dean reached over and grabbed the bottle of ginger ale as Castiel nodded. Dean knew this was partially on him because he didn’t often enough express gratitude toward Castiel. That would have to be something he worked on one day after he kicked this bug and was back on his feet.

“Thank you, Dean,” Castiel said sincerely, looking over at him with a small smile. “I appreciate hearing that.”

Dean shrugged and took a few drinks of the ginger ale, belching loudly as he set the bottle back down. “I’m gonna drive back to Bobby’s, You wanna keep me company?” When Castiel nodded, Dean felt a small smile appear on his face. “Thanks, buddy.”

The drive home felt too long in Dean’s opinion. Especially since his stomach was twisting the entire time and he kept having to swallow thickly after each burp to prevent something else from coming back up. Thankfully, nothing had, but the moment Dean stopped the car in front of Bobby’s house, he knew he didn’t have any longer. He rushed out of the driver’s side and slapped a hand over his mouth as he sprinted inside. Once again, he didn’t have time to make it upstairs so he made a run for the kitchen sink where he began to burp miserably.

“Are you going to be alright?” Castiel asked from behind him and Dean nodded as he burped up a mouthful of the ginger ale he had consumed. “My stomach’s killing me,” he moaned, placing his hand on his bloated middle. “But I think I’m done puking for now.”

“Good,” Castiel said. “Perhaps you should lay down. I can’t heal you from this ailment, but I can still make you sleep.”

Dean spat into the sink one last time before wiping his mouth with a paper towel. He hesitated for a moment, contemplating whether or not he wanted Castiel to basically knock him out. However, when his stomach moaned again and another queasy burp escaped from his mouth, Dean nodded. “Yeah, alright, Cas.”

Castiel nodded and helped Dean over to the couch in the living room. Dean gently eased himself down across the cushions, moaning as the movement made his stomach churn. However, the bad feeling was temporarily pushed away by the good feeling that came with Castiel gently laying a blanket over his trembling body. “Thanks,” Dean said softly, closing his eyes.

“You’re welcome,” Castiel answered. “Now, just relax, Dean. You’re going to feel extremely tired in just a moment.”

“I’m already tired,” Dean pointed out, but when he felt Castiel’s hand on his forehead, he went silent. Castiel’s touch spread a soothing warmth throughout his entire body and Dean felt more relaxed than he had in a  long time. Sleep came easily, and for the first time since Hell, it was dreamless too.

—————————————

So, it’s 2 am here. I’m sorry if this isn’t very good. Hope you enjoy it nonetheless.

[gilove2dance]

Hey, Lindsay! I was wondering if I could ask you something? What made you wanna be a teacher? And what do you enjoy about it? I think I'd like teaching and maybe even be good at it, but it also seems super overwhelming. You're awesome and I hope you have a great day!

Of course you can ask me anything at all!! I just may not answer :P Nah, it would have to be a serious breach in privacy for me to not answer!

Teaching...okay...well my original plan was to actually pursue computer animation. It was a die hard dream that I had since 2003 when I saw Finding Nemo in theatres. I wanted to create the films that caused so much wonder and awe in me and inspire kids to do the same.

Flash forward to university...I did my undergrad in Interactive Multimedia and Design and got a little computer animation training (not much though). University was...lets go with the adjective “tough” on me mentally and physically. I graduated in the top 3% of my class but paid a hefty price in my deteriorating health. That summer I was still under the belief that I would move to Vancouver and attend Vancouver Film School for 3D animation and pursue that career.I believe it was in the beginning of August when I had probably the largest panic attack of my entire life. I was home alone in my basement, thinking about my future and it just hit me, how miserable I was and how my life had devolved into 20 hour work days that led to me periodically collapsing from exhaustion and how my anxiety was crippling me from doing a lot of things like social interaction outside of the computer lab or doing things to relax me. So in the midst of this panic attack, trying to just breathe and get oxygen in my lungs before I blacked out, I managed to get control of my body and my mind and just took a step back from everything and tried to figure out at what point in my life was I the happiest I had ever been. 

What I had I done in my life that made me truly happy?

And the answer was teaching. I used to teach dance throughout high school at my old dance studio. I used to tutor math to lower grades. I used to run study groups during my undergrad. And then it hit me. I could work myself to death, trying to become a master at something that was going to work me to the bone mentally and physically for a slim shot at a dream job....OR...I could go directly to the source...I could teach. I could teach Communication Technology, my favourite course in high school where I would get to teach graphic design, web dev, film editing, visual effects, and my love: computer animation...and i would get to actually see the direct impact I could possible have on these kids and possibly inspire them...which was my main goal at the start.

I attended teachers college the year after and during my 10 week placement at a school where I got to teach a grade 9/10 class of Communications Technology, I remember sitting in the car on the way home and looking at the window and just being completely floored by the emotion I was feeling. I was happy. For the first time in five years, I was actually happy. I knew this was what I was supposed to be doing.

Now it’s a frustrating profession at times (like any job though)...dealing with parents is not always the greatest, sometimes you just can’t help a struggling student because they don’t want to be helped, sometimes the class is just going to be chaos for a day and nothing will get done, but on the whole, it is the most rewarding thing ever. To see a kid who hates school and then suddenly fall in love with website coding and actively searches for new code to implement on their own? To show a student that pursuing film editing is a real career choice? To see a quiet kid create an amazing piece of graphical art?  

That’s why I do this. To see them grow and learn and be inspired and motivated. 

Well...that was long and involved me spilling far to much of my life story (sorry)...did that help in any way? If you are more curious about lesson planning, assessment and evaluation, or like rubric building...do send more questions...I’d be happy to help!

TLDR; Became a teacher to inspire and motivate kids into finding their dreams. I love seeing kids getting involved in what I’m teaching. It is the most rewarding thing I’ll ever do in my life.

[waveridden]

FIC: fast talk

“Mayday, mayday, this is Officer Purpler on the Starship Iris, ID 27-Tango-53-08-Whiskey, mission priority 6, requesting immediate assistance. We had a catastrophic shuttle failure, I am the only survivor, requesting extraction.” (A Neoscum/TSCOSI AU, 2.3k)

A/N: This is an AU based on the truly incredible audio drama The Strange Case of Starship Iris. I tried to make it as accessible to non-listeners as I could, but all you really need to know is: it's in space, the humans got into a war with an alien species called the Dwarnians, and the reigning human republic isn't terribly nice.

AUcember || read on ao3 || title lyric

#

1.

There are a lot of ways to die in space. Tech knows this. He spent a lot of time reading about them, when he first got assigned to Starship Iris. You can die from depressurization, or explosions, or other people shooting at you. You can die in the human-Dwarnian war, which is less likely now that the war is over and the Republic has been established, but you can never say never.

And, it turns out, you can die if you run out of fuel.

He flips the switch one more time, hoping for anyone, anything, who can pick up his distress signal. “Mayday, mayday, this is Officer Purpler on the Starship Iris, ID 27-Tango-53-08-Whiskey, mission priority 6, requesting immediate assistance. We had a catastrophic shuttle failure, I am the only survivor, requesting extraction.”

He swallows hard. Only survivor. He hadn’t really realized it until now, but he’s the only one left on this ship. Fuck. Fuck, fuck. “Requesting-” he coughs, and it hurts his throat, which is raw with all of the tears that he’s trying not to cry. He checked the fuel reserves already. They’re low. Dangerously low. And the only person answering him is the robot assistant that runs the ship’s internal functions, which is a pretty bad sign.

“Don’t panic,” he whispers. He thinks about his nana, about how she’s still back on Earth, unless something happened, which is a real and horrible possibility, but it’s not one that he really has the time to think about in depth. “Don’t panic, don’t panic, don’t panic, just run the transmission again-”

He’s run the transmission six times now. The seventh takes up fuel that would be going to keeping the ship habitable. But there’s not a lot of point in keeping the environmental systems online if nobody is coming to rescue him.

Tech takes a deep breath. “One more time,” he says. He doesn’t know a lot about the ship’s frequencies, or how any of that works, but he’s been flipping from the backup frequencies to the main channels and back. Maybe that’ll help. Maybe it’s just sapping out energy that he could be using to make the transmissions. “One more time. Mayday, mayday, this is-”

“Connection lost,” says the gratuitously pleasant AI voice.

Tech feels himself paling. “No, no, no-” he flips a couple of switches. He can’t lose a connection. Not when nobody connected with him in the goddamn first place. “No, come on, mayday, this is- fuck, this is Starship Iris, requesting- requesting immediate- fuck -”

“If you would like to make a call-”

“I’m trying to make a call!” Tech shouts, because there’s nobody left to hear him scream and that makes it easier to be as loud as he wants. “I’m trying, but the fucking Republic shot me into space without really training me first, and now I’m on a starship floating to my certain death, and I’m going to die alone in the far reaches of outer fucking space! So if you could do me a favor and just let me make one goddamn phone call -”

“Hey,” a voice says, sounding alarmed. More alarmed than the AI is capable of. “Hey, you’re connected, dude, calm down.”

Tech stumbles away from the communications panel instinctively. This can’t be real. “I’m connected?”

“Yeah, you’ve reached the crew of the Xanadu.”

“The… Xanadu? As in the smuggling ship?”

“Well,” the guy says, sounding uncomfortable. “We do other stuff too. But your frequency is coming through loud and clear, what’s going on?”

Tech runs through the mental math. The Xanadu is the closest thing they have to space pirates - not as bad as some of the jackasses out in deep space, but still a bunch of dangerous people. There’s no telling what they want with a Republic ship, or a Republic officer. But he’s going to die if he doesn’t get off the Iris.

“This is Officer Purpler from the Starship Iris.” He pauses. If he’s going to die, he’s not super interested in introducing himself like a Republic monkey. “My friends call me Tech Wizard. Or Tech.”

“You good with computers?”

“No, I’m just the only one who knows how to make the coffee maker work.”

The guy laughs at that, startled. “Well, hey, Tech. My name’s Z, and I am actually pretty good with computers. What’s your situation?”

“My whole crew went out to planet 7293 for a scouting mission.” He swallows. “Their, uh, their shuttle exploded just before docking back on the Iris. So my systems are pretty damaged. And I’m the only survivor.”

“Shit,” Z says. “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah.” Tech sits on the floor - well, doesn’t sit so much as his knees give out and his whole body weight goes crashing down to the floor. He’s so tired, all of a sudden. Maybe there’s something about - about oxygen levels and blood and stress. Some logical explanation. Mostly, he thinks he’s just fucking tired. “You’re the only one who’s answering any of my distress calls.”

“Desperate enough to trust a pirate, Officer Purpler?”

“Look, man, I just don’t wanna die alone.”

Z goes quiet at that. “Who says that dying is your only option?”

Tech lets out a laugh. It’s a little miserable and a little hollow, but who can fucking blame him? “You got something else in mind?”

“Actually,” Z says slowly, “I might.”

2.

On the record, according to every doctor who has ever seen him, Squirt Purpler is a human man. A human man who has to see specific doctors because of a diagnosis he received as a child, but still just a regular guy. He passed all the space physicals. He’s fit for duty. He’s just a normal guy, with a very specialized health condition.

The thing that people don’t know is what, exactly, dermocrinal phagiosis is.

It’s a code, one that Tech learned when he was about five years old. It is a way of saying that wherever you go, you need to look for people who will help you. You need to find a specific doctor. It is a way of saying that one of his parents was a Dwarnian, and specialists who treat dermocrinal phagiosis are really just people who won’t kill him for being a freak of nature.

Even in the Republic, there are a couple of specialists who know about half-Dwarnians like him. They found people who could do his physicals without announcing to the world that he’s actually half-alien, who would keep him safe. He’s one of the lucky ones: he looks mostly human, except for the blotches of shiny purple skin up and down his torso, his back, his arms. He can wear long sleeves and be pretty safe. He can keep himself safe.

(Tech was four years old when his parents died. Not in the war, long before the war, but because people thought… well, thought that it was unnatural. Tech’s lucky that he made it out of that alive. Tech’s lucky that his grandmother taught him to keep quiet about his “diagnosis.” Tech’s lucky for a lot of reasons.)

3.

He doesn’t think to be afraid about what type of people the Xanadu crew are until he’s hurtling through space towards them in a jury-rigged cryogenic freezer. He doesn’t wonder if they’re dangerous until he realizes, through all of Z’s advice and jokes, he hasn’t actually said anything about himself. He doesn’t wonder if they’re going to kill him until it’s too late to turn back.

Besides, he figures as his eyes slip shut, if they kill him, at least that means he survived a little while longer than anyone expected.

4.

There’s a woman bent over him when he wakes up.

“Hi,” Tech says, even though he feels like there’s cotton in his mouth, ears, and brain. His nana would kill him if he weren’t polite.

“Hello,” the woman answers solemnly. She’s very short, but her hair is long enough that it’s swinging in Tech’s face. “My name is Pox. Zenith says that you came from a Republic starship.”

“Mhm.”

“He also said you’re probably cold.”

“Mhm,” Tech says. His best shot, as Z had explained it, was to repurpose one of the freezers that they use for biological samples to put himself into something simulating cryo-sleep. He’d used that as an escape pod and jettisoned out, and then hoped that the math was right and his trajectory would match the Xanadu’s. It looks like it had, more or less, if he’s here. “‘M Tech.”

“He mentioned that too.” Pox reaches behind her and comes up with a massive fleece blanket, ridiculously fluffy and huge, to put over him. “You’re going to have a rough couple of days, I’m afraid. We’ve hooked you up with our medical center as best we could, but-”

“But y’r pir’tes,” Tech slurs out. Talking is hard. Side effects of bad cryo-sleep, probably.

Pox smiles, looking a little sad. “But we’re pirates,” she agrees. “Pirates who saved you, but we don’t have the best resources.”

“Thank you,” Tech says. He’s already falling back asleep, even though he has more questions, even though he just spent a few days literally frozen in space. God, he survived being frozen in space. That’ll be something to put on his resume.

Pox smooths his hair back out of his face, and for a weird, vivid second, Tech feels like crying. “You’re welcome,” she says. She starts to say something else, but Tech is mostly asleep, so he doesn’t really bother listening.

5.

The next few times he wakes up are pretty similar. He meets Z, briefly, and Pox tells him a little bit about what the Xanadu does. Tech spends a lot of time sleeping, which both Pox and Z assure him is perfectly normal.

The fifth time he wakes up, he meets the ship’s captain, just for a second. Captain Rambo, he says, but as soon as Tech tries to call him that he says, “Just call me Dak.”

“Dak,” Tech repeats. “Captain Dak?”

Dak screws his whole face up in disgust. “What kinda outfit is the regime running these days? Just Dak, unless you’re mad at me, and then you can do what Max does and call me Captain Rambo.”

“Max,” Tech repeats. “I haven’t met Max.”

Dak’s face shutters off in an instant. “That-”

“He should,” Pox says suddenly.

Dak gives her a wary look. It’s strange to see on him; Tech gets the impression that he’s not wary very often. “You sure that’s a good idea?”

“I’ve done medical examinations on him,” Pox says, and Tech’s heart stops. Shit. Shit. “He’s got, ah- what’s the official term? Dermo… demo… demolition…”

“Dermocrinal phagiosis,” Tech says, over the sound of his heart pounding. “And it’s a pretty serious condition, so-”

Pox frowns. “Are you sure it’s not demolition derby?”

“Pox,” Dak says patiently. “Demolition derby is that thing Lil Marco hosts that we try and fuck up when we’re not busy. Dermocrinal phagiosis is that thing Max talks about.”

“Are you sure?”

“You think I don’t listen to my sister’s kid?”

“Who’s Max?” Tech says, but he’s already fading back into sleep, he can feel it. “It- is Max- does Max have-”

“Shhhh.” Pox reaches out and grabs his hand, and Dak immediately grabs both of their joined hands. It’s kind of nice, actually. “We’ll talk about it later. Your body needs rest.”

“M’brain’s tired of resting,” Tech murmurs.

Dak squeezes their joined hands. “Don’t worry about it, the bed’s all yours.”

Tech tries to smile back, but he can’t quite make the muscles work right. He ends up falling back asleep like that.

6.

The sixth time Tech wakes up, there’s a Dwarnian there.

He blinks a few times, but it doesn’t get any less clear. There’s a Dwarnian talking to Z, their heads bent towards each other. Except - Tech blinks again, just to be sure - this isn’t a normal Dwarnian. He hasn’t seen that many - he’s only seen his mom in pictures, and only met a few in person - but this one doesn’t look right. The purple of their skin is a little subdued, and their hair looks like human hair, not the weird fuzz that Dwarnians have. And they’re too short.

“Tech,” Pox says loudly. Loudly enough that Tech jumps, because he hadn’t realized she was in the room. But she’s perched on the other side of his bed, watching him. When he looks at her, she gives him an extremely significant look. “This is Max. Our navigator.”

Tech turns back to Max and Z. Z looks wary, but Max… doesn’t. Max is watching Tech with a level of careful scrutiny.

“Hi,” Tech says. “I, uh, I used to work for the Republic.”

“Yeah,” Max says. “I’ve heard.”

Tech nods. “I don’t think I want to anymore.”

“We haven’t even talked to you about this yet!” Pox’s hand settles on his shoulder. “Z, look, we converted him already!”

“Pox,” Z says. “He-”

“It’s okay,” Tech says. He can’t look away from Max. There aren’t enough human-Dwarnian babies for there to be an extensive body of research - and Tech has looked, pretty desperately, for that research - but there’s enough that he knows that there’s a lot of variation in phenotypes. He’s one of the luckier ones, maybe: he looks like he’s human. Max looks more like a Dwarnian, sure, but only to someone who’s never actually seen a Dwarnian before. And Max is looking at Tech like he understands. “I know we haven’t talked about it. But I’m tired of being somewhere that- that-”

“That’d take you and not me,” Max says, with a stunning amount of understanding. He sounds younger than Tech expected. “I get that.”

“Cool,” Tech says. “I think I’m going to pass out now. Nothing personal, it’s just-”

Pox claps a hand over his mouth. “Sleep,” she says, not like a threat. Like she’s worried.

Tech closes his eyes and lets himself sleep.