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saveyourblood · 2 months ago

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Pretty Boy - Ch 7 (Buddie x Reader)

Summary: You can feel Buck staring. When your eyes meet his, you realize he’s staring at your hand, which is still on Eddie’s knee. You slowly retreat, which makes Buck turn his attention to your face. You smile softly. He just looks out the window. The one where you’re an advanced paramedic, Buck and Eddie are firefighters, and you think you might be in love with both of them.

Ch 1 | Ch 2 | Ch 3 | Ch 4 | Ch 5 | Ch 6

Chapter Summary: You and Buck are officially a couple, but it isn't an easy start for either of you.

Word Count: 3k Warnings: none

It’s strange how effortless it is to go from being Buck’s best friend to his girlfriend. Maybe that’s because you’re still best friends, only now, you can make out with each other. Buck being on medical leave is kind of perfect timing, too, because none of your coworkers suspect anything. They aren’t surprised you spend most of your time at his loft. When they wonder how Buck is doing, they ask you; they know you know him best.

“Woah, hey, be careful!”

You and Buck are sitting around his table. Well, you’re sitting at the table, and he’s off to the side, sitting in one chair while another elevates his leg.

You look up at Buck and roll your eyes. “What, you’re gonna sew it back together?”

You’re holding a pair of his navy slacks and ripping apart the left pant leg.

“It doesn’t mean you had to rip them,” he chastises.

You lift up the pants, and you have to admit: it’s not your best work. It’s even, but the edges are frayed.

“Yep, looks terrible.”

“It’ll be fine!” you assure, setting them back down. “We’ll just tuck it in the top of your cast.”

You sit in an uncomfortable silence.

“Are we ever gonna talk about it?” Buck eventually asks.

You sigh. He had a follow-up appointment with the surgeon today, which wasn’t great. Granted, it could have been much worse. The fracture isn’t healing as expected, so he wants to perform another surgery. It wouldn’t be a minor surgery, either — he’d be replacing the rod and using bone grafts instead.

You lean back in your chair and cross your arms. “You already know what I think.”

You and the surgeon think Buck should wait a few more weeks before surgery. Buck, being Buck, disagrees.

“The sooner I have the surgery, the sooner I can get back to work.”

“We’re talking about your ability to walk, Buck,” you say slowly. “We’re talking about your health, your life.”

“No, being a firefighter is my life!” Buck shouts. “It is the only thing I have ever done that was important and that mattered, okay? Without that, I-I don’t have…”

His eyes are red, and his voice is breaking.

“You will still be Buck, okay?” You say, kneeling in front of him. “We’ll all still love you. There are lots of other important things that you can do with your life.”

He stares at you, then looks away and clenches his jaw. “Do you know how hard it is to watch you walk out that door every day? Leaving me behind to just sit here and stare at a wall? Knowing you get to go do the one thing I want to, but can’t?”

You press your lips together. “Buck, I’m sorry, I never thought about it-”

“I’m not trying to make you feel bad,” he interrupts. “I-I want you to keep working. I just want to be working with you.”

You move closer, setting a hand on his face and pressing your foreheads together. “I know. I know you do.”

He reaches up to hold your wrist. The two of you stay like that for what feels like hours.

“People assume we choose this life; I'm not so sure. Sometimes, I think this life chooses us.”

Everyone is gathered around foldout tables in the station loft. There are two rows: on one side sits the 118 staff, and on the other side is Eddie’s family. Bobby and Eddie stand in front of everyone.

“For those that answer the call, there can be no doubt, no equivocation,” Bobby continues. “It's not just the lives of those we serve that depend on us, but our own. The lives of our fellow firefighter and first responders. Today, we welcome a new brother into those ranks. After a year of hard work and dedication, I am proud to officially declare that your probationary period is at an end. Welcome to the Los Angeles Fire Department, Firefighter Diaz!”

The two men shake hands as everyone claps and cheers. Christopher stands up and approaches Eddie, offering him his helmet. Eddie picks Christopher up into a hug.

Something draws your eyes to Buck, who’s sitting next to you. He doesn’t see you looking, so you watch as he claps and smiles for his friend.

It’s crazy to think that Eddie’s only been in your lives for a year. In 365 days, he’s become the third closest person to you, right behind Buck and Hen. Something about him, in both a personal and professional sense, fits so perfectly into your life.

Everyone disperses to converse and get lunch from the catering table. Eddie makes his way around the small crowd. Eventually, he makes it to the table where you and Hen are sitting.

Hen pulls him into a sideways hug. “Congrats, Eddie. This is well earned.”

He thanks her and pulls her in a little tighter.

You rise out of your seat and pull him into a hug. You turn your lips to his ear in a whisper. “I’m proud of you.”

Eddie squeezes you tighter. This is the closest you’ve ever been to him. For a brief moment, the only thing between your bodies is a held breath.

You separate, but he keeps his hands on your arms. He chuckles and dips his head down.

“What?” You ask, lips curving into a confused smile.

“I’m just… I’m glad I met you.”

You smile warmly as you pat his arms. “Ditto.”

You hear some shouting and laughter. Across the loft, Buck and Chris are playing a game on the TV console. You see Christopher laugh and rest back on the couch while Buck leans forward, pointing at the screen. He gives Chris a gentle push, which makes him laugh harder.

“You two are a thing, aren’t you?”

You turn back to Eddie. You look him up and down. His hands are now buried in his front pockets, and his smile isn't as wide.

You could try faking it, but he’d call you on it in five seconds flat. “We’re that obvious, huh?”

Eddie shrugs a little. “To me, I guess.”

Your smile softens a little.

‘I’m not saying it can never happen.’ The sound of your own words keeps bouncing around your head. You essentially told this man that you could see sharing a life with him… if the timing wasn’t wrong. A strange sensation settles into your stomach. You wonder why it’s the right timing for Buck. You wonder how Eddie feels, knowing he has time to spend with you while also knowing his best friend’s time is just a few minutes sooner. You wonder if it’ll ever be Eddie’s time, and wondering this makes the feeling in your stomach more than a little bit worse.

“Well, you seem happy,” Eddie says, cutting into your thoughts. “I’m happy for you both.”

Part of you hopes he means it, and the other part sort of hopes he’s lying.

You and Buck spend the next few months growing closer. He has the second surgery, and you’re there to help him recover. For now, you’re not sharing work hours, but you’re sharing time. You’re telling your stories, and he’s telling his. Your relationship sews itself like a quilt, each day getting cozier and heavier. The extra warmth is worth the extra weight.

It’s still weird not working with him. Now that he’s going through re-certification, he at least has something to keep himself busy. Before that, he was always at his apartment when you got off work. You’ve been spending most of your free time at his place. You can’t remember the last time you spent the night at your own place; you just pop in occasionally to grab something.

You blink awake, rubbing at your eyes as you yawn. You slowly sit up, and the pleasant smell of fresh coffee greets you. You rub your eyes again, and when you open them, you see Buck standing at the top of the stairwell. He’s already dressed, and he’s holding a mug.

“Hey,” you smile. “You’re up early.”

Buck smiles back. He sits on the edge of the bed, handing you the mug. “I’m heading in now, wanna get a jump on things.”

“Today’s your final eval, right?” You ask as if you don’t already know the answer. “Are you sure you don’t want me to come?”

“Nah, watching me pretend to save lives isn’t as important as actually saving lives.”

“Well, you’ll be done with pretending by the end of today,” you remind. “You’re gonna do great.”

He grins. “You’re just a twelve today, right?”

“Yeah, I’ll be back around 8 tonight,” you confirm. “I’ll make dinner! We can celebrate.”

“Sounds perfect,” Buck smiles again.

You return the expression. God, you can’t remember the last time you were this happy.

He looks at his watch. “I gotta go. I’ll see you tonight, then.”

You nod and bite your lip to hold back a massive grin.

Buck springs to his feet. He kisses you on the forehead before trotting down the stairs. “Love ya!”

Before you can say anything, the front door opens and closes. He’s gone.

“It was just… weird,” you say, tapping your finger against the steering wheel. “I mean, we’ve implied it, but we’ve never said it, you know?”

You’re chatting with Hen in the rig. You’re on your way to a scene call, but it’ll be a few minutes before you arrive.

She figured out you and Buck were dating a few days after it started. Hen’s always been able to read you like a book, so you didn’t even try to deny it. Truthfully, it’s nice to have someone to talk to. The only other person on the team that knows is Eddie, and you’re friends, but not kind of friends. Talking to Eddie about Buck would feel like talking behind Buck’s back.

“So you said it back?” Hen asks.

“He was gone before I could.”

“Do you want to say it back?”

You sigh. “I mean, I kind of feel like I don’t even have to. He knows I love him. He has to know. …Right?”

Hen shrugs. “Just because he knows doesn’t mean you shouldn’t tell him. He might need to hear it, even if he knows.”

You pull up to the scene, and it effectively ends the conversation. A car ran through a crowd of pedestrians using the crosswalk and T-boned another car. Once you’re out of the rig, Bobby assigns you and Hen to the most critical pedestrian while Chimney and Eddie check on the driver.

“Hey there,” you greet, grabbing a C-collar from your bag. “What’s your name?”

“Shannon,” the woman musters. Her lips are pale and her voice is raspy.

“Hi Shannon, my friend Hen and I are going to look you over, okay?" You say as you start an IV. "Where does it hurt?”

“Nowhere,” she answers. “That can’t be good, right?”

“You’re in shock; we won’t know the extent of your injuries until we get you to the hospital,” you assure. “Can you wiggle your toes for me?”

You look down at her feet. They aren’t moving.

You place your hands in hers. “Can you squeeze my hands?”

Her hands sit limply in yours.

“I’m not doing anything, am I?” Shannon asks. She shakes her head as much as the collar will allow. “That’s bad. My husband, he’s a paramedic. He’s said that people with severe spinal cord injuries either die or probably wish they were dead.”

“No one’s dying, you hear me, Shannon?” You say, squeezing her hand, even if she can’t feel it.

Shannon. Her husband is a paramedic.

“Eddie,” you whisper before whipping your head around.

He’s already barreling towards the three of you. You stand up, taking a few quick steps forward. You place a hand on his chest to stop him from moving closer.

“Eddie, let me handle this,” you say in a low voice.

“How bad is it?” he asks, staring at his wife. “Spinal injury?”

“Maybe worse.”

Eddie pushes past you and kneels beside Shannon.

“Vitals are trending downward,” Hen says as she pulls her stethoscope from her ears.

“We need to get her out of here, now!” You order, ushering in some paramedics and EMTs.

Eddie stands by and watches as you and some other first responders transfer her onto a backboard and gurney. He then follows you and Hen as you load her into the rig.

“I’m riding with her,” he says, leaving no room for argument.

You turn to him, pressing your lips together. “Eddie, it looks like a cervical spine injury. We’ll probably have to intubate her. If we do that, there’s a good chance it’ll never come out.”

Tears form in his eyes. His jaw sets. He nods slightly.

“You need to say goodbye,” you whisper.

You end up intubating her in the ambulance. When you’re hitting the ER, her heart stops, and you begin chest compressions. They code her for about half an hour before Eddie says enough is enough. They call her time of death. Eddie goes to fill out paperwork while you pace around the waiting room.

He comes out a little while later, holding a plastic bag full of Shannon’s belongings. You stop dead in your tracks and just stare at him.

You rub your hands up and down your thighs. “Eddie, I’m so-”

Eddie pulls you into a bone-crushing hug. You return it in full force.

You open the door to Buck’s apartment. He’s in the kitchen with his back facing you. A bottle of champagne sits in a bucket of ice on the island. You hear a sizzling sound and watch his arms move. You close the door a little louder than normal.

“Hey, you’re home!” Buck says after he turns around. He’s holding a skillet in one hand and a spatula in the other.

“Sorry I’m late,” you say, dropping your bag and jacket on the floor by the front door. “I thought I was supposed to cook.”

“Well, since you were running behind, I figured I’d get a jump on things,” Buck says.

You smile. Even though it doesn’t feel genuine, you hope it looks it. “So you passed, huh?”

“In record time,” Buck adds, returning to his cooking. “Cap should clear me in no time.”

You kick off your shoes and take a seat at the kitchen island. “I’m proud of you. …I love you.”

Buck stops what he’s doing. He turns to face you again, a puzzled look on his face.

“You said it this morning, on your way out,” you say. “I say it in a lot of different ways, but I realized I never told you directly. So… I love you. I need you to know that.”

Buck folds his hands together and leans on the island. “Did something happen at work?”

You smile sadly. “Yeah. Uh… you know Shannon?”

“Eddie’s wife?”

You nod. “She got hit by a car when she was walking in a crosswalk — C-spine injury. We had to tube her in the ambulance. She coded and died in the ER.”

Buck takes his hands in yours. “Are you okay?”

Tears start to form, but you quickly blink them away. They aren’t yours to shed. “I’m fine. I mean, I was just doing my job.”

“How’s Eddie?”

You clear your throat. “Um, about as well as can be expected, I guess? He kind of just… took off. I called him a few times, and he texted me back saying he’s at home with Christopher.”

“That poor kid,” Buck mutters.

“Yeah,” you say quietly, playing with his fingers. “Life is short, so… I just needed to know that you know.”

Buck smiles softly. “I know.”

He begins to cough.

“Are you okay?” You ask.

He steps away, waving a hand as if to tell you he’s fine. He cups the other as he coughs into it.

“I’m gonna get you a glass of water,” you say, already standing to go to the cupboard.

Buck puts his free hand on your shoulder, stopping you. When he pulls back his hand, it’s spattered with blood. Your eyes widen as you look up at him.

“Buck?” you ask, setting a hand on his waist.

He starts coughing again, but this time, a flood of dark red blood flows out of his mouth and down his chin. He stumbles backward.

“Evan?!” you shout, helping him to the floor.

“You got lucky. Most people who suffer a pulmonary embolism aren’t in the same room as a medical professional. It saved your life.”

You’re sitting beside Buck, who’s lying in an ICU bed for the second time this year. You keep his hand in yours, your thumb gently rubbing the back of his hand.

“What caused the blood clot?” you ask.

“Clots, plural. There's the one that hit his lungs, and then there's two more in his leg,” The doctor explains. “As to the cause? It's unclear.”

“Yeah, but he just got a clean bill of health last week,” you argue. “This came out of nowhere.”

“Did it?” The doctor counters. He looks at Buck. “No pain or tenderness in the leg? Any skin discoloration, swelling?”

“...I thought I just pulled a muscle or something.”

You run your free hand over your face.

“Okay, um, well, great. Look, I'm not dead. You found the clots. When can I get out of here?” Buck asks.

“We'll move you to a room and keep you on the anticoagulants. Tomorrow, we'll run some more tests. And then we'll see.”

You thank the doctor for his time, and he dismisses himself from the room. You stare at Buck.

“I wasn’t ignoring this,” he says slowly.

“When did the symptoms start?”

“...A day or two ago.”

You stand out of your chair. “Dammit, Buck.”

“I didn’t know what it was,” he argues. “I thought it was a leg cramp or something.”

You start pacing. “If this happened when you were alone, you could have died.”

“But I-I didn't, okay?” Buck says. “Can… can you just sit down again? Please?”

After a moment, you sigh but ultimately listen to him. You take his hand again, this time with both of yours.

“The last time you were in the hospital, I told you I was scared of losing you. I hope I don’t have to repeat myself,” you say quietly.

“You don’t,” Buck assures. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Ch 8

#911 abc #evan buckley #evan buckley x reader #911 show #911 on abc #911 reader insert #evan buckley/reader #eddie diaz x reader #eddie diaz #evan buckley x eddie diaz x reader #Buddie x reader #buddie x reader #i can write #pretty boy fic

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blackcoldcrackedheart · 2 months ago

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Part 1 here Part 2 here

@teabroomsandbooks @exhaustedpirate @bornunderabluemoonbaby @azaharinflames @adian-ua

Buck couldn't blame Amir for looking so agitated. He had heard similar claims from people during calls and always felt his own internal alarms go off...

But this was different.

He had proof.

"Mr. Buckley," Amir sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose before crossing his arms, already on the defense. He had pulled Buck into the charge nurse's office since the other staffers were intrigued and invested in hearing how Buck was involved. "I'm not saying I don't believe you, but answer me this. You donated your sperm via the appropriate channels so that Mr. and Mrs. Johnson could have a child, correct?"

Buck nodded, his attention half taken away as he scrolled through his phone for the proof that he did in fact donate his sperm.

"Y-yeah."

"So in that case, I would hope that you and the Johnsons created and went through the proper legal channels when in came to defining your role in all this, is that also correct?"

Buck froze, he looked up and realized what Amir was asking.

He swallowed down the lump in his throat, he refused to cry but he could feel his eyes burn already in frustration. A part of him wanted to lie, but he knew how easy that would be for others to unravel.

"I-We-we did." He admitted gruffly, holding his phone tightly as Amir gave him a empathetic look.

"So is it safe to assume that you gave up your paternal right to their child and that you hold no responsibility to their child? Be it financially, emotionally, medically, and most importantly, legally?" Amir asked, his voice not as biting. He looked understanding.

Buck nodded, arms dropping to his side as he felt his adrenaline finally seep out of his muscles. He just felt tired. "I-I know I'm not anything to Daniel, not really. But-can't I see him? You and the other nurses mentioned that Daniel's family might not even make it to pick him up before CPS is called? Can't I- I don't know, can't i request to be made his emergency placement foster parent?" Buck begged, looking desperately at Amir for hope.

The older man looked flummoxed at that, Buck figured it didn't hurt to ask.

"Listen," Amir patted Buck's shoulder, "I can tell you care a lot about this child, and I want to believe you're a good person, but I don't want to give you false hope that-"

A knock and the door opening got their attention, "Amir?"

A tall woman with honey blond hair and dark rimmed glasses looked at them both. She wasn't wearing scrubs, Buck noticed, but did have a hospital ID.

"Hey Anita." Amir looked over at Buck, his expression grim as he introduced Anita Hernandez to Buck, the supervising social worker for the pediatric floor. "This is Evan Buckley." he cleared his throat, "He's the boyfriend of the first responder that rescued Daniel Johnson. He also happens to be the biological parent for Daniel." Amir noted dryly.

Buck watched Anita look taken back by all that as she went in to shake Buck's hand. "I'm going to guess you have the appropriate documents or some sort of proof to show you're his father?"

Buck gritted his teeth momentarily, "That's the thing, I'm not the dad I'm the-"

"The donor," Amir finished, looking between them with a unreadable expression. "Mr. Buckley has signed away his parental rights to Daniel but was wondering if he could be considered as an emergency placement."

Anita frowned at that, "No." she answered without hesitation, her expression barely softened as she told Buck, "I'm sure you understand that the Johnsons' do have family that have been contacted in regards to Daniel."

"Doesn't sound like that they are here yet." Buck retorted, trying to keep his patience and hope at a manageable level. He didn't miss the side eye from Anita, "Look, I know that I don't have any legal grounds here or anything, but I'm a firefighter, I know Connor and Kameron, I lived with Connor even. I just want to make sure Daniel doesn't go to some random person if his family doesn't come in time to get him. I have my own place, I've done background checks with my job and I even went through the classes to become certified as a backup since my friend and her wife were foster parents. I have all the documents to prove that too"

Anita looked unmoved by that despite saying, "Mr. Buckley, as touched as I am by all this," she put her hand over her heart to further emphasize her words, "We do need to follow protocol here, Daniel's family has been contacted and we trust that a family member will be here to retrieve him."

"But-"

"In the case they don't make it here in time, then please know that we are well versed in what steps we need to take in order to make sure Daniel is safe and taken care of by a vetted foster parent."

Buck rubbed his faced tiredly, shaking his head in frustration as he tried to clarify, "Look, I'm not trying to take Daniel away or anything, I just want to make sure he's safe. I know Connor and Kameron wouldn't want their kid to be placed in foster care."

Anita nodded, "I'm sure no parent wants their child to be placed in foster care, Mr. Buckley. And as for now that's not the case."

Before Buck could say something else, Amir jumped in. "Is there a chance that Mr. Buckley can be considered as a placement in the case no family shows?" he asked, Buck couldn't help but notice Anita's glare towards Amir darken.

"I'm not making any promises, and considering there's no documentation proving Mr. Buckley's relationship to the parents, I doubt a placement can occur without taking hours."

Buck didn't want to give up, he didn't want to. He didn't want to lose Daniel like this.

"Can you at least tell me if his family shows?"

Anita rolled her eyes, "That's out of my hands." she glanced at her watch, "I need to meet with my supervisees." She looked over at Amir, "We'll talk soon."

Amir nodded and held the door open for her and Buck.

Buck felt dejected and more helpless as he tried to figure out what and if there was anything he could do. He knew he had to be careful here, Anita and Amir were right about one thing: he knew he had no claims on Daniel, not legally.

He wasn't the dad, just the donor.

But Daniel needed him as much as Buck needed him right now.

Buck was sure he had a heart.

Buck was sure he was capable of breathing.

He was so sure.

Before he saw Tommy, and now?

Now he could barely gasp for air. He was too afraid to even touch Tommy now.

He knew that Tommy was his ex. But he still wanted to touch him. Buck needed to know that Tommy was still there, still warm and strong.

His hand hovered over Tommy's chest, thankful that Tommy was at least breathing on his own now. The top of his head was bandaged up, he had a cast on his leg and he looked like he had something wrapped around his hips since there was bulk around his middle. Tommy was covered in bruises as well as stiches and bandages on his arms, neck, and face (those were just the places Buck could see). He bent over Tommy, gingerly touching his curls. Despite his brain screaming "Don't do it!", Buck gently brushed his lips against Tommy's forehead. He wanted to say something; how much Tommy meant to him, how much he missed Tommy, how grateful he was to Tommy was saving Daniel. He wanted to beg too, beg Tommy to come back to him, to wake up, to open his eyes again.

But all the words felt too much and felt too overwhelming to say. He gulped down a sob but knew it was useless.

He brushed away the tears that ended up falling on Tommy's face and hand.

A part of him knew this would be time in where he would call Maddie, Eddie, or Bobby. But he couldn't. A part of Buck felt like he couldn't call them, not now at least. It wasn't like they could anything anyway. They couldn't give Buck wanted he wanted the most.

He just wanted Tommy.

Awake and healthy and safe Tommy.

Buck pulled a chair as close as he could to Tommy's bed, careful to not lean or pull on a wire or cord, but close enough that he could keep brushing his fingers through Tommy's hair.

He wasn't sure how long it was just them in that small room, with the only sound was the murmur of the people outside the room and the beeping of the heart monitor.

it was just the two of them in their bubble...

"Mr. Buckley?"

Buck jolted in his seat, the voice was soft and low but the person attached to the voice somehow came into the room without Buck noticing.

Buck looked up to see short woman with a mass of bronze curls, she looked nervous but resolute as Buck peered at her hospital badge. Claudia Perez, pediatric social worker.

Buck stood up, "Uh, yes?"

"Want to take a walk?"

"Listen," Claudia starts as she leads Buck down to the pediatric floor, her voice carefully steady but her eyes were filled with the type of nervous energy that made Buck pay close attention to what she was saying, "I know you don't have any legal rights to Daniel, but right now he's inconsolable- he's afraid and he misses his parents, I'm worried we're just traumatizing him more if we don't bring him to his parents or Tommy."

"He's really asking for Tommy?" Buck asked, his voice cracking as he stopped in his tracks.

Claudia stopped to turn to him, giving him a sad look. "It makes sense, Tommy did save him, twice from what I heard. He trauma bonded to that man. I think at this point it's either we send him to his parents; which we can't. Or we bring him to his "Tummy". But since I can't do either, I can at least bring you to him." she stopped right at a door with a colorful green board that read D. Johnson, Buck could already hear Daniel's cry. "And I think he needs you as much as you need him right now. Am i right?"

Buck felt his words catch in his throat, he could only nod as Claudia opened the door and led them into the room.

Daniel.

Daniel looked just like Buck.

How Daniel looked in that picture.

It felt too surreal for Buck.

Buck felt numb all over, not even registering that Daniel was still crying as Claudia ushered out two sitters out of the room.

Claudia tried to comfort the young toddler, but Daniel only screamed harder, his cries drowning out Claudia trying to introduce Buck to him.

Buck wasn't so sure what he was doing, but he felt himself going on autopilot as he pulled out his phone. Scrolling through his camera roll till he found the picture that still made his heart flutter.

"Hey Daniel," he showed the toddler the picture of him and Tommy- the time in where they went to the zoo just for fun and bought matching elephant and hippo ear headbands. The picture was of the two of them wearing the headbands and their laughter barely contained as they leaned into each other for the picture. "Who is that?" he asked,

He caught the moment in where Daniel recognized Tommy.

The young boy reached out for the phone, "Tummy!" he cried, a sliver of a frenzied laugh/cry from Daniel made Buck nearly sob again. "That's Tummy."

"Yeah," Buck wiped away his own tears, "That's Tommy." he scrolled to the next picture- the picture of Tommy wearing both headbands as Buck made a face as he sat behind Tommy to wrap an arm around Tommy's neck. "He's my friend, he and I are both firefighters." he told the young boy. "Do you want to see more pictures of Tommy?"

Daniel nodded.

His next move made Buck's heart lurch, the young boy stretched out his arms, signaling for Buck to pick him up.

Buck looked at Claudia, wanting to make sure it was okay.

The woman gave him small smile and a thumbs up.

"C'mon buddy." Buck cooed as he picked up Daniel and sat him on his lap, "I've got a bunch of Tommy stories to share."

It wasn't a great idea, but it was an idea that in the end made Buck and Daniel feel better.

They were back in Tommy's room, Claudia had managed to sneak them back down again. She warned Buck that she had to stay with them in the case they were found out but it was worth it, Daniel had stopped crying since coming into the hospital.

He didn't cry when he saw he saw Tommy finally.

("We can't let him see his parents, can we?" Buck asked, already knowing the answer.

Claudia's expression and answer were both grim, "Tommy would be way less traumatic for Daniel.")

"Tummy hurt?" Daniel asked, his chubby finger pointing at Tommy as Buck carried him, rubbing his back in comfort as Daniel looked close to tears again.

"Yeah, buddy." Buck replied honestly, "But he's going to get better, he just needs to sleep." he sat down in his previous spot, with Daniel in his lap. "He's going to be okay, I promise."

Daniel touched the back of Tommy's hand. "Hi Tummy."

Buck would probably never stop tearing up now. "He's your hero, huh?"

Daniel nodded.

"Mine too." Buck confessed, he pulled out his phone again. "You know when he wakes up, I bet he'll show you how to fly a helicopter or a plane. He likes flying." Buck explained, he showed the toddler the picture of Tommy and his helicopter, Tommy in the pilot's seat, Tommy and Buck standing in front of the helicopter. "Would you want to-"

It seems as though sleep had finally caught up with Daniel.

He remembered the time Bobby had compared having kids to having one's heart walk outside their body.

Seeing Daniel cuddle into his arms and sleep against his chest was definitely like that.

Daniel was even grasping the front of Buck's shirt as though he was afraid of Buck leaving him.

"Looks like you and Tommy were just the people he needed." Claudia said in awe as she watched Buck pull Daniel closer, careful to not wake the young boy.

"Y-yeah, i guess so."

Daniel had managed to sleep for at least two hours, with Buck nodding off for an hour himself.

By the time they both woke up, Claudia had managed to snag them both a tray of food and cartoons of apple juice.

A small part of Buck knew what this was.

This wasn't real.

Daniel wasn't his kid, not really.

And Tommy wasn't his boyfriend.

But it was too easy for Buck to see himself having all this.

He had nearly tricked himself into thinking he had it till he showed a picture of Connor and Kameron to Daniel, causing the young boy to softly exclaim "Daddy!" as he pointed to Connor.

"Yeah, that's-that's daddy." Buck agreed, a bit uneasy and guilt stricken as the image and idea of him, Daniel, and Tommy being (possibly) an actual family fizzled.

It wasn't improbable.

It was just unattainable.

But at one point he had imagined him and Tommy having kids. Doing the whole house, picket fence, and 2.5 kids.

He was sure Tommy wanted the same.

Tommy wanted a family.

Buck wanted a family...

"And who's that?" Buck asked, feigning enthusiasm, as he pointed to Kameron.

"Mommy." Daniel replied happily and touching the screen.

"You're such a smart kid." Buck cooed, hugging Daniel carefully (the kid was still healing as well). "And who's that?" Buck asked, pointing to a picture of Tommy.

"Tummy!"

"Right! And who's this?" Buck pointed to a picture of himself

"Buck!"

(Just Buck.)

Buck forced himself to smile, he gave Daniel a high five, "You're right again, you're so smart."

Daniel smiled brightly, it was too eerily similar to Buck's smile.

A knock at the door had Claudia and Buck on alert, before they could do anything the door opened.

"Bobby?" Buck was taken back as Bobby and Amir came into the room. "What are you doing here?" he asked, getting up as he carried Daniel in his arms.

Bobby looked as though was assessing the situation, his eyes falling on Tommy before shifting back to Buck and Daniel. Buck knew that Bobby was more taken back by the kid.

"Amir called me."

"How did-"

Bobby looked momentarily uncomfortable, "We had a case together. When you said you were firefighter, Amir called me to ask if i knew you." he pointed to Daniel, "Who's kid is that?"

Amir cut in before Buck could reply, his voice gruff as he looked at Claudia and Buck and asked, "The better question, why is the kid here?"

Next part

#bucktommy #tevan #it's gonna hurt more

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keys-hellscape-1020 · 2 years ago

Text

You’re a healer, not a fighter. And yet…

Enjoy more stitch y’all sorry it took me so long. Also the title for this is SO bad I’m so sorry.

Platonic!141 x Medic!reader

Tw: Canon typical violence, cursing, gore, blood, Background character death, explosions, grenades, heavy smoke, reader is dissociating, implied that reader is having a panic attack, military inaccuracies, light angst, hurt/comfort.

You hate, nay despise, when you get separated during missions. If history holds true, and it always does, it won’t end well.

You are currently stuck in a small room, well stuck is a strong word as you do have 2 possible exits, it’s just that neither is very promising.

The slightly more promising of the two is a small rectangular window on the other side of the room, about 6 feet away. You’re not sure if you could get your torso through, and even if you did, if the 5 story drop didn’t kill you the enemy that was swarming the building certainly would.

The other exit was a hallway, leading back the way you fled from. You were crouched in a corner that bordered the door, gripping your gun tightly. There was no cover in the room, simply beige walls and that dammed window.

Suddenly a loud noise crackled from your comms, causing you to fumble to quickly turn it down a few notches. “Stitch! Stitch are you there? We almost have the case!”

You shuddered in a breath, carefully watching the door as you lifted one hand up to your radio to respond. “Sounds good Soap. I’m currently pinned on the 5th story, no visual on the enemy.”

“Stitch do you have any way to get out of there? We are pushing on 7th story.” That was Price, you could hear the sounds of a firefight in the background.

“I’ll find a way around.”

“Copy that, repo quickly.”

You carefully came out of your corner, crouching near the door you grabbed the doorknob, quickly flinging the door open.

The moment the door opened it was filled with bullets. You ducked behind the wall, grabbed a grenade from your gear pulled the pin and hoped.

When you heard a loud explosion paired with a choir of screams you leapt into the doorway, your gun posed in front of you.

You quickly took care of the few enemies you could see between the smoke and rubble. After a moment of no movement you moved forward to the rubble.

Crouching down you looked at the one solider who was still alive from your assault, half buried under rubble. He was a big fucker.

“Fuck off.” He growled at you as blood ran down his face.

You assessed him with a critical eye. His injuries would prevent him from moving very far. If you moved all weapons away from his reach he wouldn’t be a threat. That is assuming he lives.

You leaned over him to grab his sidearm from its holster on his side. As you leaned over he grabbed your arm with one hand and your shoulder with the other.

In any other circumstances he would’ve been able to break your arm, but he was injured and you were on high alert. You quickly tore his side arm from its holster and drove it into the side of his head, knocking his grip off of you.

Pointing his gun at his forehead you growled, “I am showing you mercy. Do not make me regret it.”

Breaking you out of your focused state was your radio, crackling to life loudly on your chest.

“STITCH! DON’T- THE EMEMY- TRAP”

The enemy used your shock to his advantage, grabbing your elbow and attempting to pry the gun from your grasp. You however were still faster despite your shock. You ram you head into his, causing him to let go of your elbow. You then pull your knife from its sheath and drive it home in the side of his neck.

With his blood staining your hands you turned to respond to your radio, ignoring the enemy’s gurgling in the background.

“What about the enemy? Do you have the case?” You asked, concern growing in your chest.

“STITCH” That at least you could tell was Price.

“Captain? Captain what’s going on?” You asked frantically, you had to fight the urge to run to them. If things were going wrong getting yourself hurt would not help anyone.

Suddenly your radio was full of very loud static. You fiddled with the channel, hoping it was just a technical error, but the longer you tried to get a connection the more you lost hope that it was simply a technical error.

You feel the blood drain from your face as the reality of the situation hit you. Your boys were captured. You quickly switch your mic off. Damnit.

Alright think. Your boys still have to be in the building, there’s no way they got them out already. You know they were heading to the 7th floor. The enemy will most likely be taking them up to the roof to lift them out. You just had to intercept them in time.

That is assuming they’re not dead.

But there is no time to think like that. They can’t be dead. If they’re dead you’re going to drag their sorry asses back to the living world and kill them again.

You quickly look around in the rubble, there has to be something here you can use. The corpse of an enemy solider catches your eye. They’re about the same build as you and while their uniform is splattered in blood it would do the job well enough.

You quickly pull on their jacket and vest along with their helmet. You could only hope that would be enough, you had to move.

————

You found the stairwell on the 5th floor, once you executed your plan you would have to move quickly or face loosing your boys forever.

You quickly started climbing the stories, you keep marching forward undisturbed until you got to the 8th story, when you were met with two guards.

“Who the fuck are you?” One of the guards shouted at you, pointing his gun at your head.

You quickly raised you hands in the air, it was vital they thought you one of them. “We- were attacked. 5th floor. Everyone is dead.” You croaked, forcing tears into your eyes and tightening your throat.

The two guards looked at each other, back at you, then lowered their guns a few inches.

“Where on the 5th floor was this and when?” One guard questioned, narrowing their eyes at you.

Fuck. You thought it was on the western side but you couldn’t be sure. No more that 10 minutes could’ve passed since it happened, but how could you be certain?

You couldn’t be, you just had to take a guess and hope you were right. “Western side.” You shuddered, hoping you weren’t overdoing your acting. “It- it just happened. No more then 10 minutes ago.”

“We just lost contact with a group on the eastern side. You know anything about that?” The guard shot you a suspicious glance. The other one fiddled with their trigger, glaring at you.

Fuck it.

You grabbed the one who was fiddling with their trigger and pulled them in front of you, using them as a human shield against their friend who sprayed a wave of bullets at you on instinct.

You pushed one guard into the other, and while they were reeling from the shock of having their friends mutilated corpse pushed into them you grabbed your knife and rammed it into the side of their head, aiming at the lisp of their helmet and angling upwards. So much for the plan.

There were footsteps coming down the stairwell, you had to act fast. Quickly you stash your knife in its sheath before pulling out your gun and firing it at the entry to the 8th floor, shouting expletives.

A team of 6 rounds the corner on high alert, they’re looking where you’re shooting and not at you, good.

“They went that way!” You shout, gesturing towards the door with a nod of your head.

“Move!” The leader barked, rushing towards the door. You pressed yourself to the wall, watching as they filed into the empty floor.

Once the coast is clear and the last of the enemies are through the door you turn around to creep carefully yet quickly up the rest of the stairs.

You manage to move up the next two flights of stairs without difficulty. You make your way to the floor right below the roof and listen carefully, your ear perched right up against the door.

You are met with the sounds of very angry, very Scottish yelling. You let out a shallow sigh of relief. Just as you suspected your boys are still in the building, now the hard part. Getting them out of it in one piece.

You wait at the door a moment longer listening for any clues, you fail to hear any coming from beyond the door, but you do hear one from above.

Carefully, and ever so slowly, cracking the door to the roof open, you are met with exactly what you expected. A helicopter is slowly descending to the platform on the roof, surrounding said platform is at least 5-8 enemy soldiers.

While not great you can work with these conditions, and that’s what you plan to do.

Not that you have much of a choice.

————

You quickly run to the floor they’re holding your boys and in a moment of fuck-it-I-have-nothing-to-loose (you’re lying to yourself you have everything to loose), you charge in, slamming the door to the wall.

You immediately stand at attention, and direct your eyesight to the man you hope you are correctly assuming is in charge.

When no bullets start firing at you you realize they are waiting for you to speak.

“Sir!” You bark out. “The heli is waiting on the roof sir!”

An old, short man turns to focus his eyes on you. You feel the cold sweat gathering on your neck as he fails to say anything, you swear that in the moment you could feel him cracking open your chest and feasting inside. Discovering all your secrets, uncovering all your sins.

Then he speaks, “bout damn time! Have the rest of your team come down. Escort these damn prisoners the fuck out of here!”

You turn to report to the rest of your fake team when a sense of dread hits you like a cold water ballon.

The messenger they would be sending. To alert the old fucker about the heli landing. That you already told him about.

“Stupid, stupid, stupid!!” You hiss out quietly to yourself, two seconds away from stomping your foot and pouting like a child.

Your panic is cut short however when the door to the roof opens. You quickly snap to attention as the solider heads towards you, fixing you with a scalding glare.

“What are you doing?” They question. You feel like they are a priest, pulling all your sins out of you one by one.

“I’ve been assigned to guard here, on account of the enemy solider running amok.” You say stoically, puffing out your chest in a crude imitation of a loyal solider, proud to be guarding their commander.

The other solider briefly stares at you, before gesturing for you to get out of the way. Fuck there’s nothing you can do. Any attempt at taking them out would surly be heard. Fuck it- there’s nothing you can do.

You step aside.

————

It feels like a lifetime as you wait for a sound, a whimper, a pen dropping, an indication of what your next move should be. It feels like a lifetime as suddenly the door you’re standing next to bursts open.

You are guided by instinct as you fire a bullet into the head of the solider who had opened the door. You duck low, pull the pin on a grenade, and throw it into the room.

You are shaken by the proximity of the explosion, and your ears are ringing fiercely. You push forwards anyway, and once you are well hidden by the smoke in the room you duck behind the remains of a pillar. You hear movement and you quickly peek out form behind it, firing wildly. It is only another moment before the smoke begins to clear enough that you can see.

You glance around cautiously, and see that every solider in this room is dead, remarkably there are fewer corpses then you expected. The only option for where your boys could be is behind a door on the other end of the room.

You can hear yelling coming from it.

You can hear footsteps from behind you.

You slam the door behind you shut, amazed it’s still on it’s hinges. You grab a chair and shove it beneath the handle. You hope that buys you enough time to get your boys out because otherwise you’re doomed.

You approach the door, your gun posed in front of you, and kick.

The door holds.

You kick again.

The doorframe splinters under the force with a shrieking groan and the door swings open.

You are met with the man who you had addressed before, holding a pistol to Price’s head. All of your boys are in the room, looking like they had been thrown in haphazardly, their arms tied behind their back and their legs held together by zip-ties.

You creep one foot into the room before the old fucker shouts out, “Stop! One more step and I blow his brains out!” As he speaks he kicks Price, not hard enough to send him to the ground, but he still lets out a small grunt of pain.

“Hands off him ye’ wanker!!” Soap shouts out from one side of the small room. He pulls against his bonds with a groan, but does not accomplish anything.

Suddenly a loud shout and a bang is heard from the farthest door. You are forced to turn around, your gun held high, as you hear the enemy continue to struggle to get in.

“You’ll be dead soon. Surrender and maybe I’ll go easy on-” suddenly his speech dissolves into a blubbering mess of groans and hiccups, all began by the distinct sound of metal sinking into flesh.

You whirl around, panicked, only to see your Captain standing over the fluttering body of the enemy commander, holding a small pocket knife.

He glances at you over his shoulder before speaking, “Hold the door, I’ll get them out.”

You do as he says, moving to crouch behind a pillar, gaze trained on the door.

“Sir,” you call out over your shoulder, “enemy heli on the roof.”

Price makes a noise of acknowledgment and quickly crouches down next to you behind the pillar, an enemy gun in his hands. You barely notice Ghost, Soap, and Gaz moving to shelter on the other side of the room before the door bursts open with a sense of finality.

————

It’s nothing short a blood bath, a mess of bullets and gunpowder framing the centerpiece of organs and body parts. Bone fragments, and limbs, and cries of pain and pleas to merciless gods. It feels like both a century and a moment before soldiers stop flooding into the room.

Price motions for you to move forward, and gestures towards your belt silently. A smoke grenade. You nod in understanding and pose right behind a door, a smoke grenade in your hand. You glance over your shoulder briefly, checking that all your boys are in place.

With a confirmation that they’re ready you pull the pin on the grenade, shut your eyes tightly, and throw it. Once you hear the smoke dispense you desperately push forward.

It feels like a fever dream, moving through smoke and cries of pain. You feel like you’re watching a movie, a compilation of photos as you feel yourself pull the trigger again and again and again. Body responding before you can even think to. You feel every movement so intensely, and yet not at all. Like a puppet you react to your instincts, watching your boy’s backs. Making sure they stay safe. By the time the smoke clears and you’re ready to move to the roof you swear you can feel yourself swimming in blood. You can feel it creeping up your shoes, your shins and your knees, you hips, up and up until it’s entering your throat and your nose- suffocating you- you can’t breathe-

“Stitch?” You’re forced back into your body by a firm hand on your shoulder. Turning your head you see Gaz standing next to you, somehow managing to pull a small, kind smile onto his face. “We’re almost out.” He soothes kindly.

You swallow the blood in your throat before nodding firmly. “Right. We’re almost out.”

————

It was surprisingly easy to take control of the helicopter, but you suppose you should have expected that. Once they’d heard the shooting and explosions beneath their feet they would have almost certainly abandoned their post in favor of helping their allies. It doesn’t truly matter to you though, their lives ended all the same.

After busting through the door, that they hadn’t even bothered to lock in their rush, it was simply a matter of taking out 3 soldiers and the pilot. A laughably easy task considering what you had just accomplished.

You leaned back in your seat on the helicopter heavily, resting your head back against the side of the beast. You feel your weariness in every bone in your body. You don’t think you’ve ever dealt so much death in such a short period of time. While you were no stranger to the feeling of taking a life, you took less than the average solider. You focused on mending, not breaking, whenever possible.

You supposed that today mending life was not in cards as much as tearing it apart. You wonder if you have what it takes to be a solider, if you break at the first sign of difficulty.

You’re broken out of your thoughts by a firm hand on your knee. You open your eyes and sit up to be met with the sight of Soap’s big blue eyes staring at you in concern.

It’s takes you a moment before you notice that he’s handing you something, his field journal. You take it with a confused glance, but he mearly gestures for you to look inside.

You look at the page he was holding open, it contains many small doodles, that despite their small size are still remarkably well done. You see doodles of Ghost and Gaz, who are sitting across from you. He’s sketched how they currently look, Gaz with his head resting on his fist as he stares at the clouds racing by. Ghost as he leans back, his arms and legs crossed.

What really draws your attention though is a question, messily scrawled beneath the doodles. Next to it is a stylized, cartoonish drawing of you, surrounded by several hearts.

The question reads, “You alright hun?”

You look up at Johnny and he blinks at you a few times before suddenly startling, like he had forgotten something, and sheepishly handing you a pencil.

You scrawl down right below Johnny’s handwriting, “I’ll live. You?” You hand his journal back to him, and watch as he scrawls down his response.

“Bit shaken, thought I was done in for a second there. At least until you stepped in <3” Next to the heart he’s drawn a goofy kissy face, equipped with his signature Mohawk and all.

Johnny and your’s silent conversation is cut short by Price shouting over the sound of the heli from up by the cockpit, “We’re landing in 2 minutes!”

“Roger that Cap!” You yell back, handing Johnny his journal back with a ruffle of his Mohawk. He gawks at you in playful insult while you go about making sure you (and your boys) are prepped for landing.

————

Once you’ve got both your feet back inside base exhaustion hits you like a tsunami wave. Now that you’re certain you’re safe the adrenaline is fading like water out of a balloon. Despite the fatigue festering in every part of your person, you’re not in bed. Instead you’re in the armory, cleaning your gear.

You want nothing more than to sleep, but it’s routine for you to make sure all of your duties are accomplished first so you can sleep well. You’re silently taking apart a pistol when you hear footsteps approaching the armory, knocking you out of your thoughts.

It’s only a moment before Price walks through the doors, surprisingly enough he’s not carrying any of his own weapons.

As soon as he sees where you’re sat on one of the benches he B-Lines to you, approaching with a speed and purpose that you’ve only seen him use on missions. The adrenaline from the mission must still be in his system, you muse. He’s been in this industry long enough for it to make sense.

“Go the fuck to sleep sergeant. The actual hell are you still doing awake?” He barks as he approaches you.

“Will soon sir.” You respond nonchalantly. “Just cleaning my gear first.”

He guffaws like it’s the most foolish thing he’s heard all day, (which says a lot considering he has gotten captured today) and gestures for you to scoot over.

You do so, slightly confused by what he intends to do. Once you’ve made room on the bench he sits down next to you and grabs your vest. As he lays it on his lap he goes through the pockets systematically, making sure the vest is perfectly up to code.

As you observe him you’re slightly surprised by his actions, you imagine he must be wanting to go to sleep after the day he’s had.

“You don’t have to help me sir.” You say carefully, tip-toeing around his grumpy outward appearance.

“A good leader always makes sure his soldiers are taken care of before himself. Now finish cleaning that pistol so we can get the fuck to bed.”

————

With Price helping you it didn’t take long for you to finish and finally head to bed. You could feel your feet sticking to the ground with every step, and it took you twice as long as it normally did to walk to your barracks from the armory.

As you approach your door you notice a slumped figure next to it, causing adrenaline from the day to start kicking back up inside you. Feeling your heart start to hammer, yet not having the energy to do anything about it, you continue to approach leisurely.

As you get closer you recognize the balaclava and all black clothing that clings to a large frame. Ghost. When you finally stand next to him you nudge his hip with your foot.

“Come on big guy.”

He blinks up at you wearily, but starts to stand all the same as you unlock your door. You walk in and throw your boots and jacket off as you approach your bed, little care for where they end up.

You flop down on your bed, the scratchy blankets and thin military mattress feeling like paradise after all you’d been through. When you see ghost’s shadow approaching out of the corner of your eye you roll over, facing the wall.

You feel Ghost lie down on your mattress and sling a heavy arm over your waist as you both settle down into a deep sleep.

It had been a hard day, but you would do it all over again for your boys.

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fantasylover145 · 28 days ago

Text

I don't really get Eddie's comments during the lawsuit. I'm not even talking about how he treated Buck like a deadbeat dad, which makes no sense too since 3 weeks is hardly enough time to complain about but whatever. I understand he was dealing with his grief from losing Shannon, his anger issues, almost losing Chris and dealing with Chrisopher's nightmares, so Eddie going to a fight club makes sense. But what doesn't is Eddie saying that Buck "decided to make Bobby the bad guy", like what?! Bobby was the bad guy!! Bobby was wrongfully keeping Buck from his job and lied to him about it and this is all after he was cleared to go back. With that comment Eddie was acting like Buck was being a dick who had no right but he did, he won for a reason!! It was six months of Buck being off work to recover and then being put on desk duty by Bobby and then lied to about why he couldn't come back. I mean sure Bobby only did it so Buck could be safe but the irony of purposely putting someone with a history of blood clots on a desk job is fucking insane. Bobby couldn't have assigned him any other fucking job?! Buck definitely should of gone to the union instead of suing but he had a right to do it. And as much as it was shitty for the lawyer to bring up all that stuff it would all be public record. The lawyer was completely right about how Bobby was treating Buck differently and that the rest got back to work waaaay too quickly, which shows how irresponsible Bobby was in his position of authority. Bobby should know better. If he was going to hold Buck back even though he seemed both mentally and physically fit then he should of kept the rest back to (who were very clearly not mentally fit to be back like at all).

As fantastic of a captain as he is, he can be a pretty shitty boss. He had Buck go to a therapist after he lost his first victim, who was then sexually assaulted/exploited and we can only assume that Bobby knows and that's why Dr Wells got fired but then didn't offer Buck support?! Chim didn't receive counselling after he had a fucking rebar through his skull. And it was only after way too much time that Hen and Eddie, where Eddie literally got arrested and almost killed someone, for Bobby to intervene.

Bobby actually see's his workers slowly implode from the inside out and doesn't do anything until after they almost destroy their own lives. Bobby is a great parental figure to them all and provides fantastic advice but one conversation with his team isn't going to fix anything and he shouldn't think that it will, he should be providing his team resources, he should actually be helping them. Or at the very least intervening before shit hits the fan. Like why is this a continuous pattern with Bobby?! He learnt with Eddie in season five but that was the only time he did the right fucking thing. Moreover, after that Chim gets stabbed with rebar again and then has a traumatic episode, hallucinates the guy who stabbed him whilst he was dying, and sure Bobby may not have known the whole story, he still doesn't see fit to send him to see a fucking therapist?!? Buck and Chim both fucking died and neither got mandatory therapy for it, this is negligent and Bobby should be doing better. Bobby shouldn't just be taking them at their word but putting in place a support system that would help them process all this.

This is why I will not side with Bobby on the lawsuit, he seems to have a very consistent pattern of neglecting what his team actually needs. Bobby has worked as a firefighter for most of his adult life, he knows how the system works, and from personal experience he knows how mental and physical injuries can cause mistakes and cost lives. But instead of setting up a system to support everyone to make sure they are mentally fit to report to work, he just isn't. He only seems to ask if they are physically capable, if Bobby thought that Buck was lying about being physically ready he could of asked the doctors who cleared him, since he is a emergency contact, he could of done his research instead of lying. I do think Buck should taken more time to deal with all the trauma and everything but there were much better ways for Bobby to handle his worry for Buck. Especially since Bobby was just projecting HIS OWN TRAUMA onto him, because he was worried Buck would end up like him.

#911 abc #eddie diaz #evan buckley #bobby nash

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secretswiftymarvelfan · 1 year ago

Note

Another one for your I love you 3000 Bonanza 🙈💙

Johnny Storm, Emergency Service AU, "I said I'd take care of you"

Thank you for sending in an ask! I couldn't resist the irony of making the human torch a firefighter!

Something there - Firefighter!Johnny x Reader

Summary: after a somewhat rocky start you begin to wonder whether there was something between you and Johnny

Word Count: 1.8k

Warning: Mention of injury! Mention of Fire emergency! Minor Angst! Fluff!

Dividers by @firefly-graphics

Masterlist / Celebration Masterlist

You took a deep breath as you looked up at your new station, your new home whenever you were on shift. A quick glance told you that you didn’t have any more time to admire the station before you were late.

You shouldered your bag and made your way inside to find one of your new colleagues reclined back in his chair at the front desk, feet up on the desk. A lopsided smile grew on his face when he spotted you, sitting up to rest his forearms on the desk instead.

“Probie?”

“Pardon?” You arched a brow at him.

“You’re the new recruit right, Probationary firefighter aka Probie?” He said mimicking your expression.

“Right… well I’m looking for Captain Rogers? Can you point me in the right direction?” You asked.

The smile on the man’s face, an annoyingly handsome face, grew as he stood up from the desk “I’ll do you one better, I’ll take you there myself, I’m Johnny by the way” he introduced himself, holding out his hand.

You shook his hand “Y/N”

Johnny nodded in acknowledgement “C’mon Probie, this way” he then said nodding his head towards the corridor.

You rolled your eyes but followed him down the corridor towards the captain’s office. Your Captain was thankfully more welcoming even if he seemed far too used to Johnny's antics.

“Storm, can you give Y/N a tour of the station?” He asked once the meeting was over.

Johnny who had been leaning against the wall outside the office stood to attention and saluted “Aye aye captain”

Captain Rogers just responded with an exasperated sigh before disappearing back into his office.

“C’mon Probie let me show you our castle” Johnny smirked as he waved his hand for you to follow.

You rolled your eyes at him again “How long is this probie nickname gonna stay?” You asked

“Until you’re promoted, or if you do something so stupid enough to earn another” Johnny smirked over his shoulder.

“What’s yours then?”

Johnny stopped and turned to face you “Why’d you assume I have one?”

“I’m good at reading people and you’re cocky there’s no way you haven’t earnt a nickname from doing something stupid” you stated, arms crossed over your chest.

Johnny remained silent long enough for you to worry that you’d crossed a line. His eyes just studied you, dipping for a second before they returned to your face.

“Human Torch” he finally said before you had the chance to apologise.

You swallowed as you looked up at him “That sounds like an interesting story”

“It is, but one for another time” he winked, the cocky attitude returning like it never left, he turned and walked off “You coming probie?” He called when you didn’t immediately follow.

You remained silent as he showed you around the station, pointing out your locker, where you’d sleep on overnight shifts. He introduced you to the rest of the crew, all very friendly faces. It was only at the end of the tour when he took you back to the locker room to put away your stuff that you felt brave enough to talk to him again.

“So are there any other probie things I should look out for, like pranks or something?” You asked.

A lopsided smile grew on his face as he shook his head “Nah don’t worry, I’ll take care of you”

Your brows rose in surprise “Really?”

“Sure it’s what crewmates do for each other” he shrugged with that lopsided smile still on his face.

You narrowed your eyes at him, suddenly suspicious “You’re not saying that so I lower my guard right?”

Johnny smirked as he backed away tapping the tip of his nose “I’m not one to give away my secrets” he said before he turned and left you alone.

Despite the somewhat rocky start, you and Johnny formed a quick friendship. He was the crewmate you felt closest to out of them all and you quite often found yourself working with him whenever pairs were required.

You were so close that you began to wonder if there was something more between the two of you. A question that rattled through your mind when he was the first one to come to your rescue when you hurt your ankle on a call out.

A question that you had a lot of time to ponder when you were signed off for two weeks to recover from your sprained ankle.

You were sat on your couch, your foot propped up on the coffee table, an old sitcom on the TV that you were barely watching. A knock on your apartment door brought you back to the real world.

You grabbed your crutch and hobbled your way over to the door. You were surprised and excited to see that it was Johnny on the other side with a lopsided smile on his face and hands full of bags.

“Johnny… what are you doing here?” You breathed.

“Injuries can be boring so I thought I’d keep you company” he grinned nodding for you to move out of the way so he could step inside “You have a bath right?” He asked as you stepped aside.

“…yeah,” you said slowly.

“Good because I don’t think this bath shit will work in the shower,” Johnny said as he marched on down to your bathroom.

“Johnny- I- What?” You stuttered as you hobbled after him.

He didn’t answer you, he just carried on in his mission, setting down the bags before beginning to run you a bath.

“Johnny, please can you just tell me what’s going on?” You pleaded.

“I’m running you a nice relaxing bath, then I’m gonna sort out dinner and then we’ll just relax together, watch a movie” he said with a casual shrug of his shoulders.

“But-but why? You don’t need to” you muttered in disbelief.

“I said I’d take care of you remember?” He smiled.

You tilted your head in confusion trying to recall when he said that. You were about to question him when the memory resurfaced, your first day at the station. He’d said he’d look after you when you asked him about pranks. It was only now that you realised you never really got pranked, there was no hazing it was pretty smooth. You had expected Johnny to forget but he didn’t.

“So I’m gonna leave the bathroom now so you can relax in this nice hot bath, just shout if you need me and I promise not to look unless you ask me to” he winked before slipping past you out of the bathroom, leaving you with the bombshell of a realisation you just had.

The only reason you were able to move and get into the bath was that you didn’t want it to go cold. As soon as you slipped under the warm, soapy, bubbly water you couldn’t stop the moan that escaped your lips. This was the best bath you’d ever had, you swore as soon as you got out of this tub you’d do whatever you needed to do to get whatever bath secrets he had.

Once you were done and re-dressed in a fresh set of comfies you found Johnny in your living room with bowls of snacks laid out in arms reach.

“So how exactly are you sorting dinner? Because we both know for a fact that you can’t cook” you said as you settled back down on the couch.

Johnny instantly moved to help lift your ankle up onto a pillow that he’d set up on the coffee table to keep your ankle elevated, he then picked up a selection of takeout menus that you hadn’t noticed “Take your pick” he grinned as he held them out to you.

You grinned up at him “I thought a healthy diet was good for recovery” You smirked as he sat back down next to you.

“True, but you also deserved to be spoilt, so whatever you want I’ll get”

“Anything?”

“Anything”

You bit your lip and pondered what you could get him to do for you. Your mind went back to what he said as he was running your bath, you wanted the confirmation that maybe there was something there but you just weren’t brave enough to outright ask. You did think of something else you could ask that could get you the same answer though.

“How did you get your nickname?” it was the one secret that you still had yet to find out yet, it was a card he kept close to his chest so if he was willing to tell you then maybe, just maybe it would be the confirmation you needed.

Johnny blinked the playfulness disappearing from his eyes for a split second before he looked away. You were about to back out, tell him that he didn’t need to tell you especially when he shifted so his back was to you. But then he moved and took off his tee to reveal a large scar down his back, one that looked like a flame.

“The crew was off duty, getting a couple of beers after our shift” Johnny started keeping his back to you “We were walking home when a fire broke out at a tiny bistro, the whole place was already engulfed and there wasn’t a truck or crew nearby… we helped control the crowd and evacuate, but then in the corner of my eye I saw someone run into the building, no one else did so they all thought I was crazy when I ran in after them”

“But you didn’t have your gear” you whispered.

Johnny shook his head, his back still to you “Another reason they thought I was crazy, but I went in and I found this teenage girl, she must have slipped on something as she was trying to make her way back out, she was holding a frame in her arms as she lay on the floor” he continued “I picked her up and carried her back out but the back of my shirt caught fire as I left, it was agony but I kept going, I get the both of us out and got this scar, once the guys saw it they called me the human torch”

“What happened to the girl?” you asked.

“She was fine, just a minor concussion and a couple of burns on her arms, she was the owner’s daughter and went in to grab a family photo” Johnny sighed as he pulled his tee back on and finally turned back to face you “so that was the stupid thing I did”

“No” you muttered shaking your head “it was the heroic thing you did”

The smallest of smiles tugged at his lips “Thanks” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

You shifted on the couch so you could rest your head on his shoulder “No… thank you” you whispered, knowing you had your answer there was definitely something here now it was just a question of who was brave enough to break first.

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quaranmine · 1 year ago

Text

The Incandescence of a Dying Light (Chapter Ten)

Grian finds something.

Chapter Ten: 8,359 words

<< Chapter Nine | Masterpost | Chapter Eleven >>

Hi! I finished this a few weeks ago but sat on it for a while so I could write ahead and reference it. I meant to have art ready for this chapter, but it never materialized so I'm posting it without. I'd rather have the writing done than the art. If I do art later I will add it, both to this post and the masterpost.

No CW for this chapter. A lot happens though! :D

February 2, 1989

Grian is not the sort of person to say he believes in fate—this idea that something is meant to happen, or that all roads taken converge on the same location, or that a random coincidence is a sign of something more. He’s not even trying to be a cynic. He just doesn’t think the patterns exist.

Sometimes, though, things do work out like that. Sometimes it’s hard to look at something and not see it for the bright, shining ball of sheer rightness that it is. It’s small, but it’s fate.

It’s meant to be.

He’s having a moment like that right now, in a very strange place for it. He’s standing on the kitchen tile in wool socks, holding today’s copy of the newspaper.

It’s freezing outside, both literally and figuratively. A cold front has moved in this week, bringing with it below 0 temperatures—and that’s Farhenheit, which Grian is still clumsily learning—as well as sleet and snow. The streets are slowly turning white with a thin layer of snow. Grian’s not sure if the temperatures right now are record-breaking or not, but they’re certainly colder than average. The kitchen faucet steadily drip-drips in the background, his effort to keep the pipes from freezing.

He still has work in the morning though, because of course he does.

Grian doesn’t always read the entire newspaper, but he gets a copy of The Denver Post every day anyway. For the past several months he’s been browsing through the want ads in the back. Does he want to quit his current job and get more peace of mind, or does he want to find a second job so that the bills are easier? It’s hard to say, but looking through the advertisements reminds him that there are other options out there. Maybe one day he’ll find something that will dig him out of the hole he’s currently in.

Well, this newspaper seems to be handing him a shovel.

It's the Forest Service logo that catches his eye, with its badge and pine tree in the center. They've taken out a relatively large ad in the bottom quarter of one of the sheets. It says:

Hiring NOW! Seasonal positions in the beautiful Rockies!

There's a list of positions available, along with the GS4 hourly pay rates. Trail crew, concessional employees, interpretative ranger, wildland firefighter, fire line digging, and fire lookout. None of them pay well, but it's all above the minimum wage at least.

And, well, the ad also says No experience necessary.

It's the last one that catches his eye. Fire lookout. He's not 100% what the job entails, but he remembers visiting one with Mumbo a few months after they arrived. Just an hour and a half from Denver, it was located in the Pike National Forest. They'd camped on a roadside spot that weekend and hiked a short trail up a mountain to see the lookout. Grian had been more interested in the view of Pikes Peak than anything else, though.

The ad lists the Pike National Forest as having seasonal positions open, as well as numerous other locations that Grian assumes are also in Colorado somewhere. He recognizes one as being in Montana. Those fade away in his mind though, because of what he notices next. It's like a beacon on the page.

Shoshone National Forest.

There's a plan starting to form in his mind. Is it a crazy one? Almost certainly, but the more he thinks about it the less it seems that way. He's all the way out here, and Mumbo is all the way out there. If he gets a job in the same National Forest, he can close that distance.

If he's there he can search. If he's there he can actually find Mumbo himself and bring him home.

Grian needs to stop relying on the Forest personnel and start relying on himself. He knows of no plans to restart the search in the spring. Right now in the winter, he couldn't even search if he wanted to—most of the roads in the Forest, save the main highway, are seasonally closed due to snow and ice.

Nobody's helping him anymore. Nobody cares anymore, but Grian does. He always does. Mumbo’s family cares too. He can't fix what went wrong for his family and he can't turn back time to go with Mumbo instead, but maybe he can do this.

Fire lookout also just seems like the least strenuous job listed. He certainly doesn't think he's cut out for any firefighting, at least. He also suspects it'll involve less interaction with other people than the others. He's not sure he can take other people anymore. The fire lookout he'd visited with Mumbo was a busy destination, but Grian already knows that the area Mumbo went missing in is nearly pure wilderness.

It's the perfect job. It's everything he needs handed to him in one convenient spot. It's almost like fate.

The ad states to send inquiries to an address listed in Lakewood, Colorado, which is in the Denver area. The first address line identifies this as their Region 2 office. Once they receive inquiries, they'll mail an application for him to fill out. There's also a phone number, with the same area code he has. He thinks that’s probably the fastest way to request an application, short of driving to their office himself.

Grian reaches for a notepad on the counter and starts copying the information down.

»»———-　　———-««

July 1989

Grian flees the Ranger’s station as fast as possible, bouncing down that 19 mile road to the Thorofare trail in record time. By the time he reaches it his teeth are nearly rattled out of his head, his backpack is strewn across the floorboard, and his hands are still shaking. When he throws the vehicle in park, he just sits there a minute, looking out the windshield at the trees beyond.

He’s not the only car in the parking lot this time, but it’s not a busy location by any means. The sun is warm and low in the sky, casting long tree shadows across the gravel.

The manila folder is in the passenger’s seat. Its contents have shifted throughout the journey, and some of the papers have started to slide out. Grian catches a glimpse of words printed on a page, and even that’s enough to cause his heart to stutter.

This is real. This is important.

He takes a deep breath, and then gathers the papers back into their folder neatly. He doesn’t look, not yet. He wants to, but he needs time to examine it. He needs to start back toward his lookout while there’s still enough light to do so. He’s all alone out here. Nobody followed him from the ranger’s station. But he’s still running, in a way.

Grian gathers his things, and starts back down the trail.

He remembers the first time he hiked this trail, heading toward his lookout for the first time. Last time, he’d nearly lost himself in the quiet repetition and the soft rustle of wind in the trees. This time, his mind races and his steps are fast. Last time, it felt like a beginning. This time, it feels like an ending.

Will this be the last time he hikes up here, he wonders? He might find himself getting an escort back to his car in the next few days. He’ll probably get fired after being caught stealing the documents. At minimum, he’s in trouble. But will any of it matter if he finds Mumbo? He’ll be gone anyway as soon as that happens. Maybe this will be the last time he hikes up here because it’s the last time he’ll ever need to.

The shadows continue to lengthen and the trail begins to get dark. The sun sets early in the mountains, and even earlier in the forests where the sky is blocked out. He has to start squinting to even make out the bumps and rocks in the trail so he doesn’t trip.

“I guess it’s time to stop for the night,” he says to himself. He knew he wouldn’t be able to get back to the lookout by the end of the day anyway. He’d just—he’d just wanted to be on the way home, separated from the chaos he left in his wake and in the relative peace of the forest. His car is a link to the outside world. The trail is just him and his thoughts. He had to put some miles behind him.

He sets up his tent in a flat clearing, and thinks about Mumbo doing the same last year. He fires up his camp stove and makes something to eat, and thinks about Mumbo doing the same. How many times has he done something out here in the exact way Mumbo has?

Total darkness falls quickly after that. Soon, the forest is a sea of black, and Grian’s moored only by the single orange light of his lantern. It flickers now and then, casting long shadows. The lighting reminds him of those quintessential campfire ghost stories. He’s solving one on his own right now.

It’s time to look at the folder. He can’t resist anymore.

The first thing at the top of the file is a paper with Mumbo’s face on it. His dark eyes stare blankly up at Grian’s, and for a moment Grian just stares back. The rest of the page just has information about the case written on it. It’s formatted like it could be a poster, but there’s too many details for public release. It’s a bit eerie, seeing this all written down again. The sheet lists when Mumbo was reported missing, his height, his weight, his age, his physical features, his vehicle, his planned route, the square miles searched, the search and rescue team involved, everything.

Grian sets it aside into the darkness, and keeps looking.

There’s that statement from another hiker who said they saw him on the trail. What were they doing on the closed trail, Grian wonders? Do they realize the way they ensured that everyone thought Mumbo stayed on that trail? It’s dated two days after Mumbo was reported missing.

There’s several copies of letters printed on official letterhead. The agency seal is at the top. The correspondence is from several offices. The District Ranger’s office in Wapiti. The Shoshone National Forest Supervisor’s Office in Cody. The Region 2 office in Lakewood, Colorado. The Law Enforcement and Investigations Branch in Washington, D.C.

Grian reads these, but they’re disappointingly dry and full of formal wording. There’s a request for assistance with the case sent to D.C., but everything else in these letters is just reporting. It’s the higher level version of the weather report Grian radios in every morning in his lookout—here’s the situation with the missing person, here’s the actions our office has taken, here’s the results.

Which are none. There are no results. Mumbo’s still gone.

Grian wonders if a person from the D.C. investigations office actually came out, or if Mumbo’s case wasn’t deemed important enough for that.

He flips through more pages. There’s a list of contact information for Mumbo. Grian’s name is first, along with their apartment’s address in Denver and their phone number. Mumbo’s parents are listed next, with their UK address. The page is typewritten but someone has written in pen next to their names to remember the seven hour time difference. Sweet of them.

He’s looking for a smoking gun, here in the flickering lantern light.

There has to be one. He knows he’s missing information, and the file is thorough, and there’s a reason they didn’t want to give him the file, so surely, surely, surely.

There’s correspondence with a search and rescue team that helped out. Grian remembers the matching patches on their jackets. They’d been a volunteer organization. There’s incident command reports in the file too. There’s also a copy of the police report Grian had filed and some correspondence between the Forest Service and the police. It was the Forest’s jurisdiction, in the end. They handled anything that happened on federal land.

There’s minutes and notes from meetings held about the case. There seems to be one from every morning of the search, like a sort of morning goals session. Grian reads over them with interest. They paint an interesting story; it’s a view from the other side. This is what the rangers and search and rescue and the police had thought about Mumbo’s odds. This is where they thought he might have gone, areas he might have hidden, areas he might have gotten hurt, so on. But there’s not a word about Cloud Lake being closed, or any indication of Pinnacles being on the radar at all.

Why? Aren’t these people professionals?

The maps are the most interesting part of the file. Grian pores over the page with care, mentally tracing every topo line. He’s got his own map in his backpack still, with him always. It’s very similar to the ones he’s looking at now, but these feel a bit more clinical. They’re put together by professionals who know the land better than him. The extent of the Mink Fire is also mapped, and for the first time Grian can really see how close it was to some of their search areas.

He’s…glad, almost, that Mumbo wasn’t around there after all when it was burning.

Eventually, Grian gets to the newer stuff. There’s a note written up of all the details the hikers gave when they reported the bike. It includes when they found it, where they found it, and in what condition. They didn’t see anything else nearby, and didn’t investigate much because the bike looked abandoned and not like someone had left it there recently.

There’s a memo that a phone call was made to the Investigations Branch again. There’s an authorization for an aerial search. There’s a note that Grian is to be contacted with updates when he is able to be reached, along with Mumbo’s parents.

Grian reads that, and everything else comes to a screeching halt.

Oh, god. Mumbo’s parents.

Grian hasn’t called them once all summer. He didn’t tell them about the bike. Some stranger told them about that instead. He hasn’t told them anything about what he’s learned. He sent them a note scribbled on the back of a postcard the day he left to start working at the lookout, and never looked back since.

What are they thinking right now? How are they holding up? He didn’t even reach out to them on the anniversary of Mumbo’s disappearance back in June. Are they worried about him? They shouldn’t be, they should worry about Mumbo instead, but he knows they’re worried about him anyway. Oh, god, he didn’t even call them.

He feels sick, but he forces himself to keep going through the folder. It doesn’t matter what Mumbo’s parents think. They’ll be fine if Grian finds their son.

Nestled into the newer materials is an older paper. It’s a copy of Mumbo’s backcountry permit, issued June 9, 1988. It has the dates for his trip, the campsites he reserved, and the price he paid for them.

Stapled to it are several more papers. Grian swallows, and flips through them.

There is an old memo about the Cloud Lake Trail being closed. For the first time, Grian sees more specifics than Scar could give. A rockslide had been triggered over the winter. It wasn’t reported until the spring, when someone first tried to hike the trail after the snow melted. Cloud Lake is an alpine lake, nestled in a bowl surrounded by peaks and inaccessible through other routes. The rockslide had changed the terrain significantly, causing trees to be destroyed and the original trail lost. The trail was to be closed all summer for maintenance. They were going to salvage what parts they could, and reroute others. The new, salvaged trail may no longer be suitable as a mountain biking route given the terrain changes.

Someone’s underlined the part that says the trail is closed all season. Another report is attached to it. It notes that Mumbo was issued a permit he shouldn’t have been, and that he likely became lost after encountering the rockslide. It’s a record of the decision the search and rescue team made—that there was, apparently, no evidence to suggest Mumbo had done anything but stray off-trail, and that the rockslide actually increased the chances he was in the area.

Increased the chances he was at Cloud Lake? Instead of suggesting he might have gone elsewhere?

The report continues, explaining Mumbo might have become confused in the altered terrain and that searches in that area should be increased since it was the most likely place for him to get lost. They’d actually shifted the focus away from where he was supposed to be. They had the right idea but the wrong answer. Grian’s heart sinks.

The final document stapled to Mumbo’s backcountry permit is a letter that orders the reinvestigation of the case based on new evidence. The date is recent, from just one month ago when Mumbo’s bike was found by those hikers.

The last paper Grian looks at is another map. This one is also new, issued just a few weeks ago. It denotes the Pinnacles area in minute detail, each and every wrinkle of the topography important. Grian has a map of the Pinnacles area already, but it isn’t this zoomed in at all. There’s a marker placed where Mumbo’s bike was found, along with the trail and other geological features of interest.

And…that’s it. That’s the entire file.

He can’t help but feel like there’s something missing. There’s a giant hole at the center of this case. How can this be everything? Where’s the answer, the smoking gun? Where are the puzzle pieces that only Grian is smart enough to piece together? Where’s Mumbo in all of this?

He was so certain that he would find something here. No, he can still find something here. There’s got to be things here. This is all the information, so that has to mean something right? He rifles through the papers again, looking for anything he’s missed, but no—there isn’t anything. He’s looked at it all.

It’s just…dry. It’s reports between management chains and records of operation from search and rescue. There’s helicopter authorizations and documentation of search locations that already came up empty. There’s letters and memos and maps and none of it means anything, because Mumbo’s still out there and everybody involved in this case is an idiot, Grian included.

He sets the folder to the side carefully, even though it’s useless. He presses his face into his hands and doesn’t move for a long time. The shadows flicker.

»»———-　　———-««

Grian steps out from trees less than a mile from his lookout, and the first thing he sees is a column of smoke.

He blinks. There’s a ridgeline or two that separates his lookout from the road; it’s part of the reason the hike takes so long. That, along with the canopy of the forest itself, has seemingly obscured this smoke from his view until now, when he’s broken through to the other side. It’s morning, and the sky is otherwise clear and blue today except for the tall smoke that bisects it.

He can tell it’s nearby. A strange mix of dread and adrenaline fills his stomach.

Grian slings his pack onto the ground and begins to dig through it looking for his radio before realizing it’s still in his side pocket. He turns it on and the light blinks yellow. The battery is low from being off the charger for a few days. He’s never pushed its limits, but it’s not going to die any time soon.

“Scar,” he says urgently. “I’m nearly back and I see smoke. West of my tower, I think. Do you see it too?”

“G-man?” Scar says a minute later. “You’re back?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m back,” Grian says. He picks his backpack up off the ground and starts rushing down the trail. He needs to get back to the lookout. “Do you see the smoke?”

“What did you do?” Scar asks.

“The smoke,” Grian insists.

“I see the smoke, I saw it yesterday,” Scar says. “Called it in. Sorry, I got naming privileges even though it’s definitely in your sector.”

This relieves Grian, but only so much. He grits his teeth a little. “Okay, so you’re monitoring it. I just wanted to make sure it got called in. I’m nearly at my tower again.” He sighs. “Is it Jonesy Lake? Was it the idiots?”

He knows it’s Jonesy Lake. He knows it’s the idiots. He knows what lies directly west of his tower and he recognizes the directions by the peaks on the horizon. A spark was thrown two days ago, and this is the consequences of it.

“Yeah, I think it was the idiots,” Scar mutters. “The fire’s on the other side of the lake. They’re sending in a crew for it, I’m surprised you didn’t run into anyone on your way in.”

If it was the idiots’ fault, this fire will be suppressed as quickly as possible. Human-caused fires are in an entirely different category to lightning-caused fires or prescribed burns. With the dryness of July in full force, they’ll have to work hard to keep this one contained. It’s a shame that it had to happen in the first place. Grian should’ve woken up earlier to stop those people.

“I didn’t see anyone in the parking lot besides a few other cars that belonged to hikers. Maybe they’re running behind me or they’ll helicopter the crew in,” Grian says. “I wouldn’t want to hike carrying that much gear. They could land in the meadow.”

“Some smokejumpers went in yesterday already,” Scar says. “But they’ll need a proper crew to hike in too so the fireline can be established.” He pauses, for what seems like a nearly uncomfortable period of time. The trail has descended back into the trees once more, and pine needles form a springy surface below Grian’s feet as he walks. Finally, Scar adds: “So you’re coming back to the tower?”

“Give me like 15 or 20 minutes and yeah, I’ll be there,” Grian says.

“I didn’t think you’d be back,” Scar says.

“Um,” he says. “Not sure why you thought that. I know it's still my time off, but I’m still going to call in smoke I see. I only went into town briefly, I have some places I want to search again.”

“Grian,” Scar says, “you don’t work here anymore.”

He stops dead in the middle of the trail.

“What?”

“They told me you were fired!” Scar says. “My supervisor called me first thing this morning. You’re not a lookout anymore. I didn’t expect you to come back, I thought they’d like get your stuff for you or whatever. I was worried!”

“What do you mean?” Grian says. “I’m not—nobody told me that, what?”

“Grian,” Scar begs, “what did you do.”

Grian’s heart picks up in pace. It shouldn’t be a surprise, honestly, and yet hearing Scar say it nearly knocks him off his feet. He predicted this for himself yesterday. He’d known that this might be the end. His actions weren’t acceptable in any capacity, outside that of saving Mumbo.

It feels entirely different than it did yesterday, though. It’s entirely different because yesterday he had a smoking gun, and today he doesn’t. It’d be different if there was a big red arrow pointing to where Mumbo was, but there isn’t. He thought it would be fine yesterday, because today he would know what to do, but he doesn’t.

That’s it, isn’t it? All of this for a file that has nothing in it.

“I—I have to get back to my lookout,” he says to Scar. “I’ll tell you more there. I just have to get back first.”

He turns the radio off, slides it into his pocket and sets off down the trail again. His thoughts racing. If he’s fired, then he has to leave. He needs to gather his things back at the tower. Most of his things are already with him in the pack, but he still has things he left in the lookout. He’ll need to get all of that before he leaves. He’ll need to leave because someone will probably come today to make sure he leaves and he doesn’t want to still be here. He’s had too many confrontations already.

What about the fire? Will they make Scar monitor it, cross referencing with his other neighboring sectors? Will they bring in a volunteer to finish out the rest of the season?

If he has to leave, where will he go? There’s a map in the folder. It’s the new one, the one that was created after Mumbo’s bike was found. He can follow that. That only gives him a plan for the next day or two, but he can regroup after that.

And what about after that? And after that and after that? The lookout is his foothold, his plan. The lookout gives him proximity and insight into places to search, and a home base close enough that Grian can work on finding Mumbo every day.

He’s back to square one now, and it’s all his fault.

The tower comes into view soon with the frenetic pace Grian is hiking at. It stands tall at the top of the mountain, surrounded by trees. When he looks out the windows, all he sees is sky and mountains and the treetops below him. Now he walks through the trees to its base. He takes the stairs two at a time until he gets to the top, and then pauses at the door.

He puts his key in slowly. It’ll be the last time he does it.

The lookout is exactly as he left it a few days ago, and it’s almost exactly as it appeared when he arrived over two months ago. He hasn’t brought many personal effects with him, not any more than he could carry in his original pack. A person like Scar would have accumulated a little more personality in their lookout after working there for 8 seasons. The posters that line the blank parts of the wall were brought in by somebody at some point. The old paperbacks in the bookshelf were, too.

But Grian? He’s left nothing here. He’s made no impact.

He sets his pack on the bed and sits down next to it. For a moment, all is still except the twisting smoke to the west. He watches it for a moment. It ranges from brown to tan to grayish—the color smoke is when wood is burning. The volume is disturbing. The Trout Fire didn’t escalate as quickly as this one has appeared to. The Trout Fire smoldered in the damp after-storm undergrowth for a long time, but this one looks large.

He pulls the radio out of the pack’s side pocket once more and turns it on. “Scar,” he says. “I’m back at my lookout now.”

“Are you staying there?” Scar says.

“I can’t, can I?” he asks. “Won’t they send someone after me? I don’t want to wait for someone to come tell me I’m fired. I’ll just go. I won’t make a fuss.”

He’s made enough fuss recently. It hardly seems worth it to make more. He doesn’t know if he has it in him to keep fighting this the way he has been.

“Grian,” Scar says, and that’s it. Nothing but his name.

“I’m sorry,” he confesses. “I think I did do something stupid.”

Scar sighs. “What’d you do? My supervisor didn’t tell me. Believe me, I asked. He just said you were no longer working for the agency and that they’d try to find a volunteer to replace you the rest of the season. I think they would’ve left the tower empty if it weren’t for that new fire they want monitored.”

“What’d you name it, anyway?”

“I’ll trade you the name if you tell me what you did first,” Scar says. He never loses sight of what he wants out of a conversation. It’s something infuriating about him.

“I took Mumbo’s case file,” he says. “I stole it out of the District Ranger’s desk and got caught. Might have also jumped through a window.”

Scar laughs, a short bright sound that almost startles Grian out of his funk. “A window? Man, I wish I could’ve been there. How’d you manage all of that?”

There’s a ghost of a smile on Grian’s lips. “I turned in the fireworks to him that morning as contraband. He made the mistake of telling me he was taking a half day. Then I just needed an excuse to get back in there while he was gone.”

“Was it a good one?”

“I got caught, didn’t I?” Grian responds drily. “Don’t think I would have chosen a window as an escape route otherwise.”

“Nah,” Scar says. “You might have a heist movie in ya somewhere.”

“I don’t—I don’t think I had any thought. I just wanted to get that file. I needed to get that file. He told me he couldn’t give it to me, Scar, and I needed that file because I need to know, and I can’t find Mumbo because I don’t know.”

“Do you at least know now?” Scar says quietly.

“No!” Grian cries. “I don’t know what to do with this information! There’s—there’s no obvious path to follow. I don’t know why they didn’t tell me that the trail was closed, but now I know why they kept searching in the same area. And I know what technical concerns the search and rescue team had about terrain, weather, and wildfires, and I know the name of the investigator who was assigned to the case in D.C., and I know what the National Forest reported to the regional office, and I know when they performed new aerial searches this summer, and I still don’t know where Mumbo is.”

“So there’s nothing in there at all? Are you sure?” Scar asks. “I wish I could look through it.”

“I wish you could too,” Grian responds.

Scar is quiet for a long moment, and Grian imagines him in his lookout perched on the rocks. What does his little cabin look like? Are there paintings hung on the walls and a cat sleeping on the blanket? Radios and telephones and stacks of papers and Scar’s hiking boots unlaced by the door? He’s never seen it. It has to be more peaceful than Grian’s own place.

Finally, Scar speaks again.

“I think you need to stop thinking about the past,” he says. “Who cares about Cloud Lake and all that data in the file? It doesn't matter. We know he isn’t there—we figured that out a while ago! Who cares who’s fault it is, or why someone did or didn’t do something a year ago?”

“I just want it to make sense.”

He tries not to remember the way the District Ranger told him that they’d already given him all the results of the search. He tries not to remember the way incident command had run things by him last year, and the way he finally agreed to end the search once he realized they were going to stop anyway.

“It never will,” Scar says. “Things are just like that sometimes.”

“I want it to be someone’s fault.”

“Someone other than Mumbo’s fault?”

“It’s not Mumbo’s fault,” Grian says.

“And it isn’t yours either.”

Grian might have argued about that at some point earlier in the summer. He still isn’t entirely convinced of it. But he’s tired now. He’s so, so tired. Instead he just says, “So it must be their fault.”

“It could be nobody’s fault,” Scar offers tentatively.

“It has to be their fault,” he replies, doubling down. “It has to be.”

“Did they lie to you?”

“They didn’t tell me about the trail being closed or Mumbo being given a faulty permit,” Grian says. “I consider that a lie.”

“I do too,” Scar says. “Sounds like they fumbled it.”

Grian continues. “But…I don’t think they lied about anything else. Scar, how can that be? I’m supposed to be able to figure it out now. I’m supposed to find all the pieces they didn’t tell me and put them together. They were supposed to be keeping information from me. I don’t—I don’t know how to find him.”

“I’m sorry,” Scar says. “I was…I was really hoping you had something.”

Grian pulls the folder out of his backpack again. He stares at it. “There is a map,” he says. “It’s basically the same as the one I already have, but they’ve actually marked the area where Mumbo’s bike was found instead of me trying to piece it together based on what you told me. I think he must have camped there too. I’m going to follow it.”

“Today?”

“I don’t have anywhere else to go, do I?” Grian stops, and then asks in a small voice: “Are they going to arrest me or something, Scar?”

Scar contemplates this for a moment. Actually, a moment too long to keep Grian balancing his anxiety, if he had anything to say about it. He finally replies, “I don’t think so. I don’t think they’d do that. You didn’t take money or commit fraud or leak confidential information, you just took a file for personal use. It’s not allowed and you might never work here again but I don’t think you’ll get arrested.”

“If I got in trouble they’d just send me right back to England, I guess.”

“Would you hate that?”

“If Mumbo was still here, yeah.”

“If he wasn’t?”

Grian’s silent.

“Right,” Scar says. “Well, I don’t think you’re going to be arrested.”

“Good,” Grian says quietly. If there’s any good news of the day, that would be it. It’s not that—it’s not that he isn’t willing to get into legal trouble to help Mumbo. It’s that he can’t be of any help at all to Mumbo if that happens.

And, perhaps, he doesn’t want to be in trouble anyway. He’s so tired. He can’t give up on this, not now, not after everything he’s learned and not after all of his setbacks. He can’t give up. But he’s so tired, and he just can’t let anything more get in his way.

He changes the subject, “I need to go now. I have to get my stuff ready. I can’t stay here anymore.”

“And you’re going to go to Pinnacles again?” Scar asks.

“Yeah. I’m going to follow the map and try to find his old campsite. I don't know what I’ll do next so don’t ask.”

“Take your radio with you,” Scar says.

Against his better will, Grian smiles. “Are you encouraging me to steal more government property?”

“I just think you might need it,” Scar says. “I mean, what are they gonna do? Get you fired twice for stealing something? Just take it with you. I’ll keep an eye on things for you. Talk to me. Be careful.”

Grian swallows, suddenly feeling…something. “Thank you,” he says. Then, before he has the chance to turn it off, he remembers: “What did you name the fire?”

“Huh?”

“The fire. You said you’d tell me what name you picked if I told you what I did yesterday.”

“Oh,” Scar says. “I called it the Nitwit fire. You know, because of the idiots.”

Grian smiles a little, despite himself. Yeah, because of the idiots.

»»———-　　———-««

It’s late afternoon, and Grian is on the Pinnacles trail again.

The hike isn’t bad at all, but he’s growing weary. He’s been carrying around this pack since this morning, and from yesterday. It’s biting into his shoulders and collarbone. The pack carries basically his entire life at this point; he left as little as possible back in the lookout. He straightened up the place, made it neat, took his things, and left.

It is also much more obvious now that there is a fire nearby than it was when he was hiking in this morning. The air quality is poor. This trail normally has good views, but right now the good views are only in a specific direction. If Grian faces anywhere in the vicinity of the Nitwit fire, the entire horizon disappears under the blanket of smoke.

This is not making hiking easier.

He stops to reexamine the map, and then compare it to the compass he carries. Before Mumbo went missing, he was not experienced at orienteering. Since then, he’s basically taught himself. He falls back on that practice now. It’s not the trail he’s afraid of losing; he knows where he is. It’s where the trail is in relation to where those hikers found Mumbo’s bike.

He should be close. He’s got to be close.

This area is mostly forested, except for when the trees break away at points to review a lovely vista that is currently mostly covered in smoke. This is good, because it means it’s sheltered. It’s nicer to camp in a sheltered place than it is an open place—the wind doesn’t mess around on a mountain peak.

This trail does not have any backcountry campsites on it in this section, but free camping is allowed in Shoshone National Forest. While people need a permit to enter the backcountry, it isn’t required to stay in a designated campsite. If Mumbo followed the rules, then his campsite needs to be 200 feet off the trail. That’s what makes this so difficult; it won’t be right next to the trail. In some places in the wilderness the sightlines are so obscured that he wouldn’t be able to see 200 feet.

Grian is operating on the assumption that Mumbo did follow the rules. He’s generally too nervous of a person to blatantly break them, so Grian feels safe in this guess. He is also assuming that Mumbo would have chosen his campsite purposefully and not randomly, so he’s looking for spaces that are easy to access. It’s far more likely that there is an already established spot where people have camped before that it is for Mumbo to have bushwhacked his way into a clearing Grian can’t already see.

Of course, maybe that’s why they haven’t found him. Maybe he is in one of those locations Grian can’t already see.

Still, Grian focuses on places that look like obvious campsites first. He checks several of these such locations, and comes up empty each time. He can determine pretty quickly whether someone has been camping in the area or not. When he finds Mumbo’s campsite, he’ll know when he sees it.

He sees it just a few minutes later.

He's been looking for things that seem out of place, or man-made, in the forest. There, through the trees, he sees what he was looking for: a glimpse of fabric. There’s something red hanging in one of the trees. It’s remarkably well-hidden. If he hadn't looked in just the right direction at the right time, he would have missed it.

Grian is stepping off the trail before his brain can catch up to his feet. He brushes past bushes, crunches leaves, and steps over a log before he’s there, at the base of this tree.

There’s a backpack strung up in one of the branches, dangling several feet above Grian’s head. It’s tied in the way that bags are recommended to be tied in bear country—ten feet from the trunk and fifteen feet above the ground. If you are camping for the night and carrying food, this is how you protect your pack in absence of a bear box.

Grian recognizes this backpack. It’s like the bike all over again. He was with Mumbo when he bought this.

They’d both gotten backpacks on the same day. Grian’s, the one he’s carrying right now, is dark green and tan. Mumbo’s was red and tan. Mumbo had told Grian that red was really more of his color, but Grian could tell Mumbo secretly liked that color the best. He insisted Mumbo buy that one instead.

He insisted Mumbo buy the one that is dangling in front of him right now.

He just stares. The bag moves slightly in the breeze.

It’s worn. The color has faded from months of sunlight. The rope that was used to secure it has deteriorated. It seems more brittle than it should be, the material stiff, inflexible, and faded from sunlight. Another winter season and this bag would be on the ground.

Mumbo’s bag is here, and it clearly hasn’t been moved in a long time.

Suddenly Grian moves toward the tree, nearly tripping over himself in his haste. He struggles to undo the knot that is securing it—his hands are shaky, why are they so shaky? Just when he’s ready to give up and try to dig through his own pack for a knife he gets it, and instead of letting the pack down gently he misjudges the weight. It lands with a thump on the ground, and Grian stares again. Then he’s rushing over to the bag, slinging his own pack onto the ground, and kneeling next to it.

He has to open it. It’s Mumbo’s. If he had doubted it before, he can’t now—there’s a name scribbled onto a tag at the back of the bag. This is something that is tangibly his, something that is actually right in front of Grian. It’s heavy. It might have clues in it. But part of Grian hesitates, the same part of him that is fighting to still stay present in the moment. His heart beats in his ears.

Clearly, the hikers who returned his bike hadn’t been lying. He didn’t realize that he thought they might have been lying until this very moment. Mumbo was in this area. He’d really been on the Pinnacles trail the entire time. But he isn’t here now and hasn’t been for some time. This bag is his, but it’s been abandoned. The bike was rusty and in bad shape, also abandoned.

This is the second item that belonged to him that has been found in this area. The second item that wasn’t with him.

Why are his things here, but not him?

What would make him abandon his things?

Why did he leave them?

Why didn’t he come back for them?

He feels ice cold. Grian opens the bag anyway. There was never an option not to open it, just a moment that he required to steel himself for its contents.

There’s a lot in the bag. There’s too many things. There’s far too many things.

He pulls out Mumbo’s camp stove. He pulls out his sleeping bag, and his sleeping pad. He pulls out some of Mumbo’s food—setting the nonperishable things aside and gingerly tossing the very perishable things further away. The bears can eat that now, he doesn’t care anymore. He pulls out some spare bike tools. He pulls out the tent, and some spare clothing.

There are no water containers in the bag, no lantern or torch, no jacket, no first aid kit, no compass, and no maps.

Grian sits back on the forest floor, and thinks about what he has found. He has packed his own bags enough times now that he can tell which components are missing. This clearly isn’t everything that Mumbo would have taken with him. Mumbo isn’t here, which means that the remaining things are with him, wherever that is.

This isn’t Mumbo’s final campsite, either. If Mumbo had been following the guidelines then he strung his bag up 200 feet from where he had slept. Set your camp 200 feet from the trail, and string your food up 200 feet from your campsite. But the material packed in the bag is telling Grian that there is unlikely to be anything left in the spot Mumbo camped. Maybe the campsite is where the hikers had found his bike, the metal sparkling in the sunshine, far enough away that they didn’t notice the bag hanging from the tree.

He should tell Scar this. He needs to tell anybody this.

He pulls his radio out again, and flicks it into the on position. “Scar?” Grian calls. “Scar? I found the—I found Mumbo’s campsite, it really is on Pinnacles, I found his bag. It’s here Scar, all of it is here. Scar, I—I need you to be with me.”

Scar is ready on the receiving end, like maybe he’s been waiting this whole time. “Grian?” he responds. “Where are you? You found it?”

“It’s right where it was on the map, right where the hikers said it was. I found his bag.” He can’t take his eyes off it. “Scar, it matches mine but it’s red. We bought it on the same day. It’s his. I know it’s his. His name is on it. We bought it at the same time. I found it. It’s still here. It was hanging in the tree. Like for bears, when you camp, right? It was just hanging there. I found it.”

“I can’t believe you found it. Are you okay?” Scar asks.

“What’s he going to do without his tent?” Grian says. His voice is rising in pitch. “He needs that, Scar, he needs shelter. He doesn’t have his tent, or his sleeping bag, or his extra clothes, or his food, or, or clearly his bike—it’s all still here.”

“He left it there?” Scar says. “Why did he leave his things?”

Grian knows. He can piece it together by the negative space. What’s missing is what tells the story. That’s the worst part of all of this. He knows. It’s all he’s ever wanted, to know, and it’s carving him inside out.

He knows. He can’t unknow this.

“I think he went on a day hike,” he says, speaking fast. “I think he camped here more than one night. I think he left his bike during the day because he wanted to go somewhere he couldn’t ride it. I think he strung up his pack because he didn’t want to carry it with him and needed to keep the food away from the bears. He took his water, he took his maps, he took his flashlight, he took his jacket. He left his sleeping bag and tent.”

“He planned to come back.”

“It’s been over a year,” Grian whispers.

“I’m sorry,” Scar says. “I’m sorry he didn’t come back.”

“No, no,” Grian says. He’s holding his radio’s call button down with one hand, but the other hand is just gripping the canvas of the backpack. He can’t let go. “This is not it. I still haven’t found him. This is just one more clue.”

“Grian.”

“Stop it,” he says. “Stop it, it’s fine. It’s fine.”

“Grian,” Scar repeats. “You found his campsite, like you wanted. You did that. Can you—can you come back now? What if you came back and searched it more later?”

“There isn’t time,” Grian bites. “I can’t go back anyway. I’m fired. I don’t have any time left. I’ve been waiting too long, this is progress, I can’t—why would I do that? Scar, why would I do that? Why are you asking me to do this?”

“I just don’t think you should be out there anymore right now,” Scar says. “I don’t think it’s really safe right now. I’ve been on the radio all afternoon coordinating for the Nitwit fire. I’m worried about you being out there. Please come back, you found the campsite, you can do this again later.”

“I can’t,” Grian says.

It has to be now, because this is the most progress he has made in months. It has to be now, because the dominoes are starting to fall and he’s beholden to watch it to its end. He needs to know more than anything else.

Sometimes, his need to know really is more than anything else. It’s more than his desire to keep a job, it’s more than his desire to please his family and friends, it’s more than his desire to not commit a crime. It might be more than his desire to live.

“Please,” Scar says.

“He’s out here. I won’t abandon him.”

“Please,” Scar says. “He isn’t out here, Grian. Not anymore. He hasn’t been for a while.”

This is a gut punch. Because Grian, in defiance of every personal rule he’s set for himself this past year, actually trusted Scar.

“Did you ever believe me?” he asks.

“Of course I did!” Scar says. “I believed in you.”

“But you didn’t believe Mumbo was alive.”

Nobody does. He should have known this, because nobody except Grian does. And Grian, does—does he?

Almost all of Mumbo’s gear is here, and he never came back for it. All of his survival gear is here, and he isn’t.

“I wanted to help you find him, I wanted to help you figure out what happened to him because you deserved to know. Mumbo deserved to have someone know. I never—” Scar stops, and doesn’t finish the thought. It’s for the best. There’s a difference between finding someone alive, and finding them dead. There doesn’t have to be a heartbeat attached to unraveling a mystery. Scar only ever claimed to want to help find Mumbo.

Instead, Scar finishes, “You’re hurting yourself.”

“I’m so close,” he says. “I’m making progress. I’m so close. You can’t stop me, Scar. You aren’t here.”

“I know,” Scar says, and he sounds broken. “I know. Can you just—go back, back to your lookout, back to your car, just anywhere else. We can talk about this later, I’ll talk to you about it later, I’ll help you search more later, I promise I will, but you don’t need to be on this channel anymore. Please switch to the main channel so you can hear everyone’s updates on the fire.”

“You know I can’t,” he says.

“Then be careful,” Scar pleads.

“I’m going to find him.”

<< Chapter Nine | Masterpost | Chapter Eleven >>

#grian #goodtimeswithscar #hermitcraft #hermitcraft fanfic #hermitcraft au #quara fanfic #hc_firewatch_au

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thisbuildinghasfeelings · 1 year ago

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ANNE we know Carlos solving his dad's murder will be one storyline in S5. What do you think will be TK's storyline? What are your predictions for TK's drama? And what would you like the main storyline to be? Carlos and his dad's or something else?

Tessa, after season 4 I might have to give up on predictions. Prior to the premiere, I was SO SURE that there was absolutely no way that Carlos' secret was that he was married. I even wrote a really long post about it the day before the premiere aired, going carefully through each point and the evidence supporting why there was no way it could happen. (I was completely right, by the way. My arguments were sound and the evidence was there...but that's not always how things work on this show, and I've accepted that!)

And then for a very long time, I adamantly maintained that there was absolutely no way Gabriel was going to die in the finale. In the days leading up to the finale, the evidence became so overwhelming that I did cave on that and admit that, yeah, Gabriel was probably going to die, but I went on and on for weeks about how it wasn't going to happen. After all that, I'm not sure if I dare make predictions for season 5!

I do feel fairly safe in assuming that Carlos' main storyline is going to deal with solving his dad's murder. I would like TK to be a part of that and I think he probably will, at least tangentially even if he isn't involved in the actual detective work/solving the murder itself. (Though I would love for him to be very involved). I really want them to dig into this storyline and do it justice, so I hope it will be one of the main ones for the season, if not THE main one. My ideal scenario would be to have it introduced at the beginning of the season and then have it continue in the background before a grand conclusion at the end or close to the end of the season.

Aside from that, I don't know if I can predict a TK storyline, but I have a few ideas for things I'd like to see:

1.)I love TK as a paramedic, particularly the idea that he's truly found his calling after becoming a firefighter for reasons that had perhaps more to do with his dad than they did with him. A storyline focusing on TK as a paramedic would be amazing, especially if it dealt with his unique perspective gained through his addiction. Something like The Calling by @orchidscript would be incredible!

2.)Something to do with TK and his sobriety--though I don't think I would want to see TK relapse or struggle with his sobriety. Maybe something like TK deciding to sponsor someone. I think there could be a lot of potential for drama there, especially as TK is someone who cares so much about other people and would take that role incredibly seriously.

3.)Hurt TK--I know some people think that we've had enough hurt TK. I am not one of those people. For me, the main draw is that fact that we've never seen TK badly hurt at a time when he and Carlos were in a committed relationship. Season 1 coma, Carlos had strong feelings but didn't even know if they were a "we." Season 3 coma, they were broken up and Carlos didn't even know if TK wanted him there. Both times Carlos had to hold back his feelings in part due to his uncertainty about their relationship status. I'm not saying I necessarily want a third on screen coma, but I want to watch Carlos watch his HUSBAND get hurt. (And if it involves being held at gunpoint, even better!) JUST IMAGINE the angst potential! Especially after Carlos has just lost his father?? That's such delicious angst to me. Do I want to torture Carlos? Apparently yes. I'm sorry, Carlos, I love you very much but I want you to watch your absolute worst fear begin to play out before your eyes for my personal enjoyment.

#answered ask

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fordarkisthesuede · 1 year ago

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Fangs of Ouroboros - Chapter 2 - Digging Down to the Nitty-Gritty

Bet you didn't expect an update so soon, huh? ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

Before we begin, please remember that the Ao3 version is available for Ao3 members only. So please circulate the links!

Last time...

After "visiting" Penguin in prison to find out why he wanted to destroy a P.I.'s office, Bruce discovers that Oswald has been corresponding with a assumed-to-be-deceased Lady Arkham. With more questions than answers, and another mystery on top of the ones he's already saddled with, Bruce tentatively leaves Tiffany and John to solve at least one - who created the bomb in the first place?

[ start ] | [ prev ] | [ Read on Ao3 ] | [ next]

It only took two seconds from Bruce making his leave for John to try and sit in his chair.

One second too late.

“Hey, I wanted to sit this time!” he pouted, hands on his hips like a teenage girl.

“Too bad,” Tiffany shot back gloatingly, “You gotta be fast if you want to take the captain’s seat.”

John glowered, crossed his arms, and defiantly situated himself partway onto the left armrest. If he moved too much, he’d definitely elbow her in the face. And most likely wouldn’t feel bad about it. “So, how’s it lookin’, Captain Robin?”

The list of matches to the partial fingerprint was long. Waaay too long. “Bad.”

She attempted to filter out anyone arrested for previous explosive-related crimes, but there were still quite a few. Even when filtering out the dead ones. “Wow. Just life in Gotham, huh?”

John gave a derisive hee. “Tiff’, I’m a good juggler, but I didn’t get arrested for juggling crimes.”

He had a point, but she didn’t like the smug little smile he was looking down at her with. She wordlessly reset the filter for anyone with a background in firefighting, military, special effects, SWAT… Fifty-two potential suspects. Yikes.

“Of course, we’re just assuming they were ever arrested,” John commented.

“Are you kidding? Whoever they are, they definitely made this kind of stuff before.” She brought the 3D-image of the bomb over to the largest screen. She remembered what his homemade explosives were - essentially blocks of C4 with primitive (but accurate) timers attached to styrofoam heads. It was easier to show the example. “Look, the casing on this thing was custom-made. The timer was kind of cobbled-together, but the guy knew how to weld and solder right. See, the wires would have been really tight together. Like, practically perfect. The print was left in this tight area where he had to pick the explosive material up and connect it.”

John laughed - the kind where he actually found something funny. “You’ve been holding out on me! You’ve made one of these puppies?”

He reminded her of how one of her more distant relations would talk to her at the family barbeque when they found out what she did for a living. She wasn’t about to lie and tell him yes, even though she was sure she could make a duplicate any time she wanted. It would only give him ideas. “Not…exact-ly? But I know enough.”

“I don’t doubt it,” he added, looking strangely proud. “So why did it go kablooey early, then?”

Honestly, she wasn’t sure. The schematics Bruce and the AI pulled together looked almost perfect. Going by the remains of the board from the timer still attached to the very burnt-out wire, it likely wasn’t put in upside-down… But there was a gap above where the timer would have been. “Maybe it wasn’t,” she answered, “The timer might have had a shell cover.”

John hummed, pursing his lips and sitting back, but being mindful of her head. “So it could’ve been passed along with little Rocky none the wiser…”

“But it doesn’t make sense. Mr. Hartright is apparently just on vacation, and even if he goes into a coma, he could have cloud backups for his case files. Why destroy the office?”

“Well, either the bomb-maker hoped to kill whoever picked it up, or… Whoever ordered it specified the ‘wrong’ time.”

“I dunno, killing off his own men doesn’t sound like The Penguin…”

“No, it doesn’t…” John muttered, staring up at the list of suspects. “Any of our little rogue gallery in that list?” he asked, gesturing back to the glass cases of Batman’s foe-related memorabilia in the distance.

“‘Rouge gallery’?”

“What else do you call it? The Baddie Exhibit? The Scoundrel Repository? Villains on Display? Ha ha ha!”

“I dunno, I thought ‘Bruce’s weird trophy case’ was pretty on point,” she said with a shrug, filtering the search further for any major-player ‘rogues’. “And - doeeesn’t look like it.” A beat of silence between them, and she let herself ask what was practically dangling there: “You really think one of them could be doing this?”

John leaned his head back with an annoyed sigh. “At this point, everybody’s a suspect. I wouldn’t put it past any of ‘em…”

Tiffany looked back at the list. There was a section she had ignored, being so focused on the people who could match the partial fingerprint: recorded crimes where it was entered in as evidence. There might be something.

There were a few more cases than culprits. Only so many with bombs listed as evidence.

But jugglers don’t always get arrested for juggling crimes. Tiffany warily set the filter for anything excluding the arrested suspects.

One result returned.

“I honestly didn’t expect that to work,” she commented aloud, feeling John shift on the armrest. “Looks like our print shows up in a second-degree murder case from five years ago… Mary Dahl and Waylon Jones - convicted of murder, conspiracy to cover, desecration of a corpse by CANNIBALISM?!”

“Oh-h-h, THAT’s why they’re familiar!” John clapped his hands together. “That was a great news cycle!”

“‘Suspect Waylon Jones was discovered barbequing the victim’s thigh in open air by the circus’ trailer park.’ God, that’s disgusting!”

“Well duuuh. That’s what made it such a great case! No one could hide their disgust on camera!” John laughed. “I still remember that cop in the background puking in the grass, live!”

She wasn’t feeling too good herself, now that she thought about it. John wasn’t helping, joyfully reminiscing about the news coverage of the guy’s freezer. “Apparently he hadn’t eaten any pieces yet, but of course they slapped him with the hard charges anyway. Still don’t know why he never ended up in Arkham… I knew three guys like that inside! One told me it tastes gamey.”

She couldn’t take any more. “John. Shut up.”

“...sorry.”

Tiffany had learned enough ASL to translate his following hand gestures as “I’ll read silently”. “You better. I don’t want to get sick all over the keyboard.”

She took a deep breath, trying to focus on the background noise of rushing water behind her like Bruce had taught her as she covered her face with her hands. A deep breath in, focus fixed on the darkness of her eyelids as she dragged her fingers down the sides of her nose, and out. Another in - You can give it five minutes, and close it to pass to Bruce, she thought,You can do five minutes. - and out.

Mary Dahl, age 30, pleaded guilty to murder in the second degree. According to her statement, the victim, a local television producer by the name of Ben Uslan, came into her dressing room after following her from a magic act where she acted as the crowd participant. Ben made a pass at her (Tiffany felt a surge of sympathy with her disgust - Mary looked maybe seven), attempted to assault her, and Mary struck back (rightfully) with a glass whiskey decanter. Mary admitted to trying to cover up the crime by getting help from the circus’ sideshow-freak-slash-strongman, Waylon Jones, who dismembered and intended to eat the body.

Among the list of evidence was said decanter with the partial print found on the body of the rectangular glass, which was looked over when compared to Mary’s on the bottle neck. When the victim’s head was retrieved from the nearby wooded area (Tiffany grimaced and scrolled past the autopsy photo as fast as she could, only to have to go back up to read), Waylon took the blame for the second impact mark on the skull, claiming to have kicked it.

Tiffany leaned on the other armrest, trying to think while pushing the glimpse of the disgusting photo out of her mind. How the hell Bruce did this every day was a mystery itself. The waterfall was both too quiet to focus on and too loud. The coroner had stitched the head and hands back on like it was a sick puzzle put back together. The marks where a saw had cut through were so noticeable -

“Okay, I can’t take it - please say something!”

“They must’ve been close,” John said softly.

Tiffany looked over at him. John was staring at the page for Waylon Jones, which he’d clearly read to the bottom, with a sort of serious, contemplative look she’d never seen on him before.

“They both tried to take the fall for each other. You don’t see many people willing to do that.” It almost sounded like…he admired them. But surely John wasn’t that off-kilter. “That kind of dedication… It’s almost nice. You know,” he shrugged, his usual humor returning in a flash with one of his wider smiles, “if it weren’t for the attempted cannibalism-barbeque thing. So what did you find?”

“Aside from more nightmare fuel?” she asked rhetorically, breaking the weird mood he had built, “The print showed up on the murder-weapon, but no one mentioned a third person hanging around the scene.”

“And of course our good ol’ morons in blue completely ignored it.”

“Eeex-actly.” Tiffany crossed her arms and looked back at the long list of potential suspects. Things were becoming a little clearer, now that she was thinking aloud. “Someone here must have followed the producer and waited until Mary Dahl struck him. That, or they found him afterward and finished him off… But it sounds really stupid now that I say it.”

“Hey, anything’s possible!” John added cheerfully. “But I think you’re onto something, mon Capitaine – stalking to kill is classic.”

“Looks like there’s three people who used to work for Gotham TV here. Writer Lahn Myne, military-veteran turned cameraman Bonnie Behti, and special effects artist Garfield Lynns. Looks like there were some layoffs that year.”

“Mm-hmm… Hey, Tiffany.” (This was going to be a favor, wasn’t it? He hardly ever used her full name nowadays.) “What would you say to a little field trip?”

She wasn’t really sure where he was going with this. Knowing John, what he was planning was probably weirdly complex. “If you’re thinking we would have the time to visit all three,” she guessed, “you’re way off….for a lot of reasons.”

“Ha ha ha! No, no - what would be the point? It’s been five years! Any evidence is kaput, and I doubt we’d get a confession. No, I was thinking we’d try and get an eyewitness account.”

Yup. She knew it. Weird and complex. “You want to…what, visit the circus murderers in BlackGate? John, that’s…”

Crazy, she wanted to say. Completely asinine. But she stopped herself, remembering John didn’t like that particular word, and truthfully… It was crazy, but it might work. A witness who didn’t know they were one was more likely to be believed.

“...not a bad idea. Actually.”

John’s smile stretched to show all of his teeth. “I knew you’d get it! And if it doesn’t work, we’ll at least know we tried.”

“You know we won’t be able to just walk in as ourselves, though, right?”

“A-doy. We’ll be lawyers! I’ve got enough experience with ‘em to know what to say. You have a suit, right? I mean, I figured, since you do work in a world-renowned corporation…”

“I kind of just throw a blazer on top of most of my outfits,” she said slowly, “I’m not really a fan of the whole pencil-skirt-and-heels thing.”

John practically sprang up, phone in hand. “Nooo problem, I know just the gal to call…” He took a few steps away and held his free hand out, the monitor light glinting off the emerald setting in his engagement ring. “Sheesh, I better not get her voicema- Heya, Pumpkin! I’ve got a bit of a Bat-favor to ask…”

∞

It wasn’t so much the ride to The Redfur Theatre - Tiffany did enjoy weaving through traffic like it was nothing - but John’s reasoning for going in the first place. Apparently just meeting their one-woman costume department at her place wasn’t enough. Even though Tiffany could’ve sworn she’d heard the question ‘do you want me to meet you?’ on the other end of that call.

Nooo, John wanted options. And she wasn’t sure if she was annoyed about it because he had something of a point for the second time in a row (she certainly didn’t want to risk being recognized by anyone in BlackGate), or because this was just another diversion she had to deal with today. She was already a week behind schedule on the latest build project her engineering team had handed to them, and she got a notice about another pointless team meeting that she had to attend today.

Tiffany parked the motorcycle in the back alley, waiting to shut off the engine until John had hopped off with his usual flamboyance, and had only turned the ignition key when the backstage door opened.

“Jackieee!” John spread his arms wide not a moment before Jackie Lant practically slammed into him with a hug. “How’s my little slice of pumpkin pie? Look at you, going back to your roots!”

Jackie snorted into a short laugh at what Tiffany presumed was the bad joke about her hair color having returned to her natural fiery orange. “Don’t act surprised, J-man, you’ve seen my Snaps.”

“Like I’d ever miss out on a good pun,” John grinned. “Besides, you were a brunette when Robin saw you last!”

Jackie peeked around John to look at Tiffany, and her lightly-freckled face lit up with instant recognition. “Ah! Batman’s assistant!” she exclaimed with a smile, “I thought it was you in that suit… Back in the church, I mean.”

It kind of hit Tiffany that they never really met before. She saw her for the first time in the crypt-cum-abandoned-Owl-bunker as an antagonist who changed sides, and then briefly in the Court of Owl’s church basement as a well-armed ally. Everything she knew about Jackie Lant was learned vicariously through investigation notes and John.

And she had no idea what to say. It was kind of nice to see someone closer to her age in-the-know, but they were technically ‘working’. “Yeah, uh… You look good?” she settled on, hoping it didn’t sound weird.

“Thanks, things have been better since my student debt got mysteriously erased last Christmas. Kinda wish I’d known sooner than after the whole Owl fiasco, but…” she trailed into a shrug, still half-smiling. “I’m not complaining. Come on in, I’d like to get you two all dressed before everyone else decides to show up. I’m supposed to be finishing some of the background set pieces.”

“I thought you were an actress,” Tiffany pondered aloud, tailing alongside John.

“I am,” Jackie smirked over her shoulder, walking straighter. “You’re looking at this production’s Red Queen.” She showily fluffed a side of her curly orange French-style bob. “Mr. Tetch just loved my natural hair; like I knew he would. I just double as a set designer. And the occasional sound technician.”

“Small production,” Tiffany half-scoffed, hearing the exterior door squeal shut behind her.

“It’s a small theater. But it’s a good part and a director that gets you noticed. Otherwise I probably wouldn’t be renting a couch here. Well, except to see Matt cry in court.”

She assumed Jackie meant Matt ‘Clayface’ Chaney, aka her ex. Tiffany had seen part of the court proceedings for his murder charges as part of the Court of Owls back in July. He had, in fact, cried during his sentencing and proclaimed himself innocent despite everything to the contrary.

John grinned beside her. “Didn’t he also cry when you broke up with him after he was arrested?”

Jackie gave a dark sort of laugh. “Yeah, that was a good one… The press talked about that for days. He was totally messed up.”

“A thirty year life sentence will do that to you,” John said brightly, “And a couple of new scars,” he muttered with a wink over at Tiffany.

She wasn’t sure how to feel about that. Even though she could label him a friend, she knew very well what it was like to get a scar from John. And from what she remembered, Matt had gotten two.

Even if he did kind of deserve it.

Jackie made a beeline for the long plastic costume rack in what was apparently her (and two other people’s) dressing room. It was a lot better looking than Tiffany had expected - the vanities were covered in makeup bottles and brushes and a professional looking case, but were otherwise clean, and old play posters and cast pictures were scattered around on the walls, the winking red fox face practically stamped in the corners. Only a few odd props were leaning against the walls and corners, all of which looked like they belonged to an Alice in Wonderland set. “We’ve got some stuff from a few indie shows still laying around… We should have something to fit that ‘lawyer’ vibe… Ah-ha!”

Tiffany had a dull yellow-brown tartan suit thrust in front of her. To say it was boring was a compliment. “Do you have…anything else?”

“Hang onto that and let me look.”

John, of course, was sifting through the adjacent rack like he was on speed. He already had two suits thrown over his arm.

“I think you can pull off khaki,” Jackie said, giving a suit a once-over and holding it up to Tiffany.

John made a playful noise of disgust, which Tiffany partially ignored.

“I think these pants and that patterned jacket will work,” Jackie added, “Give you that ‘I’m the junior partner in this firm’ vibe. Like you want to be your own person, but you know you have to look professional.”

“Why am I the junior partner?” Tiffany asked, shooting John a look.

“Because I’m older than you?” John offered, an eyebrow raised to match hers, “And I know more about what we’re getting into.”

Jackie rolled her eyes a little at this. “Don’t act too smart, John. Most people can smell over-acting a mile away.”

John gave her back a little glare, but didn’t do any more than pout. “Be right back,” he grunted.

“Don’t jinx it,” Jackie called back, shaking out the tan slacks and returning the unused pieces to the rack in one sweep. “Old horror movie rule,” she said with a slight smile. “I’m superstitious when I'm in any theater.”

She wasn’t the biggest fan, but more than once she and Barbara had a late night double-feature with the so-called classics. She knew a few ‘rules’. “I always liked ‘don’t ask who’s there’, personally.”

“Hah, I was dumb enough to ask that in Arkham once. It’s how I lost my ponytail. And speaking of hair,” Jackie began to steer her by the shoulder to the vanity, “take a seat, and I’ll get a wig fit.”

Before she could object, Tiffany found herself sitting in the old metal folding chair with a wig held up by her face.

“No, too long…” Jackie muttered, picking up another from the plastic case, “Can I ask something?”

Do I really have a choice? “…sure.”

“Are you sure you’re ready to visit BlackGate?” she asked, holding up another wig. “I know you’ve helped put away your share of criminals, but I know John is used to that kind of atmosphere. He’s…one of them, if you know what I mean.”

She knew what she meant. ‘You can take the man out of Arkham, but you can’t take Arkham out of the man’, as Iman had once put it to her. And truthfully, no, she wasn’t ready, despite the fact that she was used to dealing with some of Gotham’s worst as Robin. But she imagined it hadn’t been easy for Bruce when he wound up in Arkham the first time.

“Is anyone really ready for this?” she answered, “I’m not exactly doing it for fun.”

Jackie seemed to find that funny enough to give a little ‘hah’. “Well, you’ve got some brass, at least. What made you want to help Batman, anyway?” she asked, shaking out another wig, “I know I tried to kill someone and take their life’s work, but believe it or not, I really admire him. It’s why I didn’t put up a fight when he and ‘Joker’ found me last year. And I know why he helps him,” she added with a knowing little smile, “but I don’t know about you.”

Tiffany did not expect this today. She wasn’t sure how much she could tell her. Or if she should at all, with Jackie previously studying to be a psychologist. But she supposed that giving a simpler answer was better than none at all. “My…father worked for him. And when he died, I…wanted to find who killed him.”

Jackie draped the wig over Tiffany’s head, but she was paying close attention, her leaf-brown eyes brimming with empathy. Tiffany was reminded for a second of Bruce. His ability to multitask and scrutinize and understand.

“After I did, I still felt…kind of empty,” she said as honestly as she could. “But after learning about my father’s connection to Batman, I wanted to… To keep going, in his place. He believed in all of this. Helping clean up the city and save people. Make a difference.” That sounded cheesy when she said it aloud. “And I get to glide around the city and punch people who deserve it.”

Jackie smiled at that, adding another bobby-pin to keep the short ponytail wig in place. “I hear that. I lost a lot of people to the city, myself… Car accidents, murders, drive-by shootings, disease caused by shitty housing. Close your eyes for me,” she instructed, holding up a brush primed with a dark brown cream. It felt weird going on; Tiffany felt she should be moving her hands instead. (When was the last time anyone else had done her makeup? Senior prom?)

“What amazed me,” Jackie continued, working quickly, “was how Batman managed to solve so many cases the cops would’ve let go unsolved. I’d like to think if he were around back then, my childhood friend’s killer would’ve been found a lot earlier.”

“I’m sorry,” Tiffany said genuinely, not knowing what else to say. She could hardly tell her she’d known about that.

“You have nothing to feel sorry for.” Jackie glanced at her with something like distaste as she picked up an eyebrow pencil. Tiffany wanted to kick herself; John’s notes in the case files had said she didn’t like to feel pitied. “Neither of us could’ve done anything. Like you, I just try to keep their memories alive the best I can. It’s one of the reasons I act; outside of getting to be anyone else for a while, I mean. I add pieces of them into every role I play. The way they talked, or moved, or pronounced certain words. Even the way they held things… But you definitely got the long end of the stick in how to keep ‘em going,” she joked, “Your dad must’ve been awesome.”

He hadn’t been perfect. He had missed more school events for work since Batman showed up, and there were times Tiffany had wanted to call Bruce herself to tell him to stop keeping him so late. And she’d learned too late that he was an expert secret-keeper as well as more selfless than she’d thought. But…

“He was,” Tiffany answered, thinking of the hologram message he’d left for her. He knew she’d want to know the truth behind everything, and that she’d want to continue Batman’s work. He knew that she would understand. “I’m guessing yours…wasn’t so much?”

“You got it in one.” Jackie began swiping a concealer stick over Tiffany’s face in clearly well-practiced strokes. “My parents tried to stamp out my inner theater-geek by pushing me to get a degree in ‘something useful’,” she snorted. “But I went along with it because I thought I could help kids who had been through what I had. I took fewer classes a semester so the loans wouldn’t be so outrageous, but my Dad skirted back on his promise to help pay for some of them after my third year anyway - because it was ‘my’ responsibility now, or some shit.” A highlighter stick swept down her cheeks. “And I powered through it so I could graduate and get a ‘good’ job. Which led to that Arkham internship I’m sure John’s told you about.”

Tiffany seemed to both know too much and too little about how that whole mess ended. But not exactly from John. Bruce’s notes on the whole affair from last October were rather thorough. “He, uh, keeps Arkham life pretty private.”

Jackie’s thick, light eyebrows rose as she primed a pink blending sponge. “Really? He’s a weird guy… Did he tell you about how he got engaged to Bruce Wayne?” she smiled, “He told me the whole thing in excruciating detail.”

“Are you kidding? He didn’t shut up about it for a week, and I keep catching him looking at his ring.”

“Yeah, that sounds right.” The blending sponge felt odd, but Jackie worked quickly. “He must not want to scare you with the grittier details of what went on in the ol’ asylum. Which I think is dumb, because from what he’s told me, you can really kick some ass. You don’t seem to scare easy.”

The knowledge that John talked about her - and positively, apparently - felt weird. Unexpectedly nice, yet kind of concerning. “I’d like to think so,” she said, not wanting to talk about the rat incident in the Batcave.

“Then you’ll do just fine.” Setting powder brushed over Tiffany’s cheeks. “Just remember, you’re not Robin in this get-up. You’re a young, upcoming lawyer who wants to prove herself; serious, but empathetic. It’s important,” she stressed, dotting her nose, “to try not to put too much of yourself in the role. Sometimes, you can find yourself lost in it. I’m a prime example.”

Before she could ask her to elaborate, Tiffany heard the click of John’s shoes before he entered the room. “Okay, lesson learned today,” he grumbled, face not quite covered in the peach-tone he used before, “I still need a little mirror to finish doing this or my brain nopes out.”

“I can finish you up,” Jackie waved, smoothing a fruity-smelling gloss over Tiffany’s lips. I could’ve done this part, Tiffany thought as she sat stock-still. “You just need mascara and you’ll be set.”

John was very pointedly not looking in the oversized mirrors, choosing to face the doorway. Then, like he suddenly remembered she was there, he cast a sheepish sort of look over at them. “Uh, I didn’t interrupt anything, did I?”

“Nah,” Jackie smiled, recapping the mascara and moving so Tiffany could finally go get change, “Just girl stuff.” Tiffany picked up the outfit she had been selected to wear and went out the way John came, not feeling like ‘Robin’ at all. Had she lost herself in her suit? Or, like Batman, had Robin been there all the time, visible only when she said or did things a certain way?

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Author Notes: One of the reasons I avoided doing this story for so long was because I wanted Tiffany and John to be able to work together without it feeling too awkward. In our Season 3 replacement story (AtBoM), John considers her a rival for Bruce's attention as well as bears a grudge for Bruce letting her go (and letting her work with him!) but force him back into Arkham, while Tiffany considers him too dangerous and "crazy" be trusted. Even though they eventually reached an understanding, in Season 4 (TToJ) Tiffany is still uneasy about him and John still makes a point to rub any attention he gets from Bruce in her face, which causes a huge rift in their budding friendship until they repair it at the end. Looking back at what my ideal-but-real-Season-3 would actually be (which would be a combo of all three of these stories), I could picture Tiffany and John's awkward attempts at getting along being charming on their own, and any scene of them saving the other from some harm a bit more impactful, but it would feel too rushed to get them to any trust-fall point. Not to mention Tiffany's own current arc concerning [redacted]. And in this final story, when shit hits the fan, I feel they should be able to trust each other more than they could've originally been written to in that alternate universe where Batman the TellTale Series: Season 3 actually exists to play. (;´༎ຶД༎ຶ`)

But enough about that! It's time for fun facts! In-between Seasons 3 and 4, I was thinking how nice it would be to have a short story with John and Bruce visiting the circus, wherein John gets along real well with the so-called "freaks" and they sort-of team up when some crime happens or something. I was reeeal fuzzy on the plot. All I knew was "oh man, it'd be great to see TellTale's version of Killer Croc…he could be part of a circus! Ooh, and we could add Babydoll, she never gets used - a TT-spin on her would be nice". It never went anywhere, of course, but while working on The Whole Nine Yards I decided to go ahead and work them into the plot for Season 5 because I love them. And because…ah, well, to avoid spoilers, let's just say it's because of reasons. (. ❛ ᴗ ❛.)

I also stuck a couple of easter eggs in this chapter! For one, did you know that same two executive producers are alllways listed on every Batman film since Burton's? Benjamin Melnicker and Michael Uslan! Michael is apparently a huge bat-fan himself, but I didn't learn about any of this until I was searching for a funny homage to other Bat-media to make in a throwaway name. The second egg is "The Redfur Theatre" - the name is taken from the real Fox Theatre and Redford Theatre in Detroit. As the logo is a fox, this is a bit of a stretched joke regarding Tiffany's surname.

Finally, my darling readers, real talk time: this is the last time you get a weekly update. Please expect at least 2 weeks for the next one. But next time, we rejoin Bruce…and see some more of Joker's game.

#the perseverance project #fangs of ouroboros #telltale batman #batman the telltale series #batjokes #juce #telltale batjokes #john doe #tiffany fox #killer croc #mary dahl #Jackie Lant #cannibalism mention #canon typical violence #so many references so little time #yes that is an infinity symbol as a spacer this time around #👀#trying to put the spacer in the damn middle but it keeps reverting in the drafts!!! >o<

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