#my nerve damage is getting worse as well

[kenmaspuddinghair]

Honorably discharged disabled Simon part 3

part one part two

this one has a happier ending than the last, but Simon is diagnosed with peripheral neuropathy ( pronunciation) which is a kind of nerve damage. sorry this one took a little long I had to research for this one

exactly 1.0k words :)

Here you are all alone sitting outside a hospital room at almost 3 AM with Simon's “Ghost” mask in your hands while he's in surgery right behind you, Price left a while ago to pick up some food and the other guys in the 141. According to the doctors Simon had peripheral neuropathy from the attack about a month ago, it spiked when he got into the fight with the man back at the butcher shop, for you, he got into a fight that caused this for you. You were trying your hardest not to cry when the doctor walked out “Okay, the surgery was a success, he isn't necessarily cured right now but as long as you take the right precautions and steps, it can get better and may go away over time, it could take months or even years though. He’ll need full-time care and if you're not up for that he’ll need a different nurse. I'll get you a sheet with all the information and potential symptoms” he said, already walking away. As you were going into the room another nurse came out from the room, “Are you his girlfriend, he just woke up and he keeps calling for you, he refuses to let us see his face, but we got what we need done” and before you got a chance to correct her she went off.

“Hey Simon, how are you?” First he removed his hands from over his face then his eyes went over your entire body slowly before he answered “Can’t really feel anythin, can ya put my mask on?” you smiled at him getting closer to pull the mask over his head. “Price will be here with Soap and Gaz, he's bringing some food too” he never answered you, he just kept staring at you with this look in his eyes, you just sat by his side looking over him. You sighed, “Simon listen, I don't know if they told you, but you have peripheral neuropathy, your nerves were damaged during the attack and, when you grabbed that guy it only made things worse” You paused but before you could continue he replied in a voice so soft you didn't know he could make that sound “it’s not your fault y’know, shouldn't attacked him” you smiled but before you could continue Price came in. “I'm assuming she told you about what happened and what's gonna be happening” It was as if something clicked in Simon's mind, he pushed himself up “She can stay right? She'll still be ‘ere to help me? Right? You'll stay to help me won’t ya?” he directed the last part to you, voice breaking and dripping with a mix of worry and horror. You looked him directly in his eyes and replied simply but firmly “Simon, I will stay and take care of you for as long as you let me”

Simon was discharged around 10 AM, the last few hours he spent joking with Soap and Gaz just eating food you knew was not good for them at all, but they had to leave a bit ago so now with the help of Price you got Simon in the car and back home. So far Simon only had a few symptoms, muscle weakness, muscle twitching/shaking, and occasional numbness and/or pain, so far it's stayed confide to Simon’s right under his collarbone, the exact part of his body that was stuck under rubble for hours, according to the doctors this is the best case scenario much worse could have happened to him. The plan was for you to make sure he ate well-rounded meals and didn't over-exert himself and give him a check-up weekly for any worsening symptoms or injuries.

Currently, you were in the kitchen cooking lunch while Simon and Price talked in the living room. “You like her a lot, don't you? And don't try to tell me you don't like her, even the nurse thought she was your girlfriend, you even let her see your face. I didn't even get to see your face for years” Simon just sighed, he couldn't exactly lie it was way too obvious, so he chose the next best thing to do “So what do I do? I don't even know if she's allowed to date me” “Well she's with the military so as long as I, the captain, says it's okay then it's okay, but you know she's not gonna ask you right?” Simon started to panic, was Price confirming his worst fear right now, that you didn't like him at all and wouldn't even give him a chance. “What do ya mean she won't ask me out, like she doesn't like me? Like-” “No no Simon, like she's not going to risk losing her job by asking her patient out, meaning you have to do it. Of course she likes you, are you dense?” 

Not only was Price saying that it was okay for you two to date but also encouraging it, but now he had to work up the nerve to actually do it, it would be simply right? He would just ask you out, that's it. “Lunch is ready.” just then Price stood up, grabbing his hat “I'm gonna head out now, make sure he eats” he directed the last part to you before heading to the door “Will do” you called “Oh also Simon, I forgot to mention but I'll need to stay in your room tonight, peripheral neuropathy can be really bad for some people at night so I should be there for you just in case” Price just chucked and smirked and Simon before closing the door behind him. God, who was Simon kidding, this is the hardest thing he's ever had to do, and that's saying a lot, Simon’s done countless terrifying things that would have the average civilian crying and yet Simon was panicking over asking a girl out, gosh, what were you doing to him. 

part four

tags- @piconico17 @just-lilita @madsdawson @silversfavfics @enfppuff @solazoro @sirbonesly

[spaceklance]

actually I haven’t stopped thinking about Lance getting blown up since I was 14 so here’s some headcanons for Lance’s back scars/recovery:

He has Hunk help him moisturize because it helps with fading/mobility (eventually he gets comfortable enough with the rest of the team to ask whoever is nearby when he needs)

He has chronic pain that is worse some days than others and randomly spikes and takes his breath away. He fights through it and gets really good at not letting it show, especially in battle because he needs to be at his best performance and can’t let himself miss shots because of it or show weakness for the enemy to exploit

He’s stiffest in the morning and religiously stretches to maintain mobility

He’s always taken hot showers but now they are literally a necessity to relax the muscles

He’s never exactly been body shy but definitely has some issues after the incident where he’s embarrassed to be perceived (until he inevitably embraces the hotness/gets so used to them that he forgets to be embarrassed or insecure)

He definitely has nerve damage that the healing pod wasn’t able to fully prevent or heal, so there’s dead spots where he can’t feel anything. The center spot of the damage is the most desensitized. Sometimes he gets hurt and doesn’t know until someone else points it out or he takes off his armor and sees the blood/bruising (the team is horrified when such cases happen and are Vigilant at checking him for injuries after they witness it the first time and realize what happened and why)

It’s no secret that Lance is Coran’s favorite, and it’s partly due to Lance saving his life. What only Allura knows is that Coran was absolutely certain Lance would become the best/most well rounded Paladin since Alfor because of how selfless and instinctually protective he is, even when he doesn’t know who he is protecting. It was the first indicator of just how grand Lance’s potential was, and he never failed to prove Coran right

Lance still gets nightmares, even years later and despite all the other horrors they’ve all experienced. That first experience of throwing himself in danger to save someone’s life sticks with him so thoroughly he can still sometimes feel the phantom heat at his back when he wakes up

idk I just think the show really glanced over so much of their trauma and this was a HUGE one for me personally, lol. everyone who writes about Lance’s back scars has my entire fucking heart in their hands <3

[mixolya]

hello ! can i request a fake dating trope with rin? i'm loving fake dating tropes these days and thinking about it with rin is just 🤭 THANK U

ᓚᘏᗢ — rin itoshi: just for the weekend !

synopsis: in which your best friend pretends to be your boyfriend to save you from your family’s matchmaking schemes.

rin itoshi x reader ⭑ fluff / childhood best friends to lovers / mutual pining / fake dating / only one bed + likes & reblogs are appreciated <3

notes: my first request omg !! (i actually have two of them from nensi in my inbox but i wanted to post this one first LMAOO sorry nensi)

wc: 2202

you and rin had always been inseparable - childhood best friends, always together, always at each other's side. your parents were best friends too and every family gathering was filled with warmth, laughter and the unmistakable feeling of family.

it had always been that way. summers spent running through sprinklers in the backyard. winters with mugs too big for your hands and blanket forts collapsing around your laughter. he was just rin, your constant, the one who didn't need explaining. he didn't ask why you cried when no one else noticed, and you never asked why he stayed quiet when the room felt too loud. you just understood each other.

so it was no surprise to anyone that you showed up to the family dinner together. it was tradition: rin arriving with his hands in his pockets, you trailing after him with a plate you promised your mom you'd return later. it was safe and familiar.

until it wasn't.

"y/n", your mother said, out of nowhere, her voice light and casual like she was just asking if you'd eaten yet. "when are you going to get a boyfriend?"

you almost dropped your plate.

there was a sudden hush at the table. your parents, rin’s parents, even rin himself turning to glance your way. you blinked, unsure if you’d heard her right.

"what?"

"you heard me," she teased, taking a sip of her drink. "you’re not getting any younger, sweetheart."

"she’s eighteen," rin muttered under his breath.

but the damage was done. your aunt joined in next, then your dad, and soon it became a full interrogation.

"you’re always with rin," your dad mused, sipping his beer.

"maybe too much," his mom added with a smile.

"are you hiding something from us, y/n?" your mom teased. "someone special, maybe?"

you felt the panic rise in your throat. you looked at rin, silently begging him to say something, to pull the spotlight off you, to change the subject - anything. but he just stared back, eyes wide, looking just as caught as you felt.

and then your sibling said it. "wait… are you two dating?"

you didn’t have time to respond. because rin nodded. just a small, quiet nod. like it was nothing. like it was true.

your breath caught. "what.." you started, but your voice was too thin, too late.

"i knew it," your mom gasped, delighted.

you were spiraling. your face was burning. rin, meanwhile, had the nerve to just sit there, composed, cool, like this hadn’t just shattered the careful order of your entire life.

you turned to him, eyes wide. he shrugged, like what else was i supposed to do?

you mouthed his name like a curse, barely managing to keep your expression neutral in front of the crowd still celebrating your non-existent love story. under the table, you kicked his leg, not hard, but enough to make your point. he didn’t even flinch. typical.

and just when you thought it couldn’t get any worse.

"oh! this is perfect timing," rin's mother chirped, clapping her hands like she just witnessed the engagement of the century. "the hotel rooms for sae’s wedding were finalized this morning. i’ll let them know you two will be sharing one."

"i- what?" you sputtered.

"well, you’re dating," she said, as if you were the crazy one for questioning it. "it’s more convenient, and besides, it saves space. everyone’s going to be there. it’ll be fun!"

"yeah, fun," you echoed, dead inside.

rin, of course, said nothing. he just sat there, sipping from his water like this was an afternoon stroll in the park and not the start of a complete emotional collapse.

when the gathering finally ended and you were walking out to his car, you grabbed his arm before he could slide into the driver’s seat.

"what the hell was that?"

he looked down at you, lazy-eyed, unbothered. "damage control," he said simply.

"you nodded. you could’ve said something. anything else."

"you looked at me like you wanted me to save you," he replied. "so i did."

"by turning us into a couple?"

"by turning us into a believable lie."

you gawked. "what part of that was believable?"

he unlocked the car, slid inside, and leaned his elbow on the steering wheel. "the part where you didn’t deny it."

you paused, mouth half open, because- well. okay. maybe you had frozen. and okay, maybe you hadn’t helped the situation either.

but that was beside the point.

"we're cooked! we’re not even good at lying," you said suddenly.

"i’m decent."

"oh, sure," you scoffed, whirling around in your seat. "you lie with your face. you’re built for emotional manipulation."

"thanks?" he blinked, turning onto the main road.

"that wasn’t a compliment."

another hum.

a long silence stretched between you, filled only by the low hum of tires on pavement and the slow thudding of your heart trying to process the madness you’d just agreed to.

"you’re taking this really well," you said, side-eyeing him.

"you’re taking this really dramatically."

"this is not dramatic. this is objectively terrifying. do you know how serious wedding atmospheres are? the dresses. the speeches. the mothers crying."

"you crying."

"i’m not going to cry." you narrowed your eyes. he raised an eyebrow.

you paused. "...probably."

he didn’t answer, but the corner of his mouth twitched again, and that only made you sink deeper into your seat, arms crossed like a petulant child.

you had no idea how you were going to pull this off. pretending to love rin itoshi like he was your boyfriend, when you’d spent your whole life pretending you didn’t.

⭑

the hotel was stupidly pretty. all ivory pillars and glowing chandeliers, the kind of place you’d imagine someone proposing under, the kind of place that smelled like roses and money and high expectations.

you hated it already.

your suitcase thudded onto the polished floor as you stood in the lobby beside rin, both of you silent as your parents chatted at the front desk, confirming the rooms. your name was on the list. his name was on the list. and next to both?

room 143. one room.

you shot rin a look. he didn’t even flinch. didn’t even blink. just stood there like the most normal thing in the world was fake-dating his best friend and sharing a hotel room for the weekend.

you, on the other hand, were pretty sure you were going to faint.

"we’ll head up first," your mom said sweetly, handing you the room key like this was a romantic getaway. "your father and i want to check on the reception hall."

rin nodded. "we’ll get settled."

we.

you glared at him. but you followed anyway.

the elevator ride was quiet. too quiet. you stood in opposite corners like awkward middle schoolers at a dance, pretending not to look at each other, pretending not to feel the weight of the moment, or the fact that it was getting harder to breathe with every passing floor.

ding.

the room was big and luxurious and way too suitable for a couple. one massive bed sat in the center, white comforter perfectly fluffed like it had never seen sin. the window opened onto a garden below, fairy lights already flickering in anticipation of the wedding.

and still ...only one bed.

you stood in the doorway, suitcase still in hand. "we could ask for another room."

"too suspicious," rin replied, already kicking off his shoes. "they’d start asking questions."

"they already asked questions," you hissed.

he sat on the edge of the bed, palms pressed into the mattress. "then we’re answering them."

you stared at him. and he just stared back, eyes half-lidded, calm as ever.

and for a second, just a second, you wondered what it would be like if this were real. if the hand he propped behind him was there to tug you closer. if the bed really belonged to you and him, not just two people stuck in a lie spun out of awkward nods and mothers with dreams of romance.

you blinked the thought away like it was smoke. this was rin. the same rin who used to put leaves in your hair and blame the wind. the same rin who’d walked you home from school even when you lived in opposite directions. the same rin who never told you what he was thinking, but somehow always knew what you were feeling.

best friends!

not someone you were supposed to share a bed with. not lovers.

"i’ll take the couch," you said, reaching for the armchair in the corner even though it wasn’t even long enough to fit your legs.

"there is no couch," he pointed out.

"then the floor."

"you’ll freeze."

"then i’ll die dramatically, and you can tell our parents you tried your best."

he sighed, leaned back on the bed with all the ease of someone who wasn’t currently spiraling. "we’re not ten," he said, voice low. "you can handle one bed."

you stared at him like he’d just suggested sharing a toothbrush. "it’s not about handling it."

he raised a brow. "then what is it?"

you opened your mouth. then shut it. because what was it? that your heart was acting weird? that his voice had dipped into something softer than usual? that the idea of falling asleep next to him made your brain short-circuit and your hands a little clumsy?

"it’s just weird," you mumbled finally, eyes flicking toward the window.

he was quiet for a beat. then, "only if you make it weird."

you turned to glare at him, expecting some kind of smugness, but his expression was serious. and maybe a little tired, the way he always looked when the day had gone too long and he didn’t have the energy to pretend he didn’t care.

"fine," you muttered, dragging your suitcase to the other side of the bed. "but no cuddling. no touching. and no talking in your sleep."

"you talk in your sleep," he said.

"do not."

"you said ‘don’t take the duck!! noooooo!! it’s mine’ once."

you froze. "you remembered that?"

he shrugged. "it was a weird night."

you blinked at him. and then, without meaning to, you laughed. just a little. the sound slipped out of you like light through a crack, and for a second something eased.

he looked at you then. properly. like he hadn’t been avoiding it all night. and your heart, the traitor it was, skipped.

rin looked away first. pulled the covers back, climbed in, and turned to face the window. "turn off the lights when you’re done panicking," he said.

"i’m not panicking."

"okay."

"i’m not."

he didn’t answer.

you turned off the light. slid into bed. the silence between you was thick with everything you weren’t saying. the room was too warm. the space between you too small.

and still, you didn’t move away. and neither did he.

⭑

the wedding was unbearable.

not because sae looked good in full black (he did), or because the ceremony was stupidly picturesque with doves and flower arches and a string quartet playing something that sounded like heartbreak in disguise.

it was unbearable because you were standing next to rin. and pretending was getting harder.

"stop looking at me like that," you whispered, clutching your glass of sparkling cider, eyes fixed somewhere between the bride’s veil and the horizon.

"like what?" he said, not looking away.

"like you’re in love with me or something."

"i’m acting."

"you’re too good at it."

he hummed, sipping his drink. "maybe i’ve had practice."

you turned to him then, startled, but he wasn’t looking at you anymore. his gaze was somewhere else, lost in the lights or maybe in thought. he always did that. dropped things like they didn’t matter, like they didn’t echo.

you opened your mouth to say something, but were interrupted by the sudden flash of a camera.

"awww!" came the voice of someone’s cousin, you couldn’t remember whose.

"you two are adorable," she cooed, leaning in. "can i get another? rin, put your arm around her waist!"

you blinked. "you don’t have to-"

but his arm was already around your waist. casual. practiced. like muscle memory. like he’d done it a hundred times before.

you didn’t breathe as she counted down.

"three, two, one-"

click.

you were doomed. the photo would be cute. you knew it. you could feel it in your bones.

"thanks!" she said, already skipping off.

rin didn’t move. neither did you. and his arm stayed where it was, heavy and warm and dangerous.

you turned to him slowly, voice low. "you can let go now."

"can i?" he asked, and when your eyes met his, something in your stomach flipped.

"rin."

"what?" he murmured, and the way he was looking at you, soft, and a little wrecked, it made your pulse stutter. "we’re supposed to be pretending, right?"

you nodded. but your hands were shaking.

"then why do you look like you want this to be real?"

your breath caught.

"i-"

"because," he said, stepping closer, voice almost a whisper, "you’re not that good of an actor either."

and the worst part? he was right. you never had been. not with him.

© mixolya 2025. do not copy, remake or edit any of my works.

[darlingdaisyfarm]

I was going through a thought and wondered, how would Stan and Ford react to you getting hurt? Like on a mission, heist, or exploration.

[ how Stan & Ford react when you get hurt ]

a/n: sometimes my imagination is so embarrassingly bad, but i tried! i hope you enjoy it despite that <3 thank you for the idea tho!!

STANLEY

★ if it happened outdoors, Stan is grabbing your arm, yanking you to your feet, “what the hell were you thinking, huh?!” if it’s a mission or a heist, he’s 100% mad at the situation, and lowkey mad at you for getting hurt in the first place. but it's just because he cares too much

★ you’re hurt, and his mind is racing. “no. no. not this. not you, goddammit”

★ if it’s really bad, like you’ve passed out or you’re not responding, he panics. “c’mon, please, please stay with me, sweetheart”

★ whatever the situation, Stanley gets you out immediately, doesn't hesitate or finish the job or whatever he was doing. he literally carries you if he has to, forgets his own injuries. “c’mon, c’mon, i gotcha, we’re gonna get outta here, baby, stay with me.”

★ if you're bleeding bad he physically presses his hand over it and curses under his breath like “shitshitshit fuck, okay okay, you’re alright, you’re good, you’re so good, baby, fuck, hold still”

★ if it's really bad, he can't help but be emotional. screams at anybody who even tries to slow him down. doctors, nurses, cops. “if you don’t fuckin’ MOVE i’m gonna PUT you through a WALL.”

★ after you're safe, sleeping or resting, Stan gets very very quiet. sits by your bedside hunched and still worried, not knowing where to put his hands. instead, just keeps replaying this situation in his head. how he could've stopped it or what he should’ve done

★ if you so much as whimper in your sleep, he's immediately there. touching your wrist, smoothing your hair, whispering “s’okay. i gotcha. m’right here.”

★ i hate to write that but. . . he absolutely cries :( and hates himself for it even more. he tries not to cry loudly. at least, not obvious. but these stubborn angry tears keep falling and he wipes away fast because he’s mad they’re even happening

★ blames himself because guess why? he thinks he's a screw up. even if it wasn’t his fault. even if you jumped in front of danger to save HIM. he feels like your hurt is a debt he can never repay. and he’ll work twice as hard after

★ probably won't let you lift a finger for a week and will even argue with you about it. “what, you’re gonna get up and make yourself dinner with that leg? sit your sweet ass down before i TIE ya to the couch, baby, ok?“

★ absolutely buys you a stupid little get well gift. like a giant teddy bear idk. it’s ugly and cheap and it makes you laugh and he looks at you like he’d go back to hell and back for that smile

★ his hands are too rough and he knows it, so when he tends your injuries, he touches you so soft it's almost clumsy. “m’sorry, kid. my hands ain’t. . . they ain’t good for delicate stuff. but y’know i’m tryin’, right?”

★ “yer skin’s too good for bruises. shoulda been made’a stardust, i dunno.” then immediately snores and drools on your shoulder

★ Stanley hides his injuries from you. if he got scraped up during the mission too, he’ll downplay it SO hard. like limping with a bloody nose but “pfft, what, this? nahhh. absolutely fine.” because he thinks if you knew he was hurting too, you’d feel worse

★ he lets you wear his shirts because they’re soft and smell like him and he thinks it’ll help you heal faster if you’re comfy

STANFORD

★ freezes for half a second. because he’s trying to understand how bad is it / how much time do we have / what’s the fastest way to help you. he can't waste a minute

★ gets terrifyingly competent. applies pressure, builds splints from scraps, mutters smth about blood loss and nerve damage. talks you through it with a voice so calm but inside he wants to throw up because of worry. “stay awake for me, darling. keep talking. good. eyes on me. good. you’re doing perfectly” Ford keeps talking clearly so that you keep your focus on him

★ honestly, no matter how hard he tries, i dont think he’d be the perfect calm collected person. i mean sure, if you get hurt, Ford’s first reaction is to jump into doctor-mode. hes not even thinking about it. because what's important is to make sure you're breathing and blinking. but ugh, his eyes are the giveaway. they’re usually so calm, but when it’s you, theyre so wide and scared, full of worry, brows knitted, biting his lip

★ so yeah he tries to be calm but fails. so he snaps at anyone who distracts him. “either help me or get out of my way. let me do my job”

★ gets frustrated if you won’t let him fix you. he needs you to let him help. so hes constantly like “no, no, no, don't you dare pull away from me”

★ once you’re safe, he cant really breathe for a second. i mean, he had just experienced the most terrifying moments of his life, almost losing the person he loved most. so Ford's hands are trembling. he tries to hide it because he thinks he needs to be “the strong one” but if you so much as reach for him he folds into your touch still

★ if it was on anomaly hunting or expedition, he feels guilty for bringing you along. “i should’ve known it was too dangerous. i never should’ve let you come. i was selfish.” he hates himself for it

★ i think later, Ford develops a quiet habit of memorizing your vitals. like, your heartbeat, your breathing when you sleep. all the time, he keeps checking without waking you. just running fingertips lightly over your wrist or brushing his hand near your collarbone. it’s a comfort thing. if he can feel you breathing, he can sleep

★ this cutie builds you ridiculous safety gadgets. “here, this bracelet contains an emergency teleport beacon, a medical scanner and a plasma shield generator. standard fare, really.” it's like wearing an entire fucking sci-fi lab on your wrist. but you wear it anyway because well, you can't say no to him

★ also when it beeps or whatever, Ford panics instantly. no matter how minor

★ might accidentally blurt out love confession while tending you. like patching a cut and muttering “i can’t lose you. i love you. i. . .“ then FREEZES because he didn’t mean to say it out loud yet

★ he’s very doting when you're hurt. he’s the one who makes sure you’re comfortable, brings you books to read, does everything he can to distract you from the pain

★ and if it gets to a point where you’re just in too much pain, Ford’s solution is putting his hands on you, gently massaging while whispering that it will pass soon. i think Ford is more affectionate than usual in these moments. he lets his vulnerability show

★ Ford will get a little obsessive about safety after. “what do you mean you’re going into the woods alone?”

[revelboo]

Any tips for getting over nerves for posting writings or headcanons in the transformers fandom... I'm trying my best to not be do nervous

In my case, I tend to think of these short form fics as first drafts- I’m telling myself a story and it doesn’t have to be perfect (that’s what they were always meant to be, but things got a bit out of hand), but that mentality helps so I don’t fret and stress about whether it’s good enough. If it makes you happy, go for it!

Bad Idea Pt 20

TFP Soundwave x Reader

• Sprawled flat on your back, staying out of the pool is harder than you’d have thought. Mostly because when he leaves, you’re bored out of your mind. Really need to ask him if there’s anything you can do. Doubt you can actually help him in any way, but it’s infuriating being directionless. Useless. Glancing at the pool, you catch big bird shuffling slightly on his perch. Watching and waiting for you to screw up so he can tattle. Or so he can try to drown you. Figuring out what the drone’s thinking as his head tips, staring at you, is beyond you. Though, you’ve been trying to play nice for Soundwave. To pretend you don’t hate his awful brat.

• Tendrils drawing closer to his frame as he works to repair a console, Soundwave goes out of his way to pointedly not look in the direction of Megatron’s throne. Specifically the warlord’s little human since aside from a faintly jingling harness and a short little mostly sheer covering, they’re bare. Already one of the Vehicons had glanced at the human, attention drawn by the faint, silvery sound of the harness and Megatron had smashed them face first into a console. Repeatedly. Making more work for him. Knows his oldest friend’s moods are ever shifting. That he’d dressed the human that way knowing someone would look and knowing he’d lash out. Amusing himself by causing chaos.

• “Hey, big bird,” you call out and his plating ruffles up in jagged, offended angles. Well. You’re off to a great start. “Look, you could tell me your name if you don’t want me to call you that. I mean, we should get along.” Especially since you’re banging his alien daddy. Which, come to think of it, is probably most of why he hates you. Shuffling further away from you on his perch, he turns his back to you in an obvious dismissal. Alright then, so much for that. “Don’t be that way. I can call you worse things.” And he’s glaring hatefully at you again. “Like Tweetie Pie.”

• Stilling as Megatron slips up beside him, idly toying with a loose wire as he surveys the damage he’d done without any guilt, Soundwave waits. “You have a human, too,” Megatron says swapping to Cybertronian and it’s not really a question, but he inclines his head anyway. Studying the warlord, there’s something like uncertainty in his optics and the grim set of his mouth. And he wonders what Megatron’s human is to him. A toy? A distraction? Or do you actually matter? “Does yours care for you?” Tendrils flicking restlessly, it clicks. Megaton’s so used to just taking, conquering. But genuine affection? That’s not something he can demand and just seize for himself. It’s something he has to earn, so you must matter to him. Isn’t sure what to make of that.

• Shrieking and ducking when big bird dives at your head, you run away swearing. Why couldn’t you just leave him alone? But no, you had to antagonize the little psycho. Had known the second his optics had dimmed that he was somehow looking up the name the way Soundwave had done when the little brat had blabbed that you’d called him a DILF. And big bird slams into your back, knocking you flat. Grabbing and pulling your hair with his beak while you smack at him and curse. And a shadow falls across you both. Eyes wide, you realize there’s a masked and visored mech you don’t know looming over you. And he awkwardly lifts a hand. “Question,” he says and big bird pinches your ear hard, before turning to face the stranger, wings flared aggressively. Protecting you? The stranger backs away immediately, both hands up submissively.

Previous

Next

[m4rv3l-girl]

Can you please do one where the reader isn’t feeling well and a recruit offers to escort her to her room (Bucky and Sam are in a meeting) but then tries to take advantage of her? She feels dirty, ashamed, and breaks up with Bucky. Weeks pass before she works up the courage to return to the Compound, knowing the recruit will be there, because she misses seeing Bucky and Sam. They hang out, and as she is leaving, the recruit corners her. Bucky overhears him being mouthy. After the recruit is dealt with, Bucky assures her that he loves her and that she is not damaged goods, so to speak. Thanks! 🩷

You’re Not Damaged Goods

Bucky x Y/N

Warnings: Mentions of assault. Angst.

Y/N clutched her stomach as another wave of nausea rolled through her, leaving her lightheaded and unsteady. Training that morning had been brutal—pushing through her discomfort in the hopes of staying under the radar hadn’t helped. The last thing she wanted was to bother Bucky, who was tied up in a strategy meeting with Sam and the team.

As she stumbled out of the gym, leaning heavily against the wall for balance, a recruit named Jared jogged over. Tall, with sandy blonde hair and a cocky smirk, he was one of the newer faces around the compound.

"Hey, you okay?" Jared asked, concern lacing his tone.

Y/N tried to wave him off. "Just… not feeling great. I'll manage."

"You sure? You look pale. Come on, let me help you get to your room," he offered, his hand brushing her arm.

She hesitated. Normally, she’d decline, but the thought of collapsing in the hallway was worse. "Okay, thanks," she murmured.

Jared slipped an arm around her waist, steadying her as they walked. His grip felt a little too tight, but she chalked it up to his effort to support her. As they turned a corner, she noticed they weren’t heading toward her room.

"Wait," she said, pulling back slightly. "My room's the other way."

Jared grinned, the concern in his eyes replaced by something darker. "Relax. I just thought we could… talk somewhere private."

Alarm bells rang in her head. She tried to step away, but his grip tightened. "No, I think I'll head to my room now," she said firmly.

Jared's smile turned predatory. "Don't be like that. You’ve got to know how pretty you are, right? Bucky doesn’t have to know."

Her heart pounded as panic set in. "Let go of me," she demanded, her voice trembling.

Instead, he pressed her against the wall, the cold surface biting into her back as his weight pinned her in place. His breath was hot and rancid against her ear, sending a shiver of dread through her. Her pulse thundered in her ears, drowning out the muffled sounds of agents passing in nearby hallways. Every nerve in her body screamed at her to move, to fight, but her limbs felt leaden, her fear momentarily paralyzing her.

“Come on,” Jared whispered, his tone dark and filled with deep intent, “you don’t have to play hard to get.”

Her heart clenched as his hand slid lower, crossing a boundary that made her want to throw up.

A surge of adrenaline flooded her system, snapping her out of her frozen state. She shoved him hard with every ounce of strength she could muster, her hands shaking violently as she forced distance between them.

"I said no!" she shouted, her voice breaking with raw fear. It echoed down the hallway, a desperate plea for anyone—someone—to hear.

A passing agent rounded the corner, startling Jared enough that he lost concentration. Y/N didn’t waste a second, bolting down the hallway and locking herself in her room. She sank to the floor, tears streaming down her face. She felt dirty, humiliated, and most of all, ashamed.

That night, she couldn’t bring herself to tell Bucky. He’d been so happy after the meeting, his smile so genuine. How could she burden him with this? Instead, she let the memory fester, her thoughts spiraling. By the next morning, she’d made a decision.

She had to leave.

🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀

Weeks passed, and Y/N’s absence was a gaping hole in Bucky’s life.

He tried to reach her—calls, texts, even showing up at her old apartment—but she never responded. Sam tried to reassure him. "She probably just needs space," he’d said.

But Bucky knew it was more than that.

He just didn’t know why.

🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀

Y/N hadn’t planned to return to the compound. Every step she took inside brought back memories of Jared’s leer and the way his hands had pinned her in place. But she missed Bucky and Sam. She missed their banter, the way Bucky’s presence made her feel safe.

She made herself small as she walked through the halls, avoiding eye contact. She found Sam first, laughing in the kitchen. Bucky was next, sparring in the gym. Both greeted her warmly, but she kept her distance, her guilt gnawing at her.

“I should go,” she said after a few hours, clutching her bag tightly.

“You sure?” Sam asked. “We just got you back.”

“I’ll visit again soon,” she promised.

As she stepped into the hallway, she froze. Jared stood at the far end, his eyes locking on her immediately. His smirk was back, sharper and more menacing than ever. She tried to turn away, but he was already moving toward her.

"Y/N," he drawled, his voice dripping with mock sweetness. "Long time no see."

She didn’t respond, quickening her pace, but he grabbed her arm, spinning her to face him.

“Running away again?” Jared sneered. “You don’t need to pretend you didn’t like it when I—”

“Get your hands off her.”

Bucky’s voice was low and steady, sending a chill down Jared’s spine. He was standing just a few feet away, his jaw tight and eyes blazing with fury.

Jared laughed nervously. “Hey, man. Just talking to her.”

“Agent Lee,” Bucky took a step closer, his voice ice-cold. “You have 10 seconds to get out of eyeshot.”

Jared released her arm, raising his hands defensively. “I didn’t mean—”

“Save it,” Bucky snapped.

“I gave you 10 seconds, you now have 5. Here’s how this is going to work,” Bucky continued, his voice dropping even lower, almost a growl. “You’re going to stay far away from her—from any woman in this compound, actually. You don’t speak to her. You don’t look at her. Hell, you don’t even think about her.”

Bucky leaned in, his voice barely above a whisper now, but no less terrifying. "Because if I catch you stepping out of line again, they’re not going to need a meeting to figure out why you’ve gone missing. You’ll just disappear. And trust me, I’m very good at making things disappear."

The ghost of a smirk played on his lips as he straightened, his gaze never wavering. "So, what’s it gonna be? Are you walking out of here, or am I carrying you out in pieces?"

Jared swallowed hard, his face pale, his bravado crumbling. Bucky’s stance didn’t waver, his protectiveness a palpable force that seemed to radiate through the air.

"You made the wrong choice coming after her," Bucky added, a final warning in his icy tone. "And if you’re dumb enough to try again? You’ll find out just how bad of a mistake that was."

Jared muttered something under his breath before retreating, but not before Bucky stepped forward, towering over him. “If you so much as look at her again, I will invert your ribcage, you sad fuck.”

As soon as Jared disappeared, Bucky turned to Y/N. She was trembling, her arms wrapped tightly around herself.

“Doll,” he said softly, stepping closer. “Are you okay?”

She nodded weakly, but tears welled in her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

“For what?” he asked, his brow furrowing.

“For leaving. For not telling you. For—”

He silenced her with a gentle hand on her cheek. “You have nothing to apologize for. This wasn’t your fault.”

“I feel… ruined,” she admitted, her voice breaking. “Like I’m not the same person I was before.”

“Listen to me,” Bucky said firmly, his thumb brushing away her tears. “You are not broken. You are not dirty. What he did—what he tried to do—doesn’t define you. And it sure as hell doesn’t change how I feel about you.”

Her lip quivered as she met his gaze. “You mean that?”

“Every word,” he said, pulling her into his arms. She melted against him, the weight of weeks of guilt and shame finally lifting.

“You’re my everything, Y/N.”

For the first time in weeks, she let herself believe it.

——————————————————————————————————

Hope this is what you were wanting, Hun. It’s a bit heavier than my usual stuff so, I really tried to capture your request as best I could. 🫶

Requests Open!

[realityjoey]

SEASON 1, EPISODE 3: “THE GOOD, THE BAD, AND THE UGLY.”

The buzz of a new workweek vibrated through the precinct. Phones rang. Radios crackled. The hum of conversation and the occasional barked command created the usual chaotic symphony that made the building feel alive.

For the first time in three weeks, Detective Dylan Jenkins stepped back into it.

She wore her full uniform for the first time since the shooting—crisp blues, her badge catching the light on her chest. Her left arm was no longer in a sling, though she still moved it carefully, the stiff way someone does when their body remembers trauma before their brain does. The bruises had faded, but there were remnants in her posture, the tightness in her eyes, the way she instinctively scanned every room like something might explode.

Still, she looked sharp. Focused.

And she was glad to be back.

Sort of.

Her first stop wasn’t the bullpen, or the break room where Lucy had probably already stashed a welcome-back donut. It was the Watch Commander’s office—where she now stood outside the open door, knocking twice on the frame.

Sergeant Wade Grey looked up from behind his desk, his hands steepled over a manila folder.

“Detective Jenkins,” he said with a nod. “Come in.”

She stepped inside, arms crossed loosely, giving him that standard Dylan smirk that she used to deflect anything remotely emotional. “You called me in here to personally inspect my battle scars?”

Grey didn’t even blink. “No. I called you in here because before I send anyone back out onto my streets, I need confirmation they’re not just physically cleared—but mentally ready.”

Dylan sighed and dropped into the chair opposite his desk. “So, therapy mode today. Fantastic.”

He opened the folder and tapped the paper inside. “You passed your medical clearance. Shoulder’s healing well. Range of motion acceptable. No nerve damage. But none of this tells me what I actually need to know.”

“Which is?” she asked, already bracing.

“That you’re ready to come back and not pretend like getting shot didn’t affect you.”

Dylan scoffed. “Come on, Sarge. I’ve been through worse. This isn’t my first traumatic Tuesday.”

“I’m aware,” Grey said calmly. “I read your London file. The forced entry that went sideways. Your partner who bled out. That time you were held at knifepoint by a domestic suspect and refused to stand down. Your brother.”

Dylan’s smirk faltered. Just slightly.

“This,” Grey continued, “isn’t about what you can survive. You’ve already proven that. Repeatedly. This is about how you survive it. Whether you’re going to let this job eat you from the inside out like it has a thousand others who thought they were invincible.”

She shifted in the chair. “I’m not one of those people.”

“No?” Grey leaned forward, voice low. “You dragged a bleeding officer out of a gunfight while you were bleeding yourself. You didn’t tell anyone. You didn’t even notice—because your adrenaline was pumping so high, and your focus was so external, you ignored your own life being on the line. That doesn’t go away when the stitches come out.”

Dylan clenched her jaw. Looked away for the first time.

Grey studied her a beat longer, then softened—just a touch.

“You’re good, Jenkins. Damn good. But you’re not made of steel. Neither is Bradford.”

At that, her eyes flicked up. Sharp.

“He needs to take it easy too,” Grey said. “You both do. That kind of bond—what happened out there—that’s not just something you walk off. You took a bullet for him. He watched you go down right in front of him. You think either of you came out of that untouched?”

Dylan swallowed.

“No one’s telling you not to be here,” Grey added. “But slow down. Be smart. This job doesn’t reward martyrs—it buries them.”

She was quiet for a long moment.

Then: “You done psychoanalyzing me now, or should I get horizontal and talk about my childhood?”

Grey leaned back, the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. “Just go easy on the hero complex for a few weeks.”

She stood slowly, the sarcasm already returning to her voice like armor. “I’ll try. Can’t promise anything if Tim gets sentimental again, though. Might have to throw myself into traffic.”

Grey smirked. “Welcome back, Jenkins.”

As she left the office, Dylan’s expression was unreadable—wry on the surface, but something quieter underneath.

Maybe Grey was right. Maybe flipping the switch didn’t work like it used to.

But if she was going to do this job right—again—she might need to start learning a different way to survive.

The moment Dylan Jenkins stepped out of Grey’s office, her head was buzzing — but not in the way it usually did before a shift. It wasn’t adrenaline. Not nerves. Just… noise. The kind of internal hum you get when someone touches a nerve you didn’t realise was still raw.

Grey’s words echoed behind her eyes: “This job doesn’t reward martyrs — it buries them.”

She tucked them away, buried deep behind her usual smirk, and headed toward the briefing room, where the rest of the squad was already beginning to filter in. The place was half-full when she slipped in and leaned against the back wall, one arm hanging loosely by her side, the other still stiff from the injury, though she was pretending otherwise.

At the front of the room, Sergeant Grey stood with his usual quiet authority, clipboard in hand. The second she walked in, his eyes met hers. A single nod.

Then, in his no-nonsense tone, he spoke.

“Alright, listen up. We’ve got a priority case from last night. Armed robbery, downtown. Citizens’ Bank on Seventh. Five masked suspects. Got away with over eighty grand in cash.”

A few murmurs rippled across the room.

Grey held up a hand, then motioned toward the aide next to him, who began passing out photocopied stills from CCTV footage. Blurry, grainy images showed figures in tattered, grimy clothes — makeup smeared across their faces, fake blood splashed over ripped shirts.

Zombies.

Dylan squinted at the grainy image as the sheet landed in her hand. “Oh, for f—”

“Yeah,” Grey said, hearing her before she finished. “Halloween came early.”

A chuckle floated from somewhere near the front. Tim Bradford, seated with arms folded across his chest, gave Dylan a look — amused, knowing — but said nothing. She returned it with an eye-roll.

“These five suspects,” Grey continued, “stormed the bank at 2:37 a.m., full ‘undead’ getup, armed with handguns. One fired into the ceiling. No casualties, no injuries, but they cleared the vault in under four minutes and vanished before patrol arrived.”

“Witnesses?” someone asked.

“Only one worth anything,” Grey said. “Night janitor. Said they moved like they’d done it before. Coordinated. Not amateurs.”

Dylan tapped her sheet with one finger. “So we’re looking for a pack of criminal thespians?”

Before Grey could respond, the door at the side of the room opened, and in walked Captain Andersen — composed, elegant, eyes sharp as ever.

The room stiffened slightly. Her presence always commanded attention, not through volume, but precision.

Her gaze scanned the group quickly — and then stopped squarely on Dylan.

“Detective Jenkins,” she said, her voice firm but warm.

Dylan straightened instinctively.

“Glad to see you back on your feet.”

“Ma’am,” Dylan replied with a respectful nod.

“If you need anything,” Andersen continued, walking toward the front of the room, “you come directly to me. Any resources, any support — medical or otherwise. Understood?”

There was a beat of silence. Dylan could feel a few heads turn in her direction. Not pitying — just… watching.

“I appreciate that,” she said, calm and measured. “But I’m good.”

Andersen studied her for half a second longer, then gave a curt nod and turned to the group.

“Regarding the robbery,” she said, taking over from Grey with seamless authority. “Intel suggests the suspects are part of a fringe performance collective — formerly tied to small-time theft and vandalism. They call themselves the ‘Dead Awake’ Crew. Most of their previous run-ins have been harmless. Art school dropouts with a flair for dramatics.”

Someone near the front snorted.

“They’re not a joke anymore,” Andersen said coolly. “They’re armed. Organised. And they’ve just pulled off the cleanest bank robbery we’ve seen this year.”

Tim’s brow furrowed as he glanced at the photo again. “Why now? Why escalate?”

“That’s what you’re going to find out,” Andersen replied. “Grey will coordinate the ground work. Jenkins — I want you plugged in on the criminal psych angle. Dig into their previous group affiliations. Bradford, you’ll partner.”

Dylan blinked. Her eyes shifted sideways — and locked with Tim’s.

He raised an eyebrow.

Of course.

Grey clapped the clipboard shut. “You know your assignments. I want updates by end of shift. Dismissed.”

Chairs scraped. Conversations bubbled. Officers began filing out, some excited by the bizarre case, others rolling their eyes at the thought of chasing down zombie-costumed robbers.

As Dylan folded her copy of the CCTV stills, Tim walked by and smirked at her.

“So. Back on the clock.”

“Back in the frying pan,” she muttered.

“You know, if you wanted attention, you could’ve just worn a cape,” he added, falling in step beside her as they walked toward the exit.

She shot him a sidelong glance. “I’m saving the cape for the press conference. Think it’ll match my bullet scar?”

Tim chuckled.

And just like that — the day began.

But beneath the sarcasm and weirdness of zombie crews, Dylan felt something settle inside her. She was back. Still healing. Still raw.

But back.

And this time, she wasn’t doing it alone.

The afternoon sun cast long streaks of light through the windshield of the patrol car as it cruised slowly down Melrose, weaving through a maze of street vendors, graffiti-tagged alleyways, and the occasional jaywalker with a death wish. It was the kind of shift that felt deceptively calm—no high-speed chases, no shootouts, no chaos. Just simmering tension beneath the surface.

In the front seat, Dylan Jenkins sat slouched with one leg bent against the dash, flipping through case notes for the “Dead Awake” robbery. Her shoulder twinged every now and then, but she ignored it. She wasn’t about to mention it. Not after the looks she’d been getting all day.

Beside her, Tim Bradford drove with one hand on the wheel and the other resting near the radio, gaze scanning the street with practiced calm.

For a while, the only sound was the distant chatter of dispatch and the occasional rustle of paper in Dylan’s lap.

Then Tim cleared his throat.

“You uh… bleeding out again, or just brooding dramatically?”

Dylan’s eyes flicked toward him, unimpressed. “Wow. Subtle.”

He didn’t look at her. “Just asking. You’ve been quiet.”

“Because I’m reading.”

“You hate paperwork.”

“And yet it still makes better company than you.”

Tim smirked, but she could tell he was still watching her—really watching. His eyes drifted toward her shoulder, toward the way she shifted every so often, like the seat wasn’t quite right. She could feel it—his concern tucked beneath sarcasm, like it always was.

“I’m fine, Tim,” she said flatly.

“You sure?”

“Don’t start,” she snapped, sharper than intended. “If one more person asks me if I’m okay like I’m made of glass, I’m going to scream.”

Tim raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t say you were made of glass.”

“Didn’t have to.” She dropped the files onto her lap and turned slightly toward him, the fire behind her voice impossible to miss. “I wouldn’t be here if I couldn’t handle it. You think Grey would’ve cleared me if I wasn’t ready? You don’t see me fussing over you, and you got shot too, or did we all just forget that part?”

Tim was quiet.

The tension between them hung in the cab, thick and heavy, until finally—he exhaled.

“Alright,” he said, nodding slowly. “Fair.”

Dylan looked away again, jaw tight. Her fingers drummed against the case file, restlessness creeping in. She hated this part. The hovering. The worry. People thinking they were being kind when really, they were just picking at the scab before it healed.

A beat passed.

Two.

Then, softly—almost too soft to hear over the hum of the engine—Tim said, “Good to have you back.”

Dylan turned her head slowly.

Her expression shifted, just a touch. Still guarded. But something about his tone caught her off guard. It wasn’t a joke. Wasn’t performative. Just honest. A little raw around the edges.

Her lips curled into a slow, smug smile.

“Of course it is,” she muttered, turning back to the window. “Your life’s boring without me.”

Tim let out a short laugh. Quiet. But real.

“I’ll give you that.”

They didn’t say anything more for a while.

Didn’t have to.

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward, or heavy. It was something else. Something earned.

The kind of silence that lives between two people who’ve been through something together—and come out the other side still on the same page.

Not partners in name only anymore.

Something deeper.

Something real.

The call had come in just after lunch. A Code 44 — entrapment. Unusual location: a bank ATM vestibule. Even more unusual? The trapped subject was not a thief, but a repair technician who’d somehow gotten wedged inside the back of an ATM overnight after crawling in to fix a malfunction.

By the time Tim Bradford and Dylan Jenkins pulled up in their shop, the sidewalk outside the small neighborhood bank was buzzing with confused onlookers, two twitchy bank managers, and one extremely muffled voice yelling something about “airflow” from within the ATM booth.

“Only in L.A.,” Tim muttered as he slammed the door shut.

Dylan squinted at the glass-walled enclosure just off the main lobby, where the clunky metal ATM sat bolted into the wall like an angry refrigerator. “How the hell does someone get stuck inside an ATM?”

“Apparently he crawled in through the maintenance hatch, the latch jammed, and no one noticed he didn’t leave last night,” Tim replied, reading from the report. “He’s been stuck in there for almost twelve hours. And his oxygen’s running out.”

Dylan blinked. “There’s no air vents?”

“Not proper ones. Machine’s designed for security, not comfort.” Tim turned to the flustered manager. “Fire department?”

“On their way,” the man said, wiping sweat from his temple. “But ETA’s another ten minutes. They’re dealing with a multi-vehicle pileup on the 101.”

Tim glanced back at the ATM, then at the tiny speaker where a garbled voice was shouting something about “suffocating in here!”

“Ten minutes is too long,” he muttered. Then, to Dylan: “Get the breaching kit from the trunk. We’re breaking him out.”

Dylan’s eyebrows shot up. “You want us to hammer down the wall of a bank?”

Tim was already striding toward the shop. “The part of the wall surrounding the ATM, not the safe. Don’t get dramatic.”

“I’m British. We invented dramatic,” she muttered, but followed him.

Moments later, both of them were back in the vestibule, geared up with mini sledgehammers, crowbars, and a tactical pry bar. The bank staff looked uneasy. Tim ignored them.

“Start on that left panel,” he instructed, “right where the power cables meet the base. It’s weakest there.”

Dylan nodded and braced herself, gripping the sledge with her good arm and using the injured one for balance. She swung — once, twice — and felt a sharp jolt of pain sear down her shoulder and into her chest.

The third hit didn’t come.

She stood still, breathing hard, jaw clenched, her body locked in place by the flare of agony. The old bullet wound pulsed beneath her skin, deep and raw despite the healing. She stared at the wall, not moving, her hammer gripped tightly in one hand.

Tim’s voice came from beside her. Calm. Steady.

“You good?”

She didn’t look at him.

“I’ve got it,” she muttered, teeth gritted.

Tim watched her carefully. “You’re compensating. Your grip’s off.”

“I said I’ve got it.”

She lifted the hammer again — but stopped halfway. Her shoulder gave a warning throb, and she knew: one more hit, and she’d be down.

Silence lingered for a moment.

Then, without a word, Tim stepped forward.

He gently took the hammer from her hand. Didn’t meet her eyes. Didn’t mock. Didn’t offer sympathy.

Just got to work.

Swing.

Swing.

Swing.

With practiced rhythm, he drove into the panel where Dylan had started, the metal groaning under each impact. Cracks spread through the drywall and insulation until, finally, a panel gave way with a crunching pop.

A loud gasp came from inside the ATM as fresh air rushed through the opening. “Oh thank God! I thought I was gonna die in here!”

“Hold tight,” Tim called, grabbing the crowbar to widen the gap.

Within two minutes, they’d peeled away enough of the surrounding wall to slide the technician out — drenched in sweat, wide-eyed, and babbling his thanks like he’d just been reborn.

EMS took him from there.

Tim set the tools aside, breathing hard. Dust clung to his sleeves. Sweat beaded on his brow.

He finally turned to Dylan.

She hadn’t moved much. Her expression was unreadable, but her eyes were fixed on a spot on the wall that no longer existed.

“I was fine,” she said quietly.

“I know,” Tim replied, brushing dust off his vest. “That’s why I didn’t say anything.”

She looked at him then. Not angry. Not even annoyed. Just tired.

And grateful, in a way she didn’t say aloud.

Tim didn’t push.

Didn’t press.

They walked back to the shop in silence.

And though she wouldn’t admit it — not even under interrogation — letting him take over just this once didn’t feel like weakness. It felt like partnership.

The kind built one busted ATM at a time.

The drive back from the ATM call had been quiet.

The kind of quiet that wasn’t awkward, or even heavy — just tired. They both smelled like drywall dust and sweat, and Dylan’s shoulder still pulsed like it had its own heartbeat. But she didn’t say anything. She didn’t have to.

They were almost back on patrol, cruising down a wide East L.A. street, when Tim’s phone buzzed.

He glanced at the screen, and the change was instant.

His knuckles whitened around the steering wheel. His back straightened. His whole body seemed to lock into place — like a building bracing for an earthquake.

Dylan noticed it immediately.

“You good?” she asked, brows furrowing.

He didn’t answer. Just clicked on the Bluetooth and answered with a tight, “Yeah. It’s Bradford.”

A voice crackled through. Too muffled for Dylan to make out the words. But she didn’t need to hear them to understand.

His jaw clenched.

Then: “Which hospital?”

More garbled words.

Tim’s entire demeanor shifted. A flash of something in his eyes — fear, fury, panic. He ended the call with a stiff jab of his finger and floored the accelerator.

The car lurched forward, tires screeching slightly as he cut across two lanes and gunned it through a yellow light turning red.

Dylan gripped the dash. “Jesus — Bradford. What the hell’s going on?”

His voice was clipped, dry. But underneath, it cracked. “Emergency Room. County General.”

Dylan didn’t ask questions. She just buckled her seatbelt and braced.

They pulled up to the emergency bay minutes later, the cruiser barely in park before Tim threw open the door and stormed into the hospital. Dylan followed at a slower pace, more cautious — watching him from behind, watching his shoulders tense with every step.

Inside, the fluorescent lights were brutal, and the waiting room buzzed with distant cries, the rustle of paperwork, and the low wail of someone down the corridor.

Tim went straight to the front desk.

“I’m looking for Isabel Bradford,” he said, voice steady but barely contained. “She was brought in maybe thirty minutes ago. OD.”

The nurse didn’t even blink. “Room 14.”

He didn’t thank her. Just turned on his heel and marched toward the hall.

Dylan followed — a few paces back now, unsure of where she stood in this. But instinct told her not to leave. Not yet.

As Tim reached Room 14, the door opened — and there she was.

Isabel.

She looked even worse than last time. Gaunt. Pale. Her skin had a yellow-grey tint, and her eyes were dull, ringed in dark bruises like smoke. She was wearing hospital scrubs now, thin socks on her feet, arms trembling slightly as she moved.

She froze when she saw Tim.

Her lips pressed together in a bitter line. “Oh. Of course.”

He didn’t hesitate.

He reached for her arm — gently, but firmly — and guided her back into the room, closing the door behind them.

Dylan was left in the hallway, just outside. But the walls were thin. The door wasn’t fully latched. And the moment Tim spoke, she heard it all.

“You OD’d.” Tim’s voice cracked — not with rage, but with heartbreak. “Do you have any idea how lucky you are that someone even found you?”

“I didn’t ask to be found,” Isabel replied, her voice hollow, tired.

“Yeah, no kidding,” he snapped. “You’re trying to disappear, and if you keep doing this — you will.”

There was a long pause. Then he went on, voice rising, emotional.

“Do you know how many dead junkies I bring in every month? Alone. Blue-lipped. Ice cold. No ID. No family. Just another bagged body someone has to zip up while the rest of the world shrugs.”

“Tim—”

“No. You don’t get to cut me off this time.” His voice cracked. “You think I don’t get it? You don’t want to come home. You don’t want help. Fine. I can’t drag you back. But what do you think this is doing to the people who still love you?”

Silence.

“To me?” he added, voice low now. Broken. “You think this doesn’t rip me apart every time I wonder if the next OD call I get is going to be you?”

Another pause.

Then Isabel spoke, flat and cold.

“Save the tough love for someone else.”

Tim’s breath caught.

“I’m not your responsibility anymore,” she went on. “I stopped being your wife the day I left. You don’t owe me anything.”

“I don’t—owe—you?” he echoed, stunned.

She laughed bitterly. “Stop trying to be my white knight, Tim. You couldn’t save me then. You can’t save me now. Just let it go.”

And then the door burst open.

Isabel stormed past Dylan without even a glance, scrubs flapping, hospital socks skidding slightly on the tile.

Tim stood inside the room, staring at nothing. Shoulders heaving.

Dylan didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

She just stood outside the door, quiet — still.

The hallway outside Room 14 still buzzed with fluorescent light and low murmurs, but Dylan didn’t hear any of it.

She was frozen, eyes locked on the corridor where Isabel Bradford had just stormed off, shoulders tense, body vibrating with the sting of what she’d heard behind the door.

Inside that hospital room, a silence had fallen — sharp and echoing.

Then—

BANG.

A crack echoed through the wall, deep and jarring. Dylan flinched.

She didn’t wait.

She pushed open the door to see Tim, standing in the center of the room, fist buried in the drywall, knuckles scraped and red, his entire frame heaving with barely suppressed rage.

The wall had dented around the impact — a jagged, angry wound matching the look in his eyes.

“Tim,” she said quietly, closing the door behind her.

He didn’t turn. Just stared at the wall like he might punch it again.

Her voice was lower this time. Calmer. “You alright?”

He yanked his hand from the hole, shaking out his fingers. The skin over his knuckles was already turning red, the kind of bruising that would bloom purple by morning.

“I’m fine,” he snapped.

Dylan blinked. The sharpness in his voice wasn’t surprising — but it was too sharp, too immediate. It wasn’t defense. It was deflection.

She took a step closer. “Yeah, okay, but if you’re planning on breaking every hospital wall we visit, I’d appreciate a heads up. I’ll bring gloves.”

He turned sharply toward her, jaw clenched. His face was pale with fury and frustration, his eyes rimmed red — but no tears. Tim Bradford didn’t cry. He just imploded quietly.

“I said I’m fine.”

“Sure,” she said coolly. “Which is why your hand is bleeding and your jaw looks like it’s about to snap in half.”

He shook his head, biting down the snarl of emotion bubbling behind his eyes.

“You didn’t need to follow me in here.”

“No,” she replied, crossing her arms, “but I did.”

His eyes met hers then — a flicker of something raw and barely contained.

That was when it hit her.

He was exactly like her.

Stubborn to the bone.

Too proud to admit when something cut too deep.

Too afraid of what would happen if they stopped to feel it all.

And maybe that was why she didn’t back down.

But before she could say anything else, his radio crackled.

Dispatch, crisp and cold:

“7-Adam-19, Units in the area respond.”

Tim grabbed it instantly.

“7-Adam-19 responding. En route.”

Dylan stared. “Seriously? After that?”

He was already heading to the door. “We’re still on duty.”

“Tim—”

“I’m fine, Jenkins.”

He didn’t wait for her. Just walked out, leaving her in the quiet wreckage of a hospital room that had seen too many kinds of pain in one day.

She looked at the hole in the wall. The dust still floating in the air. The smudge of blood on the plaster.

Then she exhaled, grabbed her jacket, and followed him.

Because stubborn or not, he didn’t need to be alone right now.

Even if he didn’t say it — especially if he didn’t.

Echo and Franklin wasn’t exactly the glitziest part of town on a good day — but tonight, it looked like trouble had parked itself and cracked open a few beers.

As Tim Bradford and Dylan Jenkins pulled up to the curb, they were greeted by the low thrum of engines and the roar of masculine laughter. Chrome flashed under the streetlights. A pack of six bikers, all thick-necked, denim-vested, and clearly drunk, stood outside a rundown bar, smashing bottles against the curb and revving their bikes like they were gunning for a drag race in the middle of the sidewalk.

The Dead Bastards.

Dylan eyed them through the windshield. “Charming.”

Tim didn’t respond right away. He gripped the wheel tighter than necessary, jaw still locked from the hospital. His expression was unreadable — which told Dylan exactly what she needed to know.

“You sure you’re good to do this?” she asked quietly.

He unbuckled his seatbelt. “Yeah.”

She didn’t move.

“Tim,” she said, softer now. “After Isabel—”

“I said I’m fine.”

His voice wasn’t sharp this time — it was flat. Cold. Like he was trying to cut off the feeling before it reached the surface.

Dylan glanced out at the bikers again. One of them was already watching the cruiser, arms crossed, a toothpick hanging from his mouth like a dare.

“This group have a rep?” she asked.

Tim nodded once. “Dead Bastards. Local outlaw motorcycle club. Half of them have records. Guns, fights, DUI, some armed robbery. But not all of them are in yet.”

Dylan raised a brow. “Prospects?”

“Exactly. The way it works,” Tim continued, finally slipping back into his calm, informative rhythm, “is that to earn your patch — full membership — a prospect has to commit a felony. But not just any felony. It has to be done in front of patched members.”

Dylan’s eyes narrowed. “So this isn’t just some drunk guys posturing.”

Tim shook his head once, eyes still on the group. “No. This is an initiation waiting to happen.”

Dylan leaned back in her seat, scanning the cluster of bodies, the barely-contained aggression. One guy — younger, twitchier — kept flexing his fists. He didn’t have a vest. No patch.

She followed the logic quickly. “The unpatched one’s going to swing at us.”

“Probably.”

“Then we should call backup.”

Tim turned to her, expression unreadable. “Where’s the fun in that?”

Dylan gave him a flat look. “That’s not an answer. That’s a reckless one-liner.”

He was already opening the door.

“Bradford.”

He looked back at her. That edge of fire still smoldered beneath the surface, his knuckles bruised from the wall, his heart still bleeding from the hospital.

But his voice was calm when he said, “I’m not letting today spill into this. You cover my six, I’ll cover yours.”

Dylan didn’t believe him. Not fully. But she knew she wasn’t letting him go in alone.

She stepped out of the car.

The bikers turned toward them like wolves scenting blood.

“Evenin’, officers,” one of the patched men called, voice oily. “Come to join the party?”

“Party’s over,” Tim said, approaching with hands raised just far enough to show calm, not submission. “You’re loitering, you’re drunk, and you’re blocking the sidewalk. Get on your bikes and leave.”

The young prospect stepped forward.

Exactly as predicted.

“Or what?” he sneered. “You gonna arrest me for breathing too loud?”

Dylan stepped up beside Tim, her hand hovering near her belt. “No. But the minute you take a swing, I’m going to be the one putting you face-first into the asphalt.”

The biker grinned, stepping closer. “You sound fun. Maybe you cuff me nice and slow.”

Tim’s voice dropped. Low. Dangerous. “You make one move toward her, and you won’t like how I handle it.”

Tension snapped like wire pulled tight.

The moment the prospect stepped forward, chest puffed and nostrils flared, Dylan could feel it.

Tim Bradford wasn’t diffusing the situation.

He was feeding off it.

The tight set of his jaw. The way he squared his stance. The way he looked at the younger man like he wanted him to make the first move.

Then came the words.

“Alright,” Tim said, loud enough for everyone to hear, tone razor-sharp. “Here’s the deal. We fight. If I win, you get cuffed and booked. If you win, you walk. No charges. Just me and you.”

Dylan’s head snapped toward him. “Bradford.” She warned, for what felt like the hundredth time that day.

He ignored her. Eyes locked on the prospect.

The biker’s lips curled. “You serious?”

“Dead serious.”

It was reckless. Impulsive. So stupidly out of character it chilled Dylan’s blood.

The biker didn’t hesitate. He lunged.

Fists collided with ribs. Boots scraped against gravel. Tim and the prospect slammed into each other with the weight of barely-contained violence, grunting and growling as they swung.

The crowd surged, forming a circle of shouts and jeers. Dylan tried to push through, hand on her radio, “10-10 in progress,” already in her mouth — but something about the look in Tim’s eyes stopped her cold.

This wasn’t just a fight.

This was a man bleeding out emotionally, and trying to stuff it all back inside with his fists.

Tim took a hard jab to the side — right near his healing bullet wound — and staggered. His grunt of pain was sharp, but he kept going, ducking low and driving his shoulder into the biker’s gut, both of them crashing to the ground in a scuffle of limbs and curses.

The prospect landed two more punches — one to Tim’s ribs, another to his jaw — before Tim rolled, mounted him, and slammed his fist down hard enough to split the guy’s eyebrow.

Blood sprayed.

The cheering stopped.

And in the hush that followed, Tim yanked the biker’s arms behind his back and cuffed him, breathing like a warhorse, face flushed with fury and pain.

The silence between Tim and Dylan was deafening as they walked back to the cruiser.

Dylan’s boots stomped hard against the pavement. Tim moved slower, one hand pressed discreetly to his side — trying, and failing, to hide the fact that he’d reopened something beneath the stitches.

They reached the car.

Dylan spun on him.

“What the hell was that?”

Tim said nothing at first. He reached for the door, wincing. Then, without looking at her: “Handled it.”

She stepped in front of him. “That wasn’t handling it. That was picking a fight with a wannabe criminal so you could bleed out your emotions on the sidewalk.”

He looked up then — eyes sharp, defensive. “It worked, didn’t it?”

“No,” she snapped. “It didn’t. It made you reckless. It made you stupid. And it made me watch while you tried to implode because you can’t deal with the fact that Isabel OD’d.”

He stiffened.

“You think that was police work?” she went on, relentless. “That was a fucking therapy session with fists.”

Tim said nothing.

Dylan stepped closer, her voice low now — tighter, furious, but barely trembling. “I’ve seen what this kind of thinking does to good cops. First you chase the adrenaline, then you start believing it’s the only thing that makes you feel anything. You’ll stop calling for backup. You’ll stop thinking about protocol. And one day, someone’s gonna end up dead.”

Still, he didn’t look at her. Just kept his eyes on the cruiser.

So she hit him with the last card.

“If you ever pull something like that again,” she said, voice cold and sure, “I’m telling Grey.”

That got his attention.

He looked at her now — really looked.

She didn’t blink.

Didn’t flinch.

And behind all that righteous anger was something else — fear. Not just for him. But for the version of herself she recognized in him.

Finally, after a long, taut moment, he nodded. A shallow, heavy nod.

“Got it,” he said quietly.

Dylan exhaled and turned away, opening the car door.

“Good.”

And as they sat in the silence of the cruiser, neither of them spoke.

But something had shifted.

Because for the first time, Tim Bradford had been slapped with the truth — not from a superior, or a therapist, or an ex.

But from someone who actually saw him.

And wouldn’t let him fall.

The sun was beginning to dip behind the haze of downtown L.A., casting long shadows across the cracked concrete and flickering neon signs. Tim Bradford pulled the shop into a grim-looking side street just south of Pico — the kind of neighborhood that reeked of hopelessness and long-faded ambition.

Dylan Jenkins sat in the passenger seat, gaze flicking between Tim and the crumbling apartment block they’d parked in front of.

“Where are we?” she asked cautiously.

Tim didn’t answer right away.

Instead, he reached into the glove compartment and pulled out a small white box, sealed and labelled in bold: NARCAN – NALOXONE NASAL SPRAY.

Dylan’s heart sank.

“Tim…”

“It’s nothing,” he cut in, already unbuckling his seatbelt. “I’ll be two minutes. Stay in the car.”

“Seriously?” she said, her voice sharp. “You brought me here without telling me? You’re just going to march into a junkie den with a gift bag of Narcan?”

Tim paused, his hand on the door.

“It’s not a gift,” he snapped. “It’s life-saving.”

“And it’s enabling,” Dylan said, matching his tone. “You’re not helping her — you’re just keeping her alive long enough to do it again.”

He turned back toward her, the heat rising in his face. “You don’t get to stand there and judge me. You don’t know how it feels.”

“Don’t I?”

That silenced him.

Dylan opened her door and stepped out, letting it slam behind her. She faced him full-on now, her voice quieter but dead serious.

“You think you’re the only one who’s ever watched someone you love disappear into an addiction? My dad drank himself into a seizure when I was seventeen. I found him. I smelled the blood before I saw it. He didn’t want saving either. But I didn’t go bringing him whiskey just because I wanted to feel close to him.”

Tim’s shoulders rose and fell with shallow breaths. He looked away, jaw tight.

Dylan kept going. “I get it, Bradford. You love her. You feel responsible. And you think if you can just keep her alive a little longer, maybe one day she’ll pull herself out.”

“She might,” he muttered.

“Or she might die, and you’ll have spent the last six months slowly destroying yourself trying to stop it. She left, Tim. She left you. And I am not going to let you throw yourself into her fire and drag me in after you.”

His eyes flashed. “This is my choice. Not yours.”

“No, it’s not,” Dylan snapped. “You’re supposed to be training me. Showing me how American policing works. Not dragging me into some twisted vigilante-style Florence Nightingale routine because you’re too angry at yourself to let go.”

The silence between them was brutal. A slow-building static that hummed against their skin.

Tim looked down at the Narcan box in his hand like it was both a weapon and a lifeline.

Dylan stepped closer, her voice lowering. “You don’t want to see how she’s living. You don’t want to see what she’s let into her life. You’re holding on to a version of Isabel that doesn’t exist anymore.”

She held out her hand.

“Give it to me. I’ll take it up.”

Tim looked at her, torn — the internal battle playing out behind his eyes: love vs logic, grief vs duty, past vs present.

Then, reluctantly, he handed her the box.

Dylan nodded. “I’ll be back in five.”

She turned and walked toward the building, shoulders squared, eyes forward.

And Tim?

He stood frozen beside the cruiser, watching the woman who was supposed to be his trainee step into the kind of mess he’d tried so hard to clean up — and finally realized:

Maybe she was training him too.

The stairwell of the apartment block smelled like damp concrete and stale cigarette smoke. The kind of building where the light flickered overhead, and you kept one hand near your weapon, even when things seemed quiet.

Dylan Jenkins climbed slowly, the Narcan box tucked under one arm, her free hand brushing the railing. She didn’t like being here — not just because of the building or what she might find, but because it wasn’t her mess.

It was Tim’s.

But someone had to clean it up today.

She reached the third floor, found apartment 3B, and knocked.

It took a moment before the door cracked open, chain still attached. Behind it, Isabel peered through with glassy eyes and a hollowed-out face that seemed even thinner than it had a few hours ago.

She blinked. “Oh.”

Dylan held up the box. “Delivery.”

Isabel stared at it, then slowly unlatched the chain and opened the door.

Dylan stepped in — cautious, controlled — and took in the room.

It was… not what she expected.

There were no needles on the floor. No filth. No blaring music or strangers passed out on the couch. In fact, it was tidy. The curtains were drawn, the air stale but not rancid. Still, it had that quiet, sterile kind of sadness that Dylan recognized from her dad’s flat back in London, the way addicts sometimes lived in limbo between pretending to function and slowly dying.

She placed the Narcan box on the counter.

Isabel lingered in the kitchen doorway, arms crossed tight over her chest. Her hoodie swallowed her, sleeves tugged over shaking hands.

“He send you to check on me?” she asked.

“No,” Dylan replied. “He told me to stay in the car. I decided not to.”

Isabel huffed a soft laugh. “Sounds like him.”

There was silence for a moment, thick and pulsing.

Then Dylan said, “You used to be a cop?”

Isabel’s head lifted, eyes narrowing. “He told you that?”

“No. You’ve got old certifications on your fridge. CPR expiry. Defensive tactics flyer. Something told me you didn’t just pick those up for fun.”

Isabel’s posture sagged slightly. “Yeah. I was LAPD. Before everything went to hell.”

“Is that how you met Tim?”

“Academy,” she said, voice dull. “He was the uptight one. I was the wild one. He said it balanced us.”

Dylan nodded slowly. “And now you’re here. Getting Narcan hand-delivered by the next woman stuck cleaning up your mess.” That hit. Isabel flinched. Dylan didn’t soften. “He got shot, you know.”

Isabel’s eyes widened.

“Saving someone. Because that’s what he does. He saves people. But today he almost got himself killed again, and I think part of him would’ve been okay with that if it meant not feeling this anymore.”

Isabel blinked fast, lips parting like she wanted to speak — but no words came.

Dylan stepped closer.

“You’re not just ruining your life. You’re ruining his. And the worst part is — he’ll keep letting you.”

There was a long pause, full of brittle tension.

Then Isabel whispered, barely audible: “Tell him not to come back.”

Dylan stared at her for a beat. Searching for something — maybe regret, maybe fight. But all she saw was emptiness. A hollow shape of someone who used to be something else.

She nodded once. “I will.”

Then she turned and left.

Back at the cruiser, Tim was waiting behind the wheel, one arm resting on the window. He didn’t look at her as she got in.

The silence stretched.

One minute. Two.

Then Dylan said, “She was a cop.”

Tim exhaled sharply, like someone had pulled the air from his lungs.

“Yeah,” he said after a beat. “Met her at the Academy. Thought I was lucky. She was… smart. Sharp. Wild. I thought she was just tired all the time. Out late. I assumed she was having an affair. Never thought it was the drugs.”

He looked out the windshield, eyes distant.

“By the time I figured it out, the hook was already in deep.”

Dylan stared ahead too, resting her arm along the door. “Her place is alright. Clean. Tidy. Doesn’t look like a trap house.”

Tim mumbled, “Thanks.” They didn’t speak again for the rest of the drive.

But the air between them had changed. Less fire. More gravity.

Tim had let her in, even just a little.

And Dylan had seen the truth up close — the thing eating him alive.

And now?

Now, it belonged to both of them.

The sun had long dipped beneath the skyline when they finally returned to the precinct.

The bullpen had thinned out. Radios quieted. The sound of ringing phones had faded into an eerie hum of end-of-shift exhaustion. Overhead, the fluorescent lights buzzed softly — too bright for a room this tired.

Dylan Jenkins slipped away toward the locker room first, her movements sharper than usual, jaw clenched just a little too tight.

It wasn’t until she tugged off her outer shirt — stained from dust, sweat, and the day’s chaos — that she saw it.

Blood.

Her white undershirt was soaked along her shoulder. A fresh bloom of deep red.

“Shit,” she hissed, digging into her locker and grabbing the nearest wad of paper towels she could find. She pressed them over the reopened wound, swearing under her breath, trying to slow her pulse — trying to stop the bleeding.

It had torn. Probably during the scuffle. She’d felt the pull, the ache, but ignored it.

Because of course she did.

She pressed harder, gritting her teeth.

The door creaked behind her.

She didn’t look up — didn’t need to.

Tim Bradford’s voice was quiet. “Dylan?”

She didn’t answer at first, too busy trying to mop up the blood, the tissues already turning crimson.

When she finally turned around, he was already halfway across the room, his expression falling instantly from its usual stoicism to pure concern.

His gaze flicked from her face to her shoulder, where blood was now sliding down her bicep in slow, stubborn rivulets.

“You’re bleeding,” he said.

“No shit, Detective.”

“You tore it.”

“Mm-hm.”

“You need to sit down.”

“I’m fine—”

“Sit down.”

His voice was firm, not angry — not yet — but threaded with something else.

Guilt.

Tim crossed the room in two strides and grabbed the first aid kit from the wall without waiting for her permission.

She sat on the bench, annoyed, breath shallow. “You don’t have to—”

“You shouldn’t have been in that fight.”

Dylan flinched — not from his touch, but from the truth in his tone. “I didn’t even fight. It must’ve just twinged during the heat of the moment. Maybe I got shoved… I don’t know. I was fine until I wasn’t,” she muttered.

Tim knelt in front of her, opening a sterile pad. “That’s not good enough. You should’ve said something earlier.”

She looked down at him. “And what? Have you tell me to take another week off while you fight your way through every emotionally-charged biker gang in the state?”

He looked up at her, eyes narrowed.

“Touché.”

She smirked, despite herself.

Then winced when he dabbed at the wound. “Ow. Gentle.”

“You’re the one who took the bullet for your T.O.”

“You’re the one who was so dramatic I had to focus on you.” She teased.

He sighed, shaking his head.

But the moment didn’t last long.

The door opened again.

Sergeant Grey walked in, arms crossed, brow raised, surveying the scene with all the practiced disappointment of a father finding his kids elbow-deep in trouble.

“Well,” he said. “Is this the part where I get to say ‘I told you so?’”

Dylan didn’t miss a beat. “If you must.”

Grey walked in slowly, eyes locking on the blood, then drifting to Tim’s face.

He didn’t need to say a word. He knew what kind of day it had been. Knew about Isabel, knew the pressure Tim was under, and now saw his officer bleeding again because neither of them could stop throwing themselves into things they weren’t ready to face.

Grey rubbed the back of his neck. “You’re both a pair of stubborn idiots, you know that?”

“Absolutely,” Dylan said, deadpan.

Tim was still focused on securing the bandage, but his hands slowed slightly.

Grey exhaled. “I was going to give you two separate lectures.”

Dylan arched a brow. “Still planning to?”

“Oh, absolutely,” Grey said. “But I’m thinking we do it over three pints instead of one. I have a feeling it’ll go down smoother.”

Tim looked up, a flicker of gratitude behind his worn-out expression.

“Your treat?” Dylan asked.

Grey smirked. “You wish.”

And for the first time that day, in the still of the locker room with bloodstained gauze and raw emotion still in the air, Tim and Dylan laughed — not because things were okay.

But because for once, it felt like maybe they weren’t carrying it alone.

DYLAN JENKINS X TIM BRADFORD SERIES

next episode

[lousycapy]

How statistics can easily be manipulated to fit a certain agenda in Formula 1

Hello! I’ve seen a lot of f1 fans or media sources bring up statistics incorrectly to prove their points recently, which is really getting on my nerves. So here is a comprehensive guide, with examples, of how statistics work and why they are not the be-all and end-all some people might think them to be. This is a pretty long post, so the explanations are all below the cut. With that, I hope you find this useful!

Multiple factors come into play when analyzing a statistic, so I’ve separated them in different categories: what data set is used to make the stat, how the stat can be interpreted and how being factually correct doesn’t equate a valid argument :

THE DATA SET

To make a statistic, you first need values which correspond to a data set. What said data set is made of is very relevant to the exactitude of the stat and how much regard should be given to it.

For example, to determine the average lap times of a driver over a stint you would need to divide the sum of all lap times by the number of laps executed. Which means that theoretically you could use a single lap as an average, e.g. 1:57:325/1 which gives an average lap time of 1:57:325s.

However, as you might imagine this stat is not representative of a driver’s stint, since the lap chosen to be analyzed could very well be an outlier. That’s why sample sizes matter, the more values make up your data set, the more representative of reality the result obtained is.

It is also important to know what the data set consists of. Let’s reuse our average lap times of a driver over a stint example, are outlaps/inlaps included? Is it based on clean air, dirty air? Are there laps excluded due to driver mistakes (e.g. going off track)? A stat being presented without any explanation of how it was calculated is absolutely worthless.

Finally, comprehension of the data set is very valuable as well.

Let’s imagine this fictional scenario where Ferrari makes Charles and Carlos compare average lap times. They both use the same car, on the same track, on the same tires, at the same time, for a stint of a total of 10 laps. Both drivers average a lap time of 80.125s over their whole stint, so is the conclusion that they have both done the exact same thing accurate? No!

Despite having the same average lap times in this scenario, the data set suggests a different conclusion, and different trends. Considering stints in a race are going to be longer than 10 laps, it can be assumed that Charles would average better lap times thanks to his consistency compared to Carlos, who would get worse lap times as time passes as can be observed thanks to the trend line in his graph.

2. INTERPRETATION OF THE DATA

Now that we can recognize the importance of the data set and its constituents, it is time to understand how the data provided can be used to make a statistic.

More than one answer can be correct based on the same sample of data. Despite using the same set, depending on how the data is used it can lead to different statistics that drive different arguments both being factually correct.

For example, I’d like to refer to the wonderful basspro24chevy World’s Destructor Chamionship from Brazil 24 on Reddit in an effort of determining who is the most destructive driver. Here is a chart I’ve made which also includes number of races each driver took part in (Ollie not included I was too lazy to recalculate how it affects the drivers he’s replaced’s damage bill) and the average cost of damage per race of each driver.

Based on these statistics, both arguments could be made to justify either Checo being the most destructive driver, since he’s the one who’s cost his team the most damage over the whole season, or Franco, since he’s the one who on average costs the most for his team per weekend.

Depending on someone’s biases, they could make some drivers look better than others despite using the same data set as another person, and depending on how their argument is justified even if they end up with a different conclusion it doesn’t mean they aren’t right as well.

3. FACTUALLY CORRECT ≠ VALID ARGUMENT

Even if you are factually correct with your statistic’s interpretation, and it is based on an acceptable data set, it doesn’t mean it has a direct link of causality with your argument and provides validation to the point you are trying to make.

For example, someone could argue that Checo is a safer pair of hands in races than Pierre, because over the course of the 2024 season he has DNFed 2 out of 21 races, meanwhile Pierre has DNFed 3 out of 21 races. However, the point being argued here is which driver is a safer pair of hands, and other variables than the drivers come into play when discussing those two’s DNFs.

Indeed, Checo drives a RedBull with a Honda engine, whilst Pierre drives an Alpine with a Renault engine. Out of Checo’s 2 DNFs, 2 were caused by driver mistakes. Out of Pierre’s 3 DNFs, 3 were caused by engine issues. The World’s Destructor Championship can also be used as a counterpoint to Checo being a safer pair of hands than Pierre by comparing damage bills.

Thus, instead of the conclusion being that Checo is a safer pair of hands than Pierre, the DNFs statistic is more appropriate to conclude that the Honda engine is more reliable than the Renault engine.

Which means that to make a valid argument, you need to be able to explain why the statistic presented is relevant and what it suggests. Alleviating circonstances also need to be taken into account to solidify the point being made.

For example, let’s imagine a scenario where Fernando is 1.235s off Lance during a qualifying run. To use this stat in an argument, you need to be able to justify why he was so far off. Was it genuine pace? Did he make a mistake which ruined the lap? Were they on the same tires? Was it track evolution? Are they on the same setup? Did Fernando come across traffic? Did Lance get a significant tow?

Contextualization matters twice as much as the actual statistic being presented, because the statistic without context can easily be manipulated in a way to drive a certain agenda.

4. CONCLUSION

All in all, what I’m trying to say is that even maths can be used to drive agendas. Statistics can not be taken at face value, because there are multiple factors that can influence their relevance. I hope you found this little guide helpful, and that it will help you analyze better the information you see online on how drivers are performing (or argue better with crazed fans, you do you 🫡)

Thanks for reading and have a good day!

[python333]

bedbound — python333

— — — —

synopsis you're on a mission and oopsie daisy you get trapped under a building!! you end up in the medbay and tf141 visits you one by one, each of them giving you a lil piece of their mind for going and getting yourself trapped under a collapsed building.

relationships platonic!taskforce 141 & gn!reader.

characters cap. price, soap, ghost, gaz.

word count 4.5k

warnings pretty detailed (i think) descriptions of [reader] being in pain [specifically having a bunch of leg injuries], angstier than i usually write, 2nd person pov [you/yours/yourself], usage of c/n [code name/call sign].

note this is my first actual fic ive wrotten in MONTHS so i hope its okay! so sorry if it feels like a majority of the focus is on the reader, i had a too much fun writing out the first part where they get crushed :3 i am also once again begging for requests. like on my knees hands together begging for requests. its the best way of getting motivation istg. anyway, this is all mild hurt/comfort and some angst + fluff so enjoy!! :3

You tried running out of the building—you didn’t expect the whole damn thing to come crashing down on you.

You’d just been chasing after an enemy soldier moments ago, dashing into the building, when suddenly the whole building seemed to shake. Then, the whole thing seemed to just collapse. When you think about it now, you realize the shake must’ve come from a nearby explosion, an explosion somehow powerful enough to damage the structural support of the building so terribly that it couldn’t hold itself up anymore and instead fell down onto you. 

Now, here you were, just ten steps away from the entrance of the building, stopped by the huge slab of concrete and twisted metal that pinned your legs down to the ground. Your earpiece fell off when you fell down, sliding across the floor, preventing you from calling your team.

Sure, you could try and move your legs, but the excruciating pain that came with each movement wasn’t worth it. You think your legs are broken with the way your nerves scream at you every time you move them, and with how uncomfortably and horrifyingly disconnected they feel.

“I’m making shit up,” You whisper hoarsely to yourself, ignoring the tears that welled up in your eyes from the debris and dust in the air, “They’re not broken. I’m making it worse for myself by thinking that.”

In the back of your mind, you remember that you’re quoting Price on that one, from the last time you got seriously hurt like this. You vaguely remember your panicked words and Price’s soothing voice that came after every worry, telling you that no, you’re not too badly hurt, it’s gonna be okay, you’re just panicking.

But in the forefront of your mind, all you can do is think about how you can’t reach your earpiece to talk to your team, the only thing you can do is listen to their worried voices.

The earpiece is loud enough for you to hear, even though you’re just out of arm’s reach from it, you can still hear your teammates repeating your call sign and asking how you copy. With the stupid Push-To-Talk thing, you can’t even just respond, no, you have to push the button on the side of your earpiece to unmute yourself.

You stretch your arm out just a little bit more to try and reach the earpiece, but when your leg starts to strain and your nerves light up you immediately give up, letting out a small, pained huff. You take a moment to just lie there and listen to your own labored breaths, every other breath hitching or catching in your throat.

You swallow down a sob that threatens to bubble out of your throat and try to reach again and—nope, that still fucking hurts.

You bring your hand back and put it over your mouth to muffle a small sob that climbs up and out of your throat, and try to take a deep breath the best you can with the debris in the air.

You feel a slight discomfort in your chest and cough, horrified when you see small specks of dust in the air you cough out, and God, the sight of it makes you want to rip out your lungs.

You feel the sudden urge to cough everything out, to flush out the dust in your lungs, to get rid of the uncomfortably full feeling you feel in your chest, but you know that every time you cough you can only exhale more of that debris-filled dust back in so now you’re trapped in a loop and—

“[c/n], how copy?” God, you want to yell at them that repeating that question won’t help, but you know there’s nothing else they can do. They’ve already asked where you are, if you’re okay, and how you copy multiple times, all of which got no answer.

They’ve only experienced radio silence on their end, and the thought makes you feel guilty for not being able to suck up the pain in your legs and just reach over to the damn earpiece and tell them you’re trapped.

You take a few deep breaths, trying your best to ignore the way you can literally feel the dust entering your lungs, and reach. You stretch your arm out the farthest you can, and feel the strain in your leg, and you’re almost to the earpiece, just a few more inches— pop.

A bone chilling pop rings through the air the moment you manage to snatch the earpiece, and good thing it was at least after you managed to grasp it firmly in your hand because you recoil back on instinct and gasp.

The gasp only lets in more dust, and you cough, wet tears dripping down onto your cheeks as you go through a seemingly endless loop of coughing out dust and inhaling debris and coughing it out again only for new dust to make its way into your system.

You stifle a pain-filled whimper and try to control your shaky breath, gripping the earpiece firming in your hand, looking down at it, looking at the sheer amount of debris on it. You bring your free hand out and wipe away the debris with shaky hands, making sure it’s clean enough to put in your ear before you carefully insert it.

It takes you a moment with your trembling hands, but you manage to do it, and you listen to Price ask how you copy one more time before you push down on the PTT button.

“Copy—” You hoarsely say, before coughing, everyone on the other line going silent, “Copy, not doing very well over here.”

“What happened?” Price’s voice crackles through on the damaged ear piece, “Are you hurt?”

“I got trapped under— under some concrete, and I…” You take a moment to catch your breath, “My legs are pinned, I can’t move.”

“Okay, okay,” Price’s voice softens, his tone becoming more soothing, “Where are you?”

“In a building— dunno which— which one… it’s by the really tall one,” You breathe out, mentally slapping yourself in the forehead for not being able to remember, “I’m sorry, I just know it’s orange and it has the entrance that Ghost bumped his head on—”

“It’s okay, I know which one you’re talking about,” Price reassures you, “Catch your breath. I’ll be there to get you out of there, okay? Just stay still, don’t move a muscle, you hear me?”

“I hear you,” You mumble, trying to catch your breath, coughing at the amount of dust that infiltrates your lungs. You bring your hand off of the PTT button and sob once, quietly, and sniffle to try and stop yourself from crying, blinking away tears.

The tears that trailed down your face earlier now only make you realize just how much dust and grime is on your face, how the tear trails must’ve been the only clean lines on your face, how there’s a whole layer of pure filth on your face and you can’t even properly wipe it away because your hands are dirty too.

The pain in your legs are throbbing and you know that you’ve torn some of the muscle in your thighs, and you know the popping noise had to have been your hip, from the unnatural way you’d twisted it to reach your earpiece. You don’t even have time to think about how pathetic you look when suddenly Price opens the barely-hanging-onto-the-hinges-door, looking at the floor for a moment before his eyes finally land on you.

He immediately walks over to the slab of concrete pinning your legs down and forcing you to lie on the ground and you can hear him faintly murmur, “Oh, God,” and kneel down to the same level as the concrete.

You turn your neck to look at him and watch as he looks at the concrete for a moment, trying to figure out the best way to lift it, before he simply grabs the edge of the concrete and, with a grunt and after a good thirty seconds, he manages to lift one end up and flip it over onto its other side. The circulation that immediately floods back to your legs and the sudden feeling of weightlessness you get is almost too much, and you can barely find it in yourself to feel shame as you let out a small, relieved sob at the sudden rush of blood to your legs.

Price immediately gasps and you can’t see much from your angle but in the midst of your relief you suddenly feel a pang of pain and oh God, that hurts. You can recognize now the warm blood that accompanies the drying blood on your calf, and with the blood rushing into your legs, more spills out from the wound in your leg. Vaguely, you can remember twisted metal doing something to your leg—stabbing it, maybe? Your brain becomes fog-filled; too hazy to think through but just clear enough to register the throbbing pain in your leg. 

“I’m so sorry,” Price murmurs softly, and before you can question him he takes the metal out of your leg and you let out a closed-lip scream, slapping a hand over your mouth to try and muffle the now uncontrollable sobs that break past your lips, the pain you feel making you light-headed.

Price quickly pulls a tourniquet out of one of the many pockets of his tactical best, wrapping the bright red strip around your leg just above the bleeding, blocking the blood from reaching past that point. He tightens it and rolls you over so that you’re laying on your back, making you stifle another pain-filled whimper. Without another word, he slips his arm under your knees and his other below your back and lifts you up bridal style, making you gasp sharply and cry out for a moment in pain, a few drops of blood making it onto the floor from your calf, the whole sight dizzying.

Being lifted up like this gave you vertigo—your head spun as you were lifted up and you could barely process anything with your hazy mind. Price mutters small ‘sorry’s under his breath, carrying you out of the door and quickly running with you in his arms back to where the others are, almost wanting to cry for you, seeing how much pain you were in.

Your eyelids drooped and your eyes shortly became half-lidded, and your ears started to ring, and everything was so overwhelming you just wanted it to be over. 

Price notices your eyelids drooping and quickly says, “Hey, hey, don’t pass out on me, you gotta stay awake, kid.” You can only shake your head ‘no’ because talking feels like too much right now and let out another small, pain-filled whimper, just the sound of it making Price’s heart shatter.

You can only find it in yourself to talk a moment later, your words slurring together as you try to speak, “I can’t— can’t… I’m sorry, I can’t—” You don’t even know what you’re trying to say, what you’re trying to warn Price about, but he seems to know.  

“No, no, no—” Price tries to beg you, as if you had enough strength to stay awake. Those are the last words you hear before you completely black out.

—

You wake up to a white ceiling and the faint beeping of a heart monitor. You move your head around a bit, trying to gauge where you are, when you realize— oh, I’m in the medbay. You blink for a moment before sighing and just resting there for a moment, trying to recount the events that happened earlier. You don’t have time to go down memory lane, though, because suddenly the curtains in front of your bed are pulled back to reveal your Captain. “You’re awake,” He states, closing the curtains behind him. “How could you tell?” He snorts and sits down in a chair by your bed. You look at him questioningly, “Where’re the others?” “They’ll be here soon,” Price assures you, looking at your blanket covered legs for a moment before looking back up at your face, “Medics said one at a time.” You hum neutrally in response to that and wait a moment before asking, “How bad is it?” “Your leg?” “Yeah.” “Well…” Price starts to list off on his fingers, recalling the doctor’s words, “The joint that connected your hips and your legs was twisted and it had to be set back to normal, your muscles were torn, your ligaments were torn, your nerves were so compressed someone had to physically massage your legs back to life, and the stab wound in your leg almost got infected.” “… Huh.” You blink at Price, before asking, “When can I get out of here?” “Why is that what you’re thinking about right now?” Price asks, confused, before sighing and answering, “Kid, your leg was basically broken. You can get out of here in maybe a few weeks to a month. Getting back to your assignments is a whole different story. It could take several months for your muscles to fully heal, and even then I don’t want you back out there for a while. Not until it’s guaranteed your leg won’t… give out, or something, out there.” You frown at Price, “So what, I’m just gonna be stuck here?” “What else are you gonna do with an almost-broken leg?” “…” Price sighs and puts a gentle hand on your shoulder, “Look, I know it’s frustrating, having to sit here for a few weeks then be able to get out only to not be able to do anything too physical, but your leg muscles were torn. You were trapped under concrete. You’re not going on any missions any time soon. I feel like that should be kind of obvious.” You can understand it, knowing the condition you’re in now, but you still deflate a little where you lie down and let out a tired, frustrated huff. Price chuckles softly at your clear display of disappointment and rubs your shoulder gently before patting it and getting up. “I guess I have to let the others see you too,” He muses, making your lips twitch up into a smile, the sight making him smile in return, “But I’ll be back tomorrow to talk to you again, alright?” “Alright,” You nod, watching as he walks past the curtains blocking your bed from the rest of the medbay and listen as the door clicks open and closes shut. Not even a few seconds later, the door opens again, this time with someone walking faster to the curtains, pushing them aside eagerly. You quickly recognize Soap as he walks in, quickly closing the curtains behind him before rushing over and leaning down to hug you. This all happens so quickly you have to take a moment to process it, but you eventually hug him back, sighing at the warm embrace. “I want tae call ye stupid sae bad,” Soap mumbles into your neck as he hugs you, “but it wasn’ even yer fault sae I can’.”

“That’s the worst thing that’s happened all day,” You mutter sarcastically, making Soap laugh quietly. He pulls away from you and looks down at you. “It is, actually,” Soap says, and at your confused and mildly offended expression, he adds on, “It’s been over a day since ye got yer leg fucked up.” “… Oh.” You dumbly said, trying to process that. Over a day. “Everyone was really worried about ye, too,” Soap tacks on, refusing to sit on the chair behind him, simply standing by your bed. You stay silent, and Soap takes that as an invitation to keep talking. “I think that's the first time I've actually seen Ghost stressed," Soap muses, making you huff out a small laugh. “Really?” “Yea,” Soap smiles, “I ken. Stone cauld L.t, suddenly worryin’ o’er ye.”

“Isn’t that a surprise,” You mutter, a small smile gracing your lips thinking about Ghost worrying over you, “So you were all really worried?” “Very worried,” Soap nods, “Gaz thocht ye were gonnae die, poor chiel.” “Hm,” You hum neutrally. Soap stays silent for a moment before his voice softens and he quiets himself down a bit. “Try no' tae dae that again, aye? Ye'll gie the captain a heart attack," When you give him a pointed look, he rolls his eyes and adds on, “And me. Possibly. Maybe.” “Uh huh,” You look at him, unimpressed, “Right. I’ll try to predict when a huge piece of concrete is gonna fall on me.” “Ye ken wha’ I meant.”

“Never said I didn’t.” “Ye— y’know wha’? I’ll just leave then,” Soap says, feigning annoyance as he walks away from your bed, making you laugh quietly. He slips out and doesn’t bother to close the curtains behind him, simply walking out the door, not bothering to close that either.

You can hear him letting someone else know you’re ‘free to visit’, and just a few seconds later you watch Ghost walk in. You shouldn’t be as surprised as you are, seeing as Soap had told you Ghost was worried over you, but you still find yourself a little shocked when he walks over to you and closes the curtains behind him. He sits at the chair beside your bed, and silently stares at you from the chair.

You stare back, not blinking, waiting for him to say the first word. You and Ghost’s silent staring match ends with Ghost sighing and speaking up. “How does your… leg feel?” “How do you think it feels?” You ask, deadpan, watching as Ghost’s eyes narrow. You blink at him for another moment before adding on, “It feels numb, right now.” Ghost hums at the actual answer and sits there awkwardly for another moment before stating, “Gaz thought you died. Or, were gonna die.” “I heard about that,” You respond, raising an eyebrow at Ghost, “Did he not know it was just my leg that got hurt?” “Hurt is a mild word,” Ghost mutters, before clearing his throat and saying, “No, he knew. He was more worried about all the stuff that got into your lungs.” “Oh.” “Yeah.”

You both stay silent for a bit, again, before you speak up, “So… are my lungs okay, or… ?” “No, yeah, they’re fine.” “That’s… good.” “Mhm.” Why is this so awkward? You purse your lips and turn your head back so that you’re staring at the ceiling rather than at Ghost, not knowing what to say. Why’d he even come in here if he was just gonna be awkward about this whole thing? It’s silent again, an uncomfortable sort of quiet that’s silent yet deafening at the same time—and you hate it. It seems Ghost hates it too, because he shifts in his seat, not saying anything verbally but you can tell by his body language it’s awkward for him too.

This goes on for maybe a minute or two, when suddenly Ghost gets up and walks the short one step between him and your bed and leans down to hug you. Like the silence, the hug is awkward, but unlike it, it’s comforting. A comfortable awkward? You tentatively hug him back and you feel his hands snake underneath your back, forcing his arms under you so that he can hug you properly. 

“I know Soap told you I was stressed and worried and whatnot,” Ghost mutters, his skull mask pressing into your shoulder, “… And he was right.” “… Did you think I thought he was wrong?” “Shut it and let me try to talk.” “Yes, sir.” Ghost sighs and takes a deep breath before continuing, “He was right. I was growing greys watching you passed out, and I think I almost passed out as well, hearing you were trapped under a huge block of concrete and got stabbed by metal.” 

“Did you ever find out what the metal was?” You ask after a moment, making sure he was done talking.

“The Captain said it was a twisted pipe.”

“Huh.” You lay there for a moment, simply enjoying Ghost hugging you, before Ghost speaks up again.

“I know it wasn’t your fault, but please, God, never do that shit to me ever again.”

“I’ll keep that in mind next time I’m in a collapsing building.”

“I’m serious,” Ghost pulls away from the hug and looks down at you, keeping his hands on both of your shoulders, “I had to drive a car with you in the back passed out laying in the trunk with Price, all while not knowing what happened, and having to drive you guys back to base.”

“… Damn, you guys didn’t get a helicopter, or anything?”

“[c/n].”

“Sorry.”

Ghost sighs, “I’m trying to say that I don’t like worrying over you like that. I don’t like knowing that my kid is hurt, and I can’t do anything about it. That was the first time I was seriously worried and— and stressed over you, and it was terrifying, seeing you just passed out with dirt all over you and blood all over your leg, and just seeing you like that— I can’t do that again,” Ghost takes a deep breath, and looks down at you, trying to gauge your reaction, trying to see what you think of his words, but all you can think is, wait, he called me his kid?

“You called me your kid,” You dumbly voice your thoughts, watching as Ghost’s expression becomes more confused, and he opens his mouth to deny that when suddenly— oh shit, he called you his kid.

“… I did,” He dumbly says back, sounding surprised by his own words, before he fully realizes what he said and simply blinks down at you, not knowing where to go from here. You both blink at each other, not knowing what to say, before he clears his throat.

“I’ll just… head out then,” He awkwardly says, slowly walking away from the bed.

You take the opportunity to say, “Alright, dad.”

He freezes and slowly turns towards you and mutters, “Don’t call me that.”

A grin splits across your face, “Oh I will. Dad.”

He points at you with a single finger, “Don’t. You. Dare.”

“I’ll call you it in front of everyone. I’ll gaslight them into thinking we’re related.”

“God, you better not.”

“I will. In fact, tomorrow, I’ll begin with the Captain. Then I’ll tell Soap, he’s the next most gullible next to Gaz, who I’ll see right after you. Gaz won’t fight with me over it, he’ll just accept it, I know he will, then, and only then, will I tell everyone else. I spread it across the base like the flu. Everyone, and I mean everyone will think that you’re my father, Ghost.”

“That is…” Ghost blinks at you, dumbfounded and mildly horrified, “... terrifying.” “Yeah, I know. Pretty sure I got that from you, dad.” “Oh my God,” Ghost groans, making you laugh at his misery. He walks out without another word, being sure to slam the door behind him, making the poor medic passing by jump at least a foot in the air. You giggle quietly in your bed, waiting for the next person to walk in. By the time you’ve contained your laughter, Gaz walks in, looking strangely sheepish as he walks over to you and closes the curtains behind him that Ghost had forgotten to close. He doesn’t say anything until he’s right by your bed and bends over to give you a nice, firm, quick hug before standing up straight again and clearing his throat. “Hi,” He greets you simply. “Hi.” “How’s the uh… how’s your leg?” “You thought I died?” You ask teasingly, ignoring his question. You can’t see any blush on his face, but you’re almost certain his face heats up as he looks away from you. “Listen…” He sighs, looking back at you, “Price ran over to the whole group, with you not moving at all in his arms, and a tourniquet wrapped around your calf. I feel like it was a bit reasonable for me to think you were dead for a second.” “Right, of course,” You nod, definitely not believing that he only thought you were dead for a second, “That’s totally why I’ve had both Soap and Ghost tell me you thought I was dead. They only told me that because you thought I was dead for a second.” “I’m gonna murder them both, I swear to—” He mutters, burying his face in his hands, making you laugh quietly. He glares at you from behind his hands and adds on, “Oh, you think this is funny? You having a laugh down there, knowin’ that I thought you were dead?”

“I think this is hilarious.” “You’re insufferable and I don’t even know why I try to care about you anymore.” “You don’t try, you just do,” You roll your eyes, “Don’t act like you have to actively try and care about me.” “You’re so snarky today, my God,” Gaz scoffs, “Wait ‘til I tell Captain Price about this.” “Alright, Draco Malfoy. You do that.” “I shouldn’t have ever visited you in here,” He mutters, crossing his arms and looking away from you, feigning annoyance. You huff out a laugh at that and that makes Gaz laugh a bit, though he keeps up his dramatics, continuing to look away from you. “You still think I’m dead now, or?” “Shut it, you.” “My bad.” “I wish they amputated your leg.” “No you don’t.” “…” Gaz can’t even argue with it, simply sighing and rolling his eyes before looking back at you, ”No, I don’t.” “I knew it,” You smile at him knowingly, making his lips twitch up into a smile. You think for a moment before tacking on, “Wanna hear what Ghost said to me?” That makes Gaz perk up and immediately reply, “Oh, absolutely.” Cue you both five minutes later, Gaz gaping at you while you laugh every other word, remember the horror on Ghost's face when he realized what he called you. Gaz covers his mouth with his hand, laughing into it, gripping the rail of your bed with his other hand, keeping himself up.

“He— oh my God,” Gaz laughs, trying to keep quiet so Ghost wouldn’t hear him, knowing the latter was right outside the medbay. He takes a deep breath and another before breaking into small giggles once again, making you do the same. After maybe a few more minutes of just pure laughter, Gaz manages to catch his breath and stop laughing, and you do the same. “I should probably head out now,” He says, sounding almost disappointed by the fact, glancing over at the closed curtain a few feet away from your bed. You nod in understanding and don’t say anything in response, making Gaz look back at you and add on, “I’ll talk to you tomorrow though, yeah?” “Yeah,” You confirm, making Gaz offer you a warm smile and lean down to hug you tightly one last time before getting up and walking over to the curtains, sliding them to the side and walking out, sliding them closed behind him. You hear the click open and shut of the door, as well as Gaz’s footsteps walking outside of the medbay and eventually fading into nothing.

[theprongspotter]

Bag - Jegulus - @stag-microfic - Day 19 - 1,009 words

Regulus stands near the entrance of the student union, staring down at his phone as his thumbs dances across the screen with rapid precision. Barty has been blowing up his phone for the past five minutes with increasingly ridiculous messages, ranging from “r u dead or smth??” to “im dying of boredom in this hellhole.”

“Get a grip,” Regulus mutters under his breath as another notification from Barty pinged onto the screen. He responds quickly, reassuring his impatient friend that he’d be there soon, though Barty’s dramatics were beginning to grate on his nerves. He can practically picture Barty slouched over a table in the library, drumming his fingers in exaggerated impatience while Evan probably sat quietly, ignoring his antics.

Just as he finishes typing, a voice rings out sharply through the busy hallway: “Look out!”

Regulus barely has time to lift his head before a figure comes barreling toward him like a freight train. His eyes widen, and for a split second, everything seems to slow down. But there is no stopping the inevitable. The next moment, the person’s solid frame collides with his, and the impact sends Regulus sprawling backward onto the cool tiles. His phone slips from his fingers, clattering onto the floor beside him.

A sharp ache radiates through his lower back and elbows from the fall, and Regulus grimaces, his palms pressing against the ground for support as he momentarily lays there, dazed. There is a murmur of concerned voices around him, the hallway bustling with students between classes, but Regulus ignores them as he mentally assessed the damage. It isn’t until he gathers himself to stand with his phone in his hand that he notices something was missing.

His tote bag.

The realization hits him like a second wave of panic. His black tote bag, the one that carries his laptop, books, and—most importantly—his latest assignment, is no longer slung over his shoulder. Regulus’ gaze darts around frantically as he scans the ground around him. A wave of frustration surges in his chest. Of course, he thinks bitterly. Just my luck.

As if this day can’t get any worse, a figure steps into his line of sight, holding the missing tote bag in one hand. Regulus’ eyes flickers up, ready to snarl, but the words catch in his throat. Standing there, with an awkward, sheepish smile, is none other than James Potter, the university’s star rugby player and, unfortunately for Regulus, his brother Sirius’ obnoxiously loud best friend. His presence is both a blessing and a curse—at least he has retrieved the bag, but now Regulus had to deal with him.

James’ smile is lopsided, his hand moving to rub the back of his neck in a nervous gesture. “Sorry about that,” he says, his voice warm and slightly breathless. “I—well, we—” He gestures over his shoulder, and Regulus notices the group of people standing a few feet away: Remus Lupin, Peter Pettigrew, and Sirius himself, all of them looking somewhat amused by the situation. Sirius has his arms crossed, a grin playing at his lips as if this were all part of some grand joke.

Regulus scowls, his irritation flaring up again as he snatches his bag from James’ hand. “Yeah, whatever,” he mutters tersely, his sharp gaze darting away from James and back toward his bag as he checks for damage.

James, however, doesn’t seem put off by the attitude. If anything, his grin widens, his hazel eyes twinkling with a mixture of amusement and curiosity. “I’m James, by the way,” he says, as if Regulus hasn’t just dismissed him.

“I know who you are,” Regulus snaps, slinging his bag back over his shoulder. He adjusts the strap with a little more force than necessary and begins walking toward the library, trying to put as much distance between himself and Potter as possible.

But James isn’t easily deterred. He falls into step beside Regulus effortlessly, his grin now teasing. “Oh, so you’ve heard of me?”

Regulus shoots him an irritated glance. “The whole school knows who you are,” he retorts, wishing Potter would take the hint and leave him alone.

James raises his eyebrows, his smirk growing more playful. “Yeah, but this is different.”

Regulus stops mid-step, turning to face James with a raised brow. “How?”

James takes a step closer, his voice dropping slightly as he answers, “Because you’re you.”

Regulus blinks, completely thrown by the response. His brain scrambles to process the sudden shift in tone, but the confusion only deepens his frustration. “Yeah, that makes no fucking sense,” he finally says, shaking his head as he turns on his heel and resumes his walk to the library.

James laughs lightly, easily falling back into step beside him. “Where are you headed?” he asks, his tone friendly, like they are just two mates chatting after class.

“Away from you,” Regulus mutters, keeping his eyes fixed ahead.

“Aw, now why would you say that, love?” James’ tone is lighthearted, but the endearment makes Regulus’ stomach flip involuntarily. He clenches his jaw, fighting the urge to snap back.

Before he can respond, Sirius’ voice rings out from behind them. “Oi, Prongs! Stop flirting with my brother and get back here!”

Regulus and James both turn to see Sirius standing with his hands cupped around his mouth, Remus and Peter standing nearby with amused expressions. James chuckles, giving a playful salute in response. “Right, right. I’m coming.”

He looks back at Regulus, his grin still annoyingly charming. “See you around, Reg,” he said, his voice low and warm, and before Regulus can come up with a retort, James winks at him and jogs back to his group of friends.

Regulus stands frozen for a moment, his heart thudding annoyingly in his chest. His cheeks flushes, much to his dismay, and he scowls at the floor as he hurries the rest of the way to the library. No matter how hard he tries, though, he can’t shake the lingering warmth from James’ attention—or the fluttering in his stomach that just won’t go away.

[forsaken-headcanons]

GLITCHED ANON IS BACK AFTER LIKE 800 DECADES

ANYWAYS 007 HCS LETS GO

-He bottles up his emotions. A lot. And by that, I mean he completely shuts down and will not move, eat, speak, anything after bad rounds and literally the only thing that would snap him out of it is either a new round starting or slapping him.

-He has nerve damage in his arms from after effects of hacking.

-His hands and arms have various scars that are coolgui colored.

-Any scars during/post forsaken will scar weird, aka they’ll be coolgui colored.

-Noli WANTS that cookie. BAD. Aka, he’s been trying to convince 007 to ‘talk with him’ and join the killers, as well as regress back into his hacking habits. This has affected his image in some survivors eyes(both good and bad).

-Has HORRIBLE anxiety. During his hacking days it was centered around someone being out to get him or getting banned, when raising coolkid it was about coolkidd getting hurt or his past causing harm to coolkidd, and forsaken its. Basically everything. All of the above.

-His glasses are cracked and missing parts of the lenses, but he doesn’t care. He knows that they don’t have enough supplies and he doesn’t ’want to bother anyone’.

-When stressed, the Coolgui starts to act up, messing with his teleportation in forsaken(on rare occasions, he was sent out of the map.) and his Coolgui’d scars start to glow.

-He had BAD sleep problems, he rarely ever sleeps and when he does it’s plagued with nightmares.

-If needed(aka if they’re running low on food), he will purposely not eat and lie about eating. Its habit from when he was raising coolkidd and food was scarce. To his knowledge, no one has caught on.(Elliot is suspicious, as well as guest, but neither really. See him eat, as he often eats in his room/cabin).

-Sometimes he takes stuff from the generators to help BM get supplies for the sentries and dispensers, as well as fix stuff around the cabin + try and fix the coolgui to get them out of there.

-Noob is the youngest of the survivors(my HC) and sometimes it activates 007 and guests fatherly instincts, aka they both try to protect noob, just in diff ways.

-007 often fixes small things around the cabin when he can.

-eyebags. He has eyebags deeper than the Mariana Trench/silly

-He has a constant burning sensation in his limbs whenever he uses the Coolgui, it gets worse after rounds or if it’s a round with coolkidd.

-The noob on his hat can purr, and often jumps off his hat to try and comfort 007 when he’s overwhelmed or panicking. Sometimes he sends it to other survivors to comfort them.

-He is an EXPERT at fixing/making clothes, it saved money to not buy new ones.

-He’s tried to start a garden pre forsaken, but with a lack of time, the plants started to die, as well as his hacking giving him the downside of accidentally slowly killing plants the longer he interacts with them

-idk if i said it before but, 007 is trying to use the Coolgui in tiny ways the spectre doesn’t care about to make life better/easier for the survivors, as well as trying to grow a sustainable food source. It causes harm to him each time he uses the Coolgui outside of his ability.

-One time, when trying to get the plants to grow, the Coolgui freaked out due to his frustration and killed the plants and knocked him out, maybe even making a small explosion, one of the survivors were sent to check on him and promptly had a heart attack finding a glitching 0l7, this is also when his little gardening attempts were discovered.

-allergic to shrimp

OK GLITCHED ANON OUT

Ohhh!!! These are all so amazing and neat!

These headcanons actually fit so much with 007n7! Really awesome to read through, and some were even close to my very own!! 007n7 is such a little fella, I think I'm actually starting to like him with the amount of asks and headcanon there are of him :~]

See you in another 800 decades, Glitched anon! /j

[hyp-fixator]

Hi chat bye chat

If you can't read my atrocious handwriting here's a transcript

Coil:

○ Crystal forcefully shoved into horn ○ frost radiates from shard

Medkit:

○ horn fractured like glass - put together by cult with gold (like kintsugi) - horn fades to grey

Subspace:

○ horn caught in crossfire of the rot - like dead wood, rotting from the inside out ○ otherwise sharp like a blade

Katana:

○ purposefully dulled ○ paints edge gold and with darker red swirl pattern like on his gear on the rest of his horns

Hyper (preburn):

○ similar to windforces, a symbol of power ○ he tends to dislike the pity he gets from the loss of his horns - he never liked the attention anyways

Hyper (current):

○ the fire killed off the nerves in his horns, they can't grow back ○ the base of his horns usually hurts and needs cooling (usually with icepacks)

Sling:

○ keeps them well kept and polished (for a good business appearance) ○ occasionally lets Vine paint them

Shuri:

○ Pierced his horns without Vine knowing ○ Slowly fading to green due to constant dye jobs ○ paints his own horns

Vinestaff:

○ loves decorating her horns for fun - apart from growing plants it's her biggest hobby ○ can hardly last a day before changing the pattern

Sword:

○ pierced horns with corvid wing earrings and a chain ○ base looks like feathers ○ fabric from rocket ○ polished well

Rocket:

○ Shaved down marks from where he carves it ○ Bead bracelet from sword ○ stud earring from Zuka ○ Thoroughly shattered

Skate:

○ a lot of chipped areas and old cracks from when he was young ○ has been advised to not get piercings for his horn health

Biograft:

○ damage varies depending on the individual ○ many have scuffs and chips, but worse damage is repaired ○ horns are mostly hollow and the bases glow a warm orange

Boombox:

○ prefers to keep his horns rounded ○ canonically wears horn rings ○ got them pierced anyways

Zuka:

○ Dulled due to age ○ longer than Rockets ○ had an old piercing, wears a rocket charm in it now

Banhammer:

○ golden horn caps kept pristine ○ his horns are prized, he tends to flaunt them ○ The only marks made on them are by Scythe ○ he's buffed out most of the scratches but the chip from her remains

Scythe:

○ keeps hers sharp, but unpolished ○ multiple scuff marks, but never chips or cuts ○ she has a few piercing holes

Broker:

○ Sharpened and polished ○ has a few kintsugi filled cracks ○ only the base of his horns are alive ○ greying slightly

[valacre]

: ̗̀➛ Blue & Golden Peacock

Sentinel Prime x Reader - Transformers One

“I take it all back, you are a devil, not an angel,” said Sentinel, huffing and growling as he shooed the chickens away, finding their feathers stuck in seams and gears. Why did these pesky animals enjoy perching on top of him? They wouldn’t leave him alone, often trailing after him as he walked and followed close behind as you worked about the farm, being at the ready to lend a servo should you need it.

“Aaw, but the chickens like you, birdie. You’re like the exotic peacock on my farm, always strutting around and flashing your pretty feathers,” you say, laughing at his frown, though you miss the way his optics shimmer at your compliment.

“Why did you get these anyway?” he asked, hearing the clucking and cooing behind him, knowing the two largest chickens, Maria and Isabella, were close at his heels, their round little bodies happily hopping along to keep up with his long strides. “What function do they serve?”

“Well, my disability benefits can only help so much, and it’s encouraged that I work as much as I’m able to. So, the chicken will not only provide me with the eggs I need, but I can also sell them for cheap to my closest neighbours. Combine that with the income I’ll earn by renting out my stable once it’s restored, I’ll be able to live fairly comfortably here.” Smiling up at him, you tap him on the arm before pointing at a partly destroyed tractor. It wasn’t huge, a sad little thing, really, but obviously too heavy for you to pull away. “Move that for me, will you?”

Sentinel didn’t waste any time, moving to stand behind the tractor before gently pushing it forward, finding it easier than he’d thought. It must have been stripped for most of its parts long ago. Well, no matter, at least it made it lighter for him to push out of the way.

“You never told me why you need to live on disability benefits.” Said he, glancing at you to see if you were watching. You were, your eyes trailing across his frame, fascination clear as day in your face. He couldn’t help it, his wings jerked slightly outwards to catch the sunrays, and your eyes immediately flicked to them. Success.

“I was in a car crash five years ago,” you say, rolling your shoulders and stretching your back a little, “It left me half-dead with a grotesque spinal injury. Took me more than a year to just learn how to walk normally again, but it wasn’t until after everything had healed that the nerve damages were discovered,” you say, scoffing and frowning as memories flashed through your mind, “They told me the pain was normal, that it would pass. It never did.”

Stopping, Sentinel stared at you in wide-eyed shock, his optics scanning over your body to check for any discomfort. You were tense, and clearly not in the best of health, but nothing major indicated that you were in great pain. Looking at your face, he found you smiling half-heartedly.

“Some days are worse than others, but the pain is at its strongest at the end of the day, or when I’ve gone to bed,” you say, coming up beside him, “Besides the obvious scar trailing along my spine, you can’t really see how bad it is unless I’m in agony. When I take it slow and easy, I can handle it fairly well, but when I tried to work as usual the first few months after I’d recovered?” You shook your head, bitterness swelling within you. “People told me that I just had to suck it up, that I was whining and complaining over nothing. They told me that at least I could walk; that I wasn’t paralysed.”

Sentinel said nothing, his optics instead re-focusing on the task, though they were distant.

“Sometimes, I wish I’d been paralysed, bound to a wheelchair with a bitter personality to come with it,” you say, chuckling, though there was no humour to your tone, “At least then people would take me seriously. There’d be something there for them to see, and perhaps I wouldn’t be plagued by searing pain that makes me want to just end—” Stopping, you swallow and take a breath, your eyes stinging as you look down.

“I���m sorry.”

You huffed a dry chuckle. “It’s fine. I’ve come to terms with it. Nothing to be done with it now.”

“… Did you suffer after you finished making my bed?”

“Don’t think about it.”

“I do think about it.” He said, coming to a halt before turning to face you, his face plate set with deep concern and frustration; but not for you. He was frustrated with himself, angry, even, with how blind he’d been, too busy wallowing in self-pity to see how you suffered right before him. “I think about how kind you are, how patient you are despite the agony you must be in most of the time, how much you’ve given and are still willing to give me just because I’m…” Taking a deep intake, he vents, shoulders lowering. “You’re willing to do so much for me, ignoring your suffering to care for a broken mech such as me.”

Startled by the clear sincerity displayed upon his face plate, you stare in surprise; mouth hanging open before you notice and click it shut. Looking at him, seeing him, you can’t help but smile as you reach up to gently grab the side of his helm, urging him to lean forward where you can reach him. Softly you kiss his cheek, earning yourself a near-silent gasp as air rushes into his intake, his wings flaring outwards to catch the sunlight.

“You’re sweet when you want to be, Sentinel.” You say, petting his cheek before letting go of him and he leans up again, his face plate noticeably heating up, but his optics do not look away from you; they seem unable to. “Yes, I do hurt most of the day, but I’ve learned to manage it and rarely overdo it. I’ve learned to accept that pain will be a part of my life now, and that’s why I don’t mind helping you learn how to live with what your life has become now.” Dusting off his arm, you nod towards the tractor and a spot by the driveway. “I don’t know how much your life has changed since you left your home, but looking at you and hearing what I’ve heard so far… Well, it’ll take time, but you’re safe with me, so there’s no rush.”

And Sentinel can’t do more than follow your silent request because his spark is pulsing and he feels as though he may overheat, so overcome with emotions he’s never felt before that he doesn’t quite know what to do with himself. He can start by moving the tractor. Yes, move the tractor, and then help you feed the pesky chickens that seem to love him so much. He can focus on that first. Anything else, both pleasant and unpleasant, can be tended to later.

Previous / Next Music: Elyvilon – Sheltering from the Rains in Nimueh’s Domain + Stumbling into Eternity Through the Light in the Trees

[scarlethexelove]

Your newest fic was amazing!! It hit me right in the feels. Is there a possibility of doing a part 2 where R is healing and struggling with having Wand and Natasha back in her life? A happy ending would be nice.

What About Now?

Pairing: WandaNat x Reader, Carol Danvers x Reader

Word Count: 3590

Warnings: A bit of angst(I guess), Fluff, Medical stuff that may not be right, mention of not wanting to survive

Part 1 I Don't Even Know You Anymore

A/n: Ok so finally got this done. It has some unspecified time jumps. I wanted to kind of leave it a surprise on who Reader will choose so you will just have to read to find out. Hopefully it's good.

NO ONE IS PERMITTED TO STEAL, COPY, OR REBLOG MY WORK AS THEIR OWN

It’s been a week since you woke up.Your mind reeling at the news that you will never be an Avenger again. Your injuries were extensive. Your head injury with your new found stutter which you are really hating. Doctors believe that those effects can be reversed with speech therapy. Along with that it was discovered that a bullet had grazed your spinal cord. While they did test your reflexes they came back weak. Your lower half is feeling slightly numb and tingling. With physical therapy they are hopeful for improvements but with the prognosis things will be difficult. There was also nerve damage that will cause ongoing pain. It comes and goes and some days are worse than others. But you’re alive and that is all that matters. 

Your mind goes through all the questions you have in your head. Will Tony make you leave? How do I tell everyone? How do I stop the pity? Was I better off not surviving? All these questions and you have no answers. No one knows of the news you got today leaving you alone with your thoughts but with this news you prefer it. 

As your mind plays through all the questions you don’t even hear the door open. But you're drawn to it when it shuts. You look down at your hands not meeting the eyes on you believe it is Wanda and Natasha who have visited frequently. “P-please leave. I c-can’t with this to-today.” You fiddle with the ends of your sleeves. “Well I did travel across six galaxies to see my best friend but I guess I’ll have to come back later.” Your eyes snap up and you're met with a soft smile from your best friend. “Ca-carol?” The tears start to well up in your eyes before a broken sob breaks through. Carol is quick to move towards you. Climbing onto the edge of the bed and pulling you into her chest. 

You sob for what seems like hours until your sobs turn to soft sniffles and hiccups. But Carol never leaves hugging you tightly against her as she rubs your back and kisses your head softly. Cooing in your ear to help calm you down. “Y/n/n do you want to tell me what is going on? I heard you were hurt so I came straight here.” You nod, pulling away to look at her before letting it all out. Telling her what happened from when you got back from your mission all the way until earlier today. She intently listens to you and lets you speak. There is no pity in her eyes, only love and compassion, no malice even when talking about what Wanda and Natasha did to you. Only concern for you and your wellbeing. That was why she was your best friend. She knew you better than anyone. 

Once you are done she finally speaks. “I wish I was here. I wish I could have been here for you, to take care of you but I’m here now.” She kisses your forehead again lightly. Her lips linger just a little longer than they should but you don’t mind. Her warmth comforts you. “W-what about m-mi-mission?” She shakes her head. “I’m here for you. Y/n/n you come first.” Your heart melts. “Nick granted me time off.” She smiles brightly at you. Your joy and excitement to have your bestfriend back. 

From all the events of the day and crying your eyes out you start to get tired. You're nuzzling into Carol's chest as you let out a yawn. “Get some rest sweetheart. You need it. I’ll be here when you wake up.” She kisses your head again and pulls you closer to her. You give her a gentle nod nuzzling closer to her before you close your eyes. Drifting off into the most peaceful sleep you have had in almost a year. 

In the months since waking up from your coma and Carol’s return you have grown even closer to Carol. Tonight just like any other night or so you think. You and Carol are sitting in your bed watching a movie for your weekly movie night. Your head is laying on her shoulder, her arm wrapped around you tightly keeping you close. You let out a giggle at something in the movie causing Carol to smile at you. What she does next you don’t expect. She places a finger under your chin gently directing you to look at her. She leans in and gently kisses your lips. You're too shocked to kiss back at first. But once the shock wears off you start kissing her back. It feels strange but good. The kiss deepens her hands cupping your face as you grip at her waist. You didn’t even realize how long you two had been kissing until you're forced to pull back panting and catch your breath. Her forehead pressed against yours as your breaths mingle. 

You don’t want to admit that your feelings for Carol have grown with the more time you have spent with her but you're not sure if they are romantic or not. “Carol” You whisper between you two. You lean your head back and look into her eyes. “I-I don’t know. I’m not ready. I don’t know how I feel. I’m sorry.” You look down disappointed in yourself but you know that you need to understand yourself before you can decide anything. Natasha and Wanda are still trying to prove and make up for everything they have done. You still have love for them but you also have love for Carol even if you aren’t sure what that love entails. 

Carol gives you a soft smile. “It’s ok Y/n/n. You don’t have to explain. I just wanted to kiss you so bad and I couldn’t help myself.” You blush at her words. “I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable.” She adds looking at you, her smile turning sheepish. “No it’s ok. I-I liked it.” You tell her your cheeks are still dusted with a light pink. This was not how you expect your night to go but it was a nice surprise. “Do you want to keep watching?” Carol asks. “Hmm oh y-yeah, of course.” You say turning back to the movie. Your head back on her shoulder and her arm wrapped around you tightly. 

So far the only people who know about your prognosis are Carol, Tony, Bucky, and Steve. You have asked  them to not tell anyone else until you are ready. Tony has let you stay in the tower citing that you have given up enough of your life and you deserve to keep your home. You are grateful for his kindness. No matter what people say you know Tony has a big heart and cares more than he lets on. 

As for Natasha and Wanda they have been helping you as much as they can even if you don’t always want it. They are trying to prove to you that they are truly sorry for what they have done. They even started to go to therapy in hopes of proving it to you. They have even invited you to multiple sessions. At first you didn’t want to go but you wanted to see if they had actually changed. So you tagged along after turning them down a few times. But now that you have gone you have joined them multiple times. Seeing that they are trying. 

Currently Carol is away for a small mission. Fury forced her to go but luckily this one is on Earth so she shouldn’t be gone for too long. You're in your bathroom when you feel a sharp pain in your back which causes your legs to give out. You fall to the ground with a loud thud and a cry of pain. You try to get up but a shooting pain runs through your hip causing a small whimper to fall from your lips. When you can’t get up you love to sit against the counter. 

“F.R.I.D.A.Y?” You call out. “Yes Miss.Y/l/n?” F.R.I.D.A.Y’s robotic voice is heard above. “I-I need help.” You say back. Shortly after F.R.I.D.A.Y responds “I have informed your emergency contact. Miss.Romanoff and Miss.Maximoff are on their way.” “W-wait, N-” You’re cut off when the door slams open, Natasha and Wanda with a frantic look on their faces when they see you on the floor. You had forgotten to change your emergency contact from the two after everything, but it’s too late now the women are here. 

“Oh Milaya, what happened?” Wanda kneels down next to you. She hesitantly reaches out for you and when you don’t pull away she takes your hand in hers. “I-I fell and I can’t get back up.” You mumble looking down. You expect to see pity from the woman so you can’t bring yourself to look at them. Natasha makes you look at her with a soft smile. She holds out her hands for you to grab and to help you up. You place your hands in hers, she starts to try to lift you up but you cry out in pain. There is a terrified look on her face in fear that she may hurt you somehow. “I’m sorry Y/n.” You shake your head. “Not you. I think it was the f-fall.” You tell the woman. “We’ll take you to the med bay. We need to make sure you are ok.” Natasha scoops you gently in her arms and takes you towards the med bay. Wanda close behind the both of you.

Once the three of you are there Natasha puts on the exam table in front of Bruce. He was luckily already in the med bay when you got there. “What can I do for you?” Bruce takes off his glasses looking at you three. “I fell and I think I hurt my hip.” You tell him and he nods. It is a short time before he is done with his scans. Natasha and Wanda never leave your side throughout the process. Bruce moves to look at your chart and scans. You watch him as he reads through. You can see the slight change in his demeanor and the quick glance he gives you before looking back down quickly. You know what he just saw. 

There is a gasp that draws your attention. You look over seeing Wanda with her hand over her mouth shocked and a sad look in her eyes. “W-Wanda.” Your voice quivers slightly. “You weren’t supposed to find out. Not this way.” Natasha looks confused as she looks between you and Wanda. Bruce shrinks back trying to blend in with the wall. “I-I’m sorry. His thoughts were so loud I didn’t mean to hear.” Wanda pleads, a look of remorse on her face. “Will someone tell me what is going on?” Natasha asks finally and you sigh knowing that you can’t hide it from them anymore. “W-when I got hurt my injuries were more extensive than what was originally thought.” You gulp down the tears that threaten to fall. “I won’t be an Avenger again.” A tear rolls down your cheek as you look down. 

The room falls silent with the news until Bruce breaks the silence. “Y/n I have your results. It looks like you have a hairline hip fracture. It should heal on its own with rest. You will have to stop your physical therapy for a few weeks but then be able to continue.” With Bruce's words you nod, willing the tears from the previously intense moment to go away. Bruce gives you some pain medication to help before taking his leave, leaving the three of you alone in the room. 

The tension in the room could be cut with a knife until you speak. You explain everything to the woman. Tears rolling down your cheeks as they comfort you. It’s an emotional time as you tell them. Their comfort in this moment means the world to you. It is something that you have missed dearly. They vow to help you in whatever way they can. They help and comfort making you feel loved. Making you question all of your feelings for them and for Carol. 

It’s been a few weeks and you're healing. You can move around again albeit slow and with the help of a cane. You're making your way to the common room when you stop at the entryway. Leaning on the wall watching all of your favorite people in the room. No one has noticed you yet as you watch. Your eyes landing on Carol as she laughs and talks with Thor. A smile on your face watching the two interact. Your gaze then makes its way to Natasha and Wanda who are cuddled up on the couch. They are playfully arguing with Clint. The sight widening your smile. You see that Carol’s eyes land on you with a giant grin on her face. At the same time Wanda and Natasha spot you giving you a warm and inviting smile. And in that moment you know that you need to make a decision. To either take a chance with Carol or forgive Wanda and Natasha. To build a lasting relationship with either the pair or your best friend. It will be one of the hardest decisions of your life and one you never thought you would have to make. 

The door swings open as the keys jingle in the door. The sound of feet padding on the ground, wails of glee from the kids. “Mommy! Mama!” Three children yell in unison. Their attention is drawn to the open door. Their bodies smashing into the woman causing them both to laugh before crouching down to their heights. Holding them closely to their bodies. A blonde falling back into the couch with a huff watching on. Green eyes landing on the woman and giving a nod. The blonde nodded back. 

The kids pull away and look at the woman. “Where’s Momma?” Natasha asks, her green eyes looking at her son. The boy shuffles a bit with a sad look. “It’s a bad day. Momma called Aunt Yelena to help.” Natasha kisses his head, she knows it is hard for the kids to see you in pain just as much as it hurts her and Wanda. She looks to Wanda who gives her a sad smile. “Have you been good for Aunt Yelena Billy?” She smiles down at him trying to brighten his mood. “The niblets have been just fine.” Yelena interjects from the couch. Natasha raises her brow at the word. “What? I heard it on the tiktok.” Yelena says with a wide grin proud of herself. Natasha rolls her eyes and puts her attention back on the kids. Billy, Tommy, and Alexandra nod along with Yelena. Causing both women at the door to laugh. Wanda kisses Tommy and Alexandra’s head. “Thank you for being good for your Aunt. How about we…” Wanda ponders for a moment. “Pizza for dinner.” The kids erupt in cheers which brings a smile to their faces. “How about you three go play while me and Mama go check on Momma?” The three nod and scurry away. The two women stand up and start making their way towards the bedroom. “Thank you Lena. Are you okay still watching them?” Wanda asks before leaving. Yelena waves her off as the kids pounce on her and she laughs. “I’ll make you some mac and cheese later.” Wanda yells from down the hall. They hear a loud yes from the woman causing them to laugh as they make their way into the bedroom.

It’s dark as they enter the room. They can see your form on the bed cuddled under the blanket. They see your shoulders gently rising and falling as you breathe. You must be asleep as you don’t hear them enter. The woman takes their shoes off before joining you in bed. Wanda slides in behind you, her arms wrapping around you gently, not wanting to cause you any added pain. Natasha shuffles in front of you. Moving your hair from your face. She smiles as you start to blink your eyes open. “Natty? Wands?” You question as your eyes begin to focus on the woman in front of you. Wanda gently kisses your shoulder as Natasha kisses your forehead causing you to let out a small giggle. “ You’re home early.” You say sleepily moving your head to nuzzle into Natasha’s neck. She smiles, running her fingers through your hair. “Mhmm we couldn’t wait to get back to you and the kids so we worked quickly.” Natasha kisses your head again. 

“Billy told us you’re having a bad day.” Wanda kisses your shoulder again gently. You let out a small hum. You hate to admit it sometimes but you know your family just wants to help. “How about we get you in a nice hot bath. Yelena is still watching the kids. We can then have a nap with you.” Natasha smiles at you and you nod. “Wands also promised the kids Pizza for dinner and mac and cheese for Yelena.” She chuckles as Wanda pushes her shoulder which causes you to giggle at them. 

Natasha and Wanda slide out of the bed causing you to whine at the loss of their bodies.  “Shhh detka.” Wanda says softly, helping you up and picking you up into her arms. You wrap your legs around her waist and bury your head in her neck. You let out a small whimper at the movement. “I’m sorry milaya devushka.” She holds you close and you nuzzle into her neck causing her to smile. “N-not your fault.” You mumble in her neck, placing light kisses on her neck. “I know. I just don’t like seeing you in pain.” She kisses your head as she takes you into the bathroom. Natasha is already in there and has started the bath. Wanda sets you down gently before helping remove your clothes. Natasha finishes getting the bath ready with an added bath bomb. Both women take turns stipping down to join you, one always being there to give you support. 

Wanda steps in the bath and sits down. Natasha then helps you in. Your back pressing against Wanda’s front before Natasha sinks into the water in front of you. You give Natasha grabby hands and she moves closer to you. The three of you settled into the warm bath. Nothing sexual, just love and understanding between the three of you. After a bit of soaking the woman help wash you and your hair before focusing on themselves. 

Once you're all done they help you out and dry you off. Natasha goes and gets clothes for all three of you. She puts you in a pair of her sweatpants and one of Wanda’s hoodies. You inhale the scent of Wanda on the hoodie letting out a content sigh. Natasha then lifts you gently into her arms and takes you to the bed. Helping you before getting in herself. You snuggle up to her and nuzzle into her chest. Wanda sliding in behind you. The moment was so soft and sweet. The women are still kicking themselves for what they did to you all those years ago. Thankful that your kind soul forgave them and gave them another chance to earn your love and affection. Now you're all a big happy family with three beautiful kids that mean the world to you all. 

The silence is peaceful as you relax feeling a wave of exhaustion. Natasha breaks the silence, her voice soft and low. “Detka we have some news for you. A surprise of sorts.” You lift your head from her chest and look up at her. A glint of excitement in your eyes as you wait for the woman to continue. She smiles gently before continuing to speak. “That was our last mission.” You sit up slightly ignoring the twinge in your back. “What?” You question. You hope this means what you think it means. “Dorogaya we are retiring. That was our last mission. We want to be here with you and the kids. We are done with that fight, all we want is your love.” You turn to Wanda as she speaks, happy tears filling your eyes. You can’t help as the tears fall and you hug them both tightly. “I love you both so much.” You let the tears fall. Your family is complete and you can all have the life you have always dreamed of. It isn’t what you expected it to be but with these women you can do anything. Over the years they have loved you at your best and at your worst. Stuck by you through every bad day. Your love grows for them every single day that you are together and you wouldn’t change it for the world. 

Each of them kissing your head. “We love you too.” They say together. “We want to spend the rest of our lives with you. Making up for our wrongs and earning your love.” Natasha gently kisses your lips. “Y-you already have.” You kiss Natasha before turning to Wanda and kissing her. The day started out terrible but the two women you chose to hold your heart one last time have proven that you did in fact make the right choice. 

A/n: I know that some if not most will not be happy with my decision to have WandaNat as end game. I went threw a few different idea's and always came back to them. So even if it is hated it is what I wanted in the end. Thanks for reading though.

[just-my-latest-hyperfixation]

Another celebration ficlet. The ask for this one somehow got deleted from the inbox, but I know it was sent by @weirdandabsurd42 - hope you enjoy! 🥰

On being seen

Rated: T

Words: 990

Tags: Post-Vecna; Injury; Hospitals; Hair loss; Referenced parental death; Hurt/comfort; Steve Harrington is a sweetheart; Pre-Steddie

“Brought you these,” Dustin says, stacking some books on the bedside table. Eddie spots The Hobbit at the top of the pile. “They’re mine, but you can keep them until …” 

“Until what?” Eddie asks. His voice is a thin rasp, grating on shredded vocal cords. “Until they unearth my home from that interdimensional sinkhole? Fat fucking chance, huh?” 

Dustin swallows, hiding his face under his cap. Guilt churns in Eddie’s gut like acid. His left hand - the one that’s not hooked to the beeping machines - flies up to fiddle with his hair, only to come up blank. 

Oh, right. They cut it off during the surgery. It’s gone, just like half his face and jaw. 

“You should go,” he says. “s getting dark and your mom will want you home.” 

Dustin looks up, eyes bright. “But-” 

Eddie shakes his head as well as the bandages will let him. “C’mon, I need my beauty sleep. I promise I won’t go anywhere.” 

Dustin hesitates and Eddie’s afraid he’ll start to argue, or worse, plead. But then, the kid sighs, rising from his chair. 

“Okay. See you tomorrow.” 

Eddie raises his hand for a wave, pausing when he catches sight of his bare fingers. 

“Henderson?” 

Dustin turns in the door, face gaunt in the sterile light of the hospital corridor. 

“You haven't heard about…?” 

Eddie wiggles his hand. Dustin’s expression morphs into one of regret.

“Sorry,” he says. “I asked the nurses, but there were so many emergencies. Maybe they got thrown in the trash or something.” 

Eddie nods. Tries to tug at his hair again. “Yeah. Okay.” 

Dustin shuffles uncomfortably. “Listen, I could-” 

“I said it's okay, Henderson. Good night.” 

Dustin sighs. “Night, Eddie.” 

The beeping of the machines follows Eddie into his dreams, where it turns into the shrieks of the swarm.

*

When he startles awake, it's dark outside his window. 

There's a figure in the chair beside his bed, backlit by the heart monitor.

“Fuck, Henderson,” Eddie groans. “I told you to go home.” 

The figure jerks upright with a snort. 

“Shit,” it mumbles. “Sorry, ‘m awake.” 

It’s not Dustin.

Eddie freezes, terror sinking into his every limb like lead. The noise of the machines drowns under the roar of his own blood in his ears. 

“Hey,” says the figure, voice low and soothing, and he realizes a bit belatedly that he made a sound - a raw, terrified thing, like a trapped animal. “Hey, it’s okay. Eddie, it’s me. It’s Steve.” 

A hand reaches for his. It’s warm and strong and so much bigger than his own. He jerks away so violently he almost pulls the iv-cord from his arm. 

“No,” he rasps. “Don’t touch me. Get away from me.” 

Steve flinches, hand falling limply into his own lap. Eddie can’t see his expression in the dark. Doesn’t want to see. Doesn’t want Steve to see him, not like this. Hurt and bare and small with nothing left to hide behind.  

Neither of them speaks or moves for a while, the slowly calming heart monitor the only sound in the room. 

“I’m sorry,” Steve says at length. “I just … I’ll go. Just wanted to give these back.” 

He rummages for something in his pocket, then holds out his open palm - carefully, like an offering. Eddie’s breath catches in his ruined throat. 

“Where’d you find these?” 

“Um,” Steve shuffles in his seat. “Saw them lying on the nurse’s desk the other day. Sorry I didn’t return them sooner, things have been sorta crazy out there.” 

Eddie doesn’t say anything, just snatches the rings. He attempts to slip them on, but he can’t use his right hand, and his fingers haven't stopped trembling since he first woke up. Nerve damage, the doctors said. He fumbles and drops the rings, but Steve is there to scoop them up before they can fall to the ground. 

“Here, let me.” 

Eddie watches, frozen in place, heart in his throat, as Steve slips the rings onto the fingers of his left hand. Cross on the index finger, boar in the middle, skull on his ring finger. His breath tickles the skin of Eddie’s wrist. 

“This one's special, right?” 

Eddie blinks out of his stupor. Steve has taken a hold of his right hand, infinitely careful to not disturb the needles and cords, and slipped the last ring back on. The delicate one with the dark, oval stone.

Eddie nods. His voice won't obey him, but this time, it has nothing to do with his injuries. 

“My mom's.” 

Steve hums in understanding, and Eddie knows he doesn’t need to say more. 

“Tell me about her?” 

Not a request. An offer. Eddie squints at Steve’s shadowy face as he settles back in his chair. 

“Why?” 

Steve shrugs. “You’re one of us. I’d like to know more about you.” 

Eddie can’t help it, he needs to laugh. It burns in his throat and sends tears to his eyes. He tries to tug a strand of hair in front of his face to hide them and grasps only at thin air. 

“Not sure what to tell you, big boy. Not a whole lot left of me, is there?” 

“You’re brave and kind and tough,” Steve says, and Eddie’s mouth goes dry. “You’re great with the kids, and an amazing musician, and you were willing to die for a town that hates your guts. I think that’s a whole lot. The outside stuff will come back.” 

Some of it already has, Eddie thinks, fingertips rubbing against the familiar shape of his rings. 

“Her name was Elizabeth,” he says. “She died when I was seven.” 

Steve listens for a long while, not interrupting once. He doesn’t switch on the light. He doesn’t need to, Eddie thinks. He feels more seen than he has in a long while, sitting here in the dark, allowing Steve to get to know him. 

Somehow, it isn’t as scary as he thought it would be.

More celebration ficlets

[asprinkleoftism]

I'm Here

Cecil Stedman x Donald Ferguson Oneshot

About: After an intense mission, Cecil visits his number one while he is being repaired.

Notes: Here is another one of my favorite gay old men. Riddled with angst but some comfort in here as well as some violence descriptions but nothing super graphic. Partially inspired by this amazing artwork by @tatiejosie . I hope you enjoy!!

It's bad.

Really bad.

"Shit, shit.." Cecil mumbled to himself as he hurried down the hallway.

The mission couldn't have gone more shit than it did. Invincible and Atom Eve arrived late and Robot couldn't lead the Guardians efficiently to the point that both Cecil and Donald had to get involved. It absolutely went downhill from there. Cecil and Donald were side by side shooting at what they could to take down the kaiju. Cecil turned his back for one second.

One goddamn second.

"Donald I need you to-"

Cecil froze on the spot, seeing what remained of his colleague, his..

Luckily enough, Omni-Man came and was able to take down the kaiju which gave Cecil the chance to scrap up of what remained of Donald. It wasn't much but it was something. Despite having done this a few times already, it never got easier. Cecil always did it by himself for he didn't want anyone to see his state when he would be scooping up Donald's brain matter or his spine dust or even a piece of hair follicle. Something that would be of his DNA to bring him back. This time, the kaiju stroked down on Donald, completely destroying him and making a giant pool of blood surround the area to the point that some even got on Cecil. Once the kaiju was taken care of, Cecil immediately went to tend to Donald. He wasn't alive, obviously, but most of his brain was damaged which worried Cecil. Granted yes, they had his real brain safely secured at the GDA but they only pick from that one in case of emergencies like this. From a distance, some agents could see what Cecil was doing but everyone was aware of what Cecil was doing. And it pained him to do it every single time. He raced back to the lab. It was as if Donald's real brain stared right back at Cecil, gawking at him or even worse, hating him for what he is doing. This was Donald's agreement and suggestion in the first place. All Donald wanted to do was keep saving and helping people and this was the only way to do it. Cecil wouldn't ever admit to anyone, but his eyes well up and glisten every time he faces Donald's actual brain that rested it in a warm tank to keep it alive, feeding it with nutrients it needed.

"I'm sorry, Donald." Cecil would be apologetic every single time he would pick from it, as if he was giving it the upmost respect.

It was his partners real brain after all. Donald changed a lot of things for Cecil, and having more empathy and compassion was one of those. Donald was practically rubbing off on Cecil. The lab people worked on getting Donald's copy brain repaired which they always did flawlessly. It wasn't the fact that Cecil always had to recover Donald's remnants after a battle, it was the fact that Cecil would have to erase his memories of him dying every single time and anything recent prior to that. And that included their feelings for each other.

"S-Sir?" Donald stuttered as Cecil cornered him. "Did I do s-something wrong?"

"No." Cecil leaned in close. "Not a damn thing wrong, Donald."

Donald's nerves were washed away as Cecil harshly placed his lips onto Donald's. Donald had no idea that his boss, Cecil, felt the same feelings as he did but Donald kissed back, feeling Cecil roughly push him against the wall lustfully. Donald pulled back for air, feeling Cecil yank on his blue tie.

"Who said I was-"

"Sir."

Cecil shook away the memory from days prior as he turned to the agent that approached him.

"Follow me."

Cecil stood up and followed the agent to the special repair area, knowing that's where Donald was at. They both stopped at a door.

"He's okay, sir."

"I'll see it when I believe it." Cecil mumbled.

The agent left Cecil alone as he opened the door, stepped in, and shut it behind him. Cecil's heart somewhat relaxed upon seeing Donald in the bed. There he was, in one piece.

One piece.

His mind flashbacked to earlier today, seeing the kaiju limp strike onto Donald, turning him into a pool of flesh and blood. It invaded his mind to the point he didn't even think it was possible for Donald to be back in one piece. But there he was, in one piece as if nothing ever happened, minus some bandages on his face and body. Donald was asleep in the bed, but Cecil knew the moment he would wake up, he would have no recollection of the battle, the past few days, and the agreement. Cecil hated doing it, but it's what Donald wanted. He approached the bed and sat in a chair next to it. The beeping of the machine is what filled the ambient silence in the room. Cecil wanted Donald to wake up but not at the same time. He loves Donald but this would just be the continuation of the repeated cycle between them two. Cecil couldn't even keep up how many times this has happened but he thinks this was the thirty nineth time since Donald has been rebuilt. And Cecil wasn't sure if his heart could take it anymore. Cecil reached out and held Donald's hand softly but not tightly to not provoke him to wake up. He knew Donald would wake up and not have any memories of him and their relationship. He would have to confess all over again and redo all of their dates and their hangouts. All over again.

"Is it to your liking?" Cecil asked Donald.

Donald cut into the steak and took a bite. He threw his eyebrows up and his pupils dilated slightly. The steak practically melted in his mouth. What was Cecil talking about being a bad cook? This was excellent.

"It's..it's good, sir."

"How many times do I have to tell you, Donald?" Cecil asked as he sat down next to Donald, getting close to him.

Donald grew nervous, as if he did something wrong. Cecil's face turned stern which made it worse. Cecil gingerly reached for Donald's blue tie. Donald watched him intently on what he was going to do. He racked his mind of all of the possible scenarios that could happen but his mind came up blank. Donald was suddenly yanked forward, close to Cecil, seeing Cecil had balled his tie up into a fist.

"You don't need to call me sir outside of work." Cecil's voice dropped an octave, making Donald shake a little.

"Y-Yes, Cecil." Donald stuttered out, completely flustered over what was happening right now.

"Good."

Cecil leaned in and practically smashed his lips onto Donald's. He somewhat expected this but didn't expect Cecil to go headfirst this quickly. Donald couldn't help but kiss back-

Donald's hand twitched.

Cecil quickly jerked his hand away and held his breath, seeing Donald slowly start to wake up. Cecil wanted to so desperately jump onto Donald and hug him, thanking God for letting him wake up. But he had to hold back. It took everything in him to hold back. Donald's hand shifted again and his eyes fluttered. Donald's chest heaved up and down as his body was starting to wake up. Donald could hear the machine's beeping, indicating he was indeed alive.

Something appeared.

It was big and scary. Donald was trying to run from it but it felt like he was running in place. What was it? Donald didn't know but he was running out of breath, trying to run from what it was. A bullet? An alien? A kaiju? He wasn't sure. Donald tripped and fell face first onto the ground, the dirt getting into his mouth. Or asphalt whatever it was. Suddenly something sharp hit his spine and squeezed hard. He couldn't see, he couldn't breathe, he couldn't scream, he couldn't-

"Donald!"

Cecil jumped to softly wake up Donald, for he recognized right away that he was having a panic attack. He gently shook his shoulders and softly called to him to try and wake him up.

It worked.

Donald shot up, feeling like all of the air in his lungs were gone.

"Donald, Donald, breathe. I'm here." Cecil spoke softly.

Who was talking to him? Donald realized real quick he didn't have his glasses on, making his vision quite blurry.

"W-Who?" Donald choked out.

Despite realizing he was alive, he was still in a panic state of mind. He doesn't even know what happened or even remembered what got him here in the hospital in the first place.

"Donald, it's me, Cecil."

Cecil Stedman. His boss, his colleague, his..

What else was he supposed to be?

Donald tried to rack his mind but he felt something was amiss. Donald turned to find Cecil at his side. His hands were on his shoulders and even through his blurry vision, Cecil had an interesting expression on his face. Worry.

"Sir? Are you alright?" Donald asked.

Cecil didn't answer but he fished for something in his pocket.

"Here."

Cecil had pulled out Donald's glasses that he got repaired. He hesitated, wondering if he should put them on his face or just let Donald do it. Him doing it would feel too intimate. But by God did he want to. Cecil opened his glasses and leaned forward. Donald trusted Cecil but he didn't lie when he was slightly unnerved by the fact that Cecil ever so gently slipped his glasses onto his face. Donald blinked and close to his face was Cecil. All of the air seemed to leave his lungs upon seeing it and his heart raced.

"Better?" Cecil leaned back and asked.

Donald was still reeling from the closeness of his boss. He couldn't recall of Cecil ever acting like this way with him before. So why now?

"Y-Yes, sir." Donald said.

"How do you feel?" Cecil asked.

Donald ran his hands over his arms, seeing he was in one piece.

"Fine. I guess. I don't..What happened, sir? Did..did we win?" Donald asked.

"Yes. Yes we did, thanks to you." Cecil told Donald.

Donald's heart froze. Was this really happening right now? He felt it, he did. This was so out of character for Cecil he was afraid to ask. Eventually his eyes looked down to see Cecil's hand was holding Donald's.

"Cecil is holding my hand." Donald thought.

It was clear that Cecil didn't realize he was doing it. Donald welcomed the comfort but it also was weird to him.

"W-What did I do?" Donald asked, not acknowledging the hand holding.

"You distracted the kaiju long enough for it to not hurt anyone else. Right after you were knocked out, Omni-Man came and killed it. But Donald, if it weren't for you," Cecil tightened his grip on his hand without even realizing it, "thousands more would have died. But they didn't because of you."

Everything was the truth, except for him getting knocked out.

He died.

But he was here now. And it would happen again and again and again and again and again and again and again and-

"Cecil."

It was then that Cecil realized what he was doing. And he didn't know whether it was best to remove his hand or keep it there.

"Donald, you're my best colleague here. And you have been there for me in every step of the way, no matter what." Cecil confessed.

He wasn't even sure what he was saying at this point. And Donald could hardly comprehend it.

"Of course, sir. Since your first day, I made the oath to be your number one and I intend to do that till the day I die." Donald said back.

Cecil squeezed Donald's hand and shut his eyes.

Till the day I die.

When would that day come is the thing? When would it? Would it ever? Despite feeling unnerved from the hand holding, it brought some comfort to Donald and relaxed him a bit. He swears he has felt this before. Maybe in a dream? Or perhaps a forgotten memory? He wasn't sure, but whatever it was he liked it.

"Sir?" Donald called out.

Cecil opened his eyes, his blue grey eyes staring into his deep brown ones.

"Can..Can I have a hug?"

Without hesitating, Cecil leaned in and wrapped his arms around his colleague and held tightly. Donald relaxed into Cecil's arms naturally as Cecil did the same for Donald. It felt right, it felt natural. It felt..good.

"Till the day I die, sir." Donald repeated.

"Yes," Cecil started, feeling the intense guilt consuming his chest, "till the day you die."

~